Wise Old Nomads 2

After travelling for several hours, the family had just settled into their new location with ample grazing ground and access to water nearby. The mother was disassembling the hut, sticking the Dhigo and Udub firmly into the soil and in close proximity were the two young girls holding the harness of the camel on which their elderly grandmother sat. Just as the two girls approached the hut, they were ambushed by loud chanting and the cries of ululating women drifted along the cool breeze and landed on their ears.

This they realised was an emancipation of the soul (it is not very often that weddings take place in the nomadic settlements) and were quickly impassioned. Imbued with an intense passion to participate in that wedding, the girls exchanged giggles and elatedly talked of attending the dance session afterwards. And quite rightly so, for this was their chance to mingle with the locals and exchange some verses of poetry.

Their grand-mother who, due to infirmity of age was too weak to walk and had to travel on camel-back, heard all the girls’ excited wails from her resting point. She too, though, hears the voice of ululating women resonating from the dark plains, not far from where they were now settling. After the girls had discussed their plans to attend the wedding, the grand-mother interrupted them and said:

‘Girls, girls! Would you stop the camel so that I can dismount and join those ululating women…’

They girls were taken aback by this request and stared at each other in amazement, unable to decide whether the old woman meant what she said or merely spoke in jest. This feeble woman, they thought, could not stand the noise and the dancing that takes place.

‘O’ grandmother, are you joking or have you finally gone insane’ they said.

Their grandmother smiled and then laughed, shaking her head slightly. Little do the girls know about the feelings of the old woman and what she is going through! Little do they know that over half a century ago, in an evening very similar to this, the very place that they have now settled bore witness to their grandmother’s first wedding! And in a manner similar to this evening’s wedding that the girls were planning to attend, many people from all over the countryside attended her wedding too. It was even perhaps here where her firstborn’s umbilical chord was buried. But to all this they were unaware, over taken by the wails of the wedding nearby. Even before the start of their long journey to this place, the grandmother was well aware of where they were headed and the wedding taking place.

In a short, succinct poem, the old lady relates her complete life story to her adolescent grand-daughters, wistfully lamenting her ripeness of age and the different stages in her life. She said:

 

• Beri baan, beri baan          
• Wax la dhaloo dhulka jiifta ahaa
• Beri baan, beri baan
• Bilig bilig baraar celisa ahaa

There was a time; There was a time;

when I was newly born, lying on the ground

There was a time; There was a time;

when I scuttled around tending to lambs

• Beri baan, beri baan
• Daba-jeex dabka qaada ahaa
• Beri baan, beri baan
• Rukun rukun, reeraha u wareegto ahaa

There was a time; There was a time;

when I was entrusted to kindle the fire

There was a time; There was a time;

when aimlessly I ran around the huts

• Beri baan, beri baan
• Raamaley riyo raacda ahaa
• Beri baan, beri baan
• Habloweyn had hadaafta ahaa

There was a time; There was a time;

when I was a juvenile guarding the goats

There was a time; There was a time;

when I was a strolling mature girl

• Beri baan, beri baan
• Aroos indha-kuulan ahaa
• Beri baan, beri baan 
• Mar curad marwo reerle ahaa

There was a time; There was a time;

when I was a mascara-clad bride

There was a time; There was a time;

when I was a first-time mother and a housewife

• Beri baan, beri baan
• Laba-dhal laafyoota ahaa
• Beri baan, beri baan
• Saddex-dhal sit sitaacda ahaa

There was a time; There was a time;

when I was an elegantly ambling mother of two

There was a time; There was a time;

when I was a dazzling mother of three

• Beri baan, beri baan
• Afar-dhal afo aada ahaa
• Beri baan, beri baan
• Shan-dhal sheekaysa ahaa 

There was a time; There was a time;

when I was the finest mother of four

There was a time; There was a time;

when I was a gossiping mother of five

• Beri baan, beri baan 
• Lix-dhal liibaantey ahaa
• Goblan talo aduunyoy 
• Ma hadaan gabooboo
• Laygu qaaday guro awr. 

There was a time; There was a time;

when I was a triumphant mother of six

Woe to you o’ world!

did I now become old

That I am carried on camel-back

 

Image by Photogenic. Story translated from Guri Waa Haween.

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Wise Old Nomads

time to rest

Everything in life has its peak then its glory fades. And we are no different. After a man’s life has reached its pinnacle, having attained all the sagacity and prudence it could, it starts to wane. Soon everything he possesses will start to either diminish or disappear. Whether he likes it or not, the dreaded wrinkles begin their assault on the once handsome face and the inevitability of age becomes certain. Then he starts to walk on threes, and finally on all fours. Like a toddler learning how to walk, the old man staggers and stumbles a multitude times. Hesitant and unable to walk long distances, he becomes confined to his resting place. Rendered immobile and almost out of touch with the community, he rests under the shade of his hut or a nearby tree and awaits any passerby to inform him of the events and news around him. Despite being hungry and weak, he is unable to eat and meals become almost unpalatable to him, except for whatever he could gulp down of camel milk.

As the sun sets everyday, his uncertainties grow – unsure whether he would be fit enough to see the break of dawn. And if he makes it to the daybreak, he becomes even more uncertain of its dusk! He starts to realise that soon, like his friends, he too will share a dark and dismal pit with the insects while the soil gnaws away at his fragile bones. If he was a poet it dawns on him that his friends with whom he would have exchanged banter with are long gone, as Dharbaaxo Jin said:

• Raggiise aan la maansoon lahaa aakhiro u meerye
• Raagihii mudnaa iyo Qamaan mawdkii baa helaye
• Sayyidkii murtida sheegi jirey meel fog buu tegaye

 

• The men I would’ve versed with have left for the hereafter
• Death has caught up with the venerable Raage and Qamaan
• The sagacious Sayyid too has departed to a far away place

In his feeble state, the old man become slightly petulant and develops an unpleasant disposition. The strident wails and laughter of frolicking kids annoys him. He is perturbed by loud noises and disturbances of any kind. Being in an isolated state, he often requires a constant companion to tend to his needs. And if not for a dutiful son or grandson or an unusually compassionate young man or woman to look after him, the old man if often left in his lonesome state.

When the poet Faarax Xasan Cali (farax Afcad) was in a ripe old age, he recited a poem describing the sort of woman he would marry, if he were to do so. He said:

• Caanaha cidey kama bogto oo badey gugeygiiye
• Hadba balaq midaan ii shubeyn waan ka boobsanahay

 

• Cidey’s milks I am not satiated with as my years have increased
• And she who wouldn’t readily pour me [milk] then I am wary of

It is also usual for an old Nomad in this decrepit state to completely lose his eye sight and/or become deaf or become partially sighted or partially deaf. When night falls and others are in deep slumber, he lies awake in his lonesome place twisting and turning, his groans and grunts filling the dark space. he is rendered sleepless at night and restless during the day, waiting for the angel of death to cast a shadow of gloom on his sombre existence.

Sheikh Axmad Gole was an erudite scholar, renowned throughout the Somali lands, particularly Western Somalia, for his understanding of religion. But when old age got to him, he was asked about his state and he replied thus:

 

• Indhihii mid waa jaw                  the eyes, one is completely gone
• Midna jeex yar baa haray           and a portion is left of the other
• Jaaha iyo gacantii                      the face and the hands
• waa wada jirkoodaas                  are but that mere skin
• Dhegihii waxbaa jooga               a fraction is left of the ears
• Waase sii jufmahayaan               But they are deteriorating
• Ushaa ii jifada dheer                  that stick with the steel end
• Waa jimicsigaygii                        is my tool for my exercise
• Gol hadaan ku joogsado             if one a hill is step
• Waan luqun jubaarmaa               I lose my footing and tumble
• Dhul hadaan jadi maago             if on land I decided to walk
• Waa badi jugleeyaa                    I stagger and fall on my bottom
• Jidba geeljireentana                  if on my back I lie
• Dhabarkaa I kala jaba                 my back would break
• Hadaan jimicsi doonana             if I decide to stretch & exercise
• Jiliftaa I kala baxa                      my spine splits into two
• Hadaan jeenan waayana            if nourishment I don’t get
• Sidii inan yar baan jalan            like a toddler I’d whine
• Jil hadii aan qaatana                 and if I swallow a little
• Waa jululuqeeyaaye                 my stomach starts to rumble
• Jirkaygii hufnaanjirey              my once beautiful skin
• Waa meela joolla ah                 is decrepit and old
• Jismigii madoobaa                    my once dark hair
• Hadmaa jookh cad lagu rogey   when was it encased in black?
• Naagihii aan jeelkeenay            the women that I married
• Way I jidi necbaadeen              have started to despise me
• Wiilashaan jeclaan jirey            the sons that I used to love
• Jawaab igama qaadaan             take no response from me
• Odaygu waa jinoobaa               that the old man is possessed
• Waaba lagu jalbeebtaa             they say and secretly gossip
• Jiriidow Allahayow                   Oh Allah, you are Omnipresent
• Kolba joogi meynee                 and we won’t last for eternity
• Jidkii nebig na qaadsiiyoo       guide us to the path of our prophet
• Jahanama hanoo geyn            and keep us away from hellfire

 

….To be continued

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Somali Hospitality

 

Somalis are renowned for their hospitality. Though in their breast lies an indomitable spirit, sculpted by the asperity of their surroundings, Somalis are generally a pleasant people with a keen eye for generosity and are known to indulge in the pleasures of conviviality.

In the vast arid countryside, where the nomadic settlers roam, hospitality is of utmost importance. Here, in these boundless miles of barren lands and parched terrains, the nomads’ lives become interdependent; so much so that hospitality has become something of an obligation upon every nomadic settler. Regularly a nomadic family would receive a way-wanderer or a traveller lost for directions or people just passing by. These consist of nomads looking for their lost camels/sheep, or nomads on a long trip wishing to rest for the night or even Qur’an teachers who wish to provide their services to the nomadic families in rural areas.

It is the custom of the Somalis to provide for their guests, once they arrive, with all means available. It could be Diraac, the dry season when water is scarce, when the camels udders are empty, when the sheep are weak and the general atmosphere of the house is rather bleak and chaotic. Yet, despite this the family must provide food and shelter for the weary travellers who come their way no matter what. Even with most nomadic families already leading an abstemious way of life owing to their locality and meagre resources, to be able to serve a guest appropriately is highly commendable and to turn a guest away is the most dishonourable deed.

Being able to serve your guests is an honourable act and highly esteemed throughout the Somali society, however inappropriate a time they guests arrive. In the Nomadic lifestyle, the father who is the head of the house is ware that at any time he might receive guests and travellers, so he is always looking after his name and his honour. If a man is in possession of several milking camels, it is within his means to milk one or even two camels for his guests to serve them with fresh milk, and even slaughter them a camel, but during the times of Diraac/Jiilaal when milk is in short supply, when the sheep have become emaciated and the camels are taken to far away places for grazing, what is the head of the house to do to preserve his dignity?

Hospitality has been the subject of a countless number of poems and is peppered throughout the Somali literature in various forms, but to emphasise the importance of such noble act, I will post a few:

When Asnaan Sharmaarke of the Sultanate of Hobyo had an argument with his ruler, Ali Yusuf Kenadiid, he was later heard composing the following lines:

• Tixda gabay guraasow beryahan daayey tirinteedee
• Xalaan tow kasoo iri hurdada goor dalool tegaye
• waxaaan tabayey mooyee anoo taahayaan kacaye
• Halkiiyo toban jirkaygii waxaan tabayey lay diidye
• Boqol tiirshihii aan ahaa lay tix gelinwaaye
• Kol hadaan tawalo oo u kaco tu aan la gaareyn
• Shan haloo aan laga toobaneyn sow la tebi maayo?

 

• The composing of poems O Guraase these days I have abandoned
• But last night I stirred from slumber with part of the night gone
• I know not what I was in search for, but with grunts I awoke
• Since the age of ten I have been denied that which I sought
• For a man equivalent to a hundred men I was not valued
• But once I resolve to pursue that unattainable quest
• Five indispensable things wouldn’t you miss?

After these few opening lines into his poem, Asnaan relates the five character traits that he is distinguished for. Without detailing the whole poem, below is the stanza in which he exalts his quality as a hospitable man:

 

• Erga toban habeen soo dhaxdayoo timi halkaan joogo
• Tulda geela inaan loogo waad igu taqaaniine
• Waa laygu wada toosayaa taajir saan ahaye
• Gacantaan tashiilada aqoon sow la tebi maayo?

 

• If after travelling ten nights messengers come to my dwelling
• You know that it is my custom to slaughter them a camel
• And all will awake to the feast as if I am wealthy
• The hand that gives without restraint wouldn’t you miss?

Though Somali custom dictates that every traveller/visitor is received with open arms and cordially entertained regardless of ethnicity, region or tribal allegiance (even enemy tribes), this custom is gradually diminishing. I will add a few more poems in the next post.

 

Technorati Tags: Creative Non-Fiction, Cultural heritage, Family, Gabayo, Poetry, Somali Culture, Somalia, Somali Nomads, Traditional Heritage, Somali Customs, Somali Poetry

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In Peace, May Thou Rest

boaters sunset

Whenever I close my eyes I see her. Her ageing face, pleasant with a few incipient delicate wrinkles; her skin, dark against the resplendent multicoloured stole gently resting on her shoulders; her wizened eyes still bearing the same reprimanding look that she had always effortlessly maintained; her greying hair neatly tucked away under the pale black scarf, with a few protruding strands softly lapping at her brow; her cheerful disposition and her ‘always vigilant’ outlook on life. Now here she lies, withered and wasted, under the soil that constantly gnaws away at her bones; her throbbing heart had finally come to rest, her muscles have renounced the battle, her limbs lie unconstrained and her body tranquil.

It was a sombre March morning when I became aware of it, 19 March 2006 (two years ago today) to be precise. A forlorn mist ominously hissed past the damp and empty Greenwich streets. It seemed colder than usual. The car’s windshield had been frosted with a thin coating of ice and my friend Abdi, drove along the A406 with extra care. I gazed out the side window into the early morning mist; the yellow sun’s lingering rays were slowly emerging, with a few fragmented beams that thawed the thick fog on the bare-branched trees along the road and far into the fields. The fields themselves seeped of insipidity and a motionless mist had cast a permanent gloom over the grass. I was on my way to the airport that Sunday morning when I received the call that changed my life as I had previously known it. ‘Unknown’ said the little screen as my hand hesitantly held it up and answered it. A crackling noise, with half unintelligible words and half drowned by the fading signal, greeted me on the other end. My brother Mursal’s voice it was, I recognised. And though indiscernible it may have been, the message was deafening clear. She had passed away; my aunt Maryan.

Ever since I became aware of my surroundings and was able to determine right from wrong, I remember her as always being there – a statue-like figure, imposing in its appearance, permanently ingrained in my mind’s eye so that it constantly stared down at me like a silent sentinel. Like a majestic tree in its full glory she once towered over my life. Not like the trembling Aspen whose lithe frame and slender branches sway with the slightest breeze; nor like the beautifully soaring Beech with its vivid mosaic of colours and a canopy of foliage that falls off at the hint of autumn, but like the mighty Oak whose sturdy trunk and rigid roots, though furrowed with age, stand strong in the face of unsettled seasons. Such was her character – bold, brash and dominating. Now, drained and debilitated, the mighty Oak has, at long last, given in. Its broad leaves have now wilted and finally dropped; its inflexible branches, that once sheltered a variety of life, have now shrunken and its strong roots have shrivelled.

Along with the frost and mist, time too had frozen. The seconds slowly gave way to minutes and minutes to hours; faintly the tarmac rolled, like a giant carpet that was being pulled smoothly beneath me in slow motion; the wind howled past at great speeds; horns blared and brakes screeched, but I was benumbed by the news and deaf to the noise, and quietly insentient and oblivious to my surroundings. Her face had covered my horizon – her image draped itself on the canvas of motorway signs, her words chimed and swam soothingly in my ears and my mind relapsed to a time many years ago when I left her.  

Had it not been for a broken leg and the bouts of illnesses she had suffered a few years prior to her death, no age could wither her nor slow her down. At 66, she could walk faster than any man her age so her death was a bolt from the blue. Having grown from toddler to a man under her care, my entire life revolved around her. My parents, nomadic pastoralists, have entrusted me into her care at the tender age of five. So I was beholden to her for things too many to mention, but before I could be of any service to her and repay the kindness of her guardianship in my childhood with compassion and care, we became separated as I left for England.  

And as distance makes the heart grow fonder, everyday life’s little pleasures had started to dwindle without her presence to illuminate them. And now, all life’s subtle joys and attractions have abruptly been terminated when that stream of consciousness was ended by her death. The cool shade of the oak had been lifted and the cloud that constantly overshadowed and sheltered me from life’s trials, even in her absence, had, in that very instant, disappeared – it felt as if she had entered into a deep slumber, taking all she’s ever given me along with her. Know my Aunt, that the caravan awaits and I am coming too…  

My mind now solemnly gravitates towards the lost stream of consciousness; towards the unattainable past. Her malevolent scolding has now mellowed down to a mellifluous melody with a tuneful, comforting resonance. And her memory leisurely lingers to fill me with hope. The Mighty oak may have withdrawn its branches and departed with its abundant shade but it has dropped its acorns, and from among these acorns another mighty oak shall soon grow…

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Somali Cultural Weddings – Gaaf

   

As the sun plummets down the horizon, the joyous people of the village depart company after the Gelbis to prepare for the more interesting part of the ceremony and the festivities continue through the night. Demonstrative of the happy times they are having, everyone in the village as well as the neighbouring settlements congregate at the hut of the newly-weds. An unrestrained enthusiasm sweeps across the surroundings and the sounds of ululating women travels several kilometres upon the open fields.

Come nightfall and the Gaaf begins. With a mixture of several forms of poetry, songs and riddles, the Gaaf is perhaps the most entertaining part of the entire wedding ceremony. The villagers look forward to the Gaaf in anticipation. Settlers from far areas travel several nights just to witness the fun-filled night as a young girl recited in her poem in one Gaaf I attended:

 

Hoobe hobaala hoobala hoobalow

Ee hoobe hobaala hoobalayey hadaba

Beryaan soo dhaxayoo bogoxaa shishaan ka imid

Calaf ma dooneynoo cagahana ma daalineyn

Oo soor ma dooneynin saaxiibna uma gudeyn

Boqorada iyo boqorka soo booqo baan lahaa

Ciyaarta ka tiiri oo caawi baan lahaa

 

Hoobe hobaala hoobala hoobalow (these set the rhyming pattern for the poem)

Ee hoobe hobaala hoobalayey hadaba

For nights I have been travelling, coming from distant lands

Neither was I in search of my destined partner nor was I tiring my legs (in vain)

I wasn’t in search of food and for a friend I did not travel

To visit the Queen and the King was my intention

To perfect their dance ceremony and help them was my intention

 

 

Right: The Bride and groom in the middle and the Malxiis & Malxiisad on either sides

The hut is decorated to the best of their means (the above is not a hut but a tin-roofed house), with all sorts of elegant decorative utensils and Nomadic handicrafts at display; the bride, in her wedding apparel, is covered with brilliant patterns of henna, the women in their Subeeciyad and the man in his best clothes, each according to his means.

The Gaaf is simply a congregation at the house of the newly-weds for seven nights, where singing, poetry and riddles are preserved through the nights and it too, like the Xeedho, has some strict rules to be observed:

• As soon as you enter the hut, it is customary that you first shake hands with the groom, then the bride, then the best-man (malxiis), then the best-woman (Malxiisad) – and in that precise order also. After that you are permitted to greet any other attendees of your acquaintance or liking.
• When many people have attended and food is lavishly consumed, the entertainment then starts. Entertainment here is to be understood primarily in terms of extended verbal jousts and battle of words and intellect. Poetry, riddles and songs, all either wishing blessing for the newly-weds or expressing self-avowal of one’s intellect or wisdom is composed or recited; sometimes it even culminates in a battle between the sexes, as often is the case.
• Once the entertainment starts, the groom is appointed his two male helpers. One of these helpers acts as the ‘court’ (Maxkamad) and the other as the ‘public prosecutor’ or a ‘policeman’ (Askari). The Askari with his baton walks around the room and initiates the ceremony by either singing or reciting a poem first. Then he points his stick to someone in the gathering and that person must stand in front of the ‘court’ to be sentenced.
• The sentencing of this person could comprise of answering several riddles, a poem recitation or singing a song. If that person does not comply to any of these, he/she has one chance to pass on the sentence to someone else.
• Everyone attending the Gaaf is subject to such random picking to be sentenced to a public performance.
• If a person gets a riddle wrong, he/she is punished and the punishments sometimes include being branded on the face with ashes or something similar for the duration of the night. Sometimes the punished are made to drink water filled with salt.
• Several bottles of perfumes are brought in to spray on the performer who sings well or recites a good poem or answers all his/her riddles correctly.

When the house was filled the man with the blue shirt on the right was the Askari and picked performers.

Though the customs of the Gaaf have somewhat diminished now and its tradition is not fully observed within much of the Somali community in Somalia, and is extinct in the western world, yet the Nomads practice it and for them it is a great occasion. They take great pride in their ceremonies. Utmost care is ensured so that everything is in its due place and the hut, adorned in a variety of woven mats and decorative material, looks as ornamental as their skilful hands can make it.

But what makes the Gaaf interesting is not the decoration of the hut or the number of people attending; it is the words recited by the performers and the wisdom behind them that lightens up the gathering and the more versed a person is in poetry the more esteemed they are in those circles.

Poetry in this forsaken land is not simply a hobby of the erudite gentlemen of high nobility; each and everyone is in possession of an admirable wit for words and is capable of composing either rabble-rousing speeches or laudable verses of praise. Here are laymen and ordinary Nomads on whose tongues fountains of words flourish, so everyone on the night composes poems on the spot. It is these words that are imparted, the feelings they embody and the sentiments they arouse that become the highlight of the night.

Observing these nomads had now strengthened my aforementioned predilection for a residence among them. Their simple ways of living and care-free life had appealed to me for a very long time. As for the exchange of poems during the nights of Gaaf, I will post a few examples in my next post…

To be continued…

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Somali Cultural Weddings – Gelbis

The Gelbis (escorting the bride to her new home), as I said earlier, is the occasion that marks the commencement of the wedding ceremony. And this (above left) is how it starts, with the women slowly making their way to the hut ululating, drumming and singing songs of praise and various wedding songs as well as the Gelbis song. In the middle of them would be the bride shrouded in a white cloth. In the olden times, a bride and groom would be escorted to their new hut with a convoy of the finest horses in town, but those days are long gone now. I was received with scepticism while taking the pictures of this particular wedding, with each individual wanting to see how they became magically transformed into my digital camera’s small screen. An inquisitive look filled most of the faces present, while some, as the girl with the glittery face, braved their way.

 

 

The entrance of the hut, Ardaaga, would be decked with Alool (above left), though the earth would not normally be as barren as above and would be beautified with leaves and pebbles as underlay and then ornamented with a beautifully crafted mat. Once the women reach the hut, the men then make their way to the hut, humming Islamic songs of praise of the Prophet. As they approach, the gunmen take their prominent places near the hut. Once the men approach the hut, they assemble outside the hut and let the groom enter the hut alone. The gunmen then fire several (usually three) consecutive shots into the air, before the blessings and prayers are showered upon the newly-weds. Then animals are slaughtered and a grand feast is declared for the night!

    

But before the feast, right after the prayers and blessings, all congregate to watch young men assemble in a circle and partake in a jumping contest. The elders watch their offsprings from the sidelines, whilst the women ululate and the young ones, frolicking in the open land, learn the moves to the dance being performed.

 

 

The dance though usually vibrant and energetic, escalates in harmony, as if it were choreographed. The dizzying swirls and the gravity-defying leaps all appear to effortlessly flow from the dancers as they waggle their bodies up and down and side to side in unity. The particular dance being performed in the above images is called Shurbo and the men chant Hoo lebi whilst leaping in the air. The group of dancers below are jumping to the Muraasenyo which is very similar to the Shurbo but with different chants. Though the young ladies now watch from the sides, their turn will come once night falls. As soon as darkness engulfs the land, a troupe of dancers consisting of young men and women escort each other to an open field, far off the newly-weds’ hut and prepare their grounds. There the young women gracefully gambol and compete in a war of verses with the young men.

 

 

The dance continues all the way until nightfall. Once the last few rays of the sun plummet down the horizon and the bewitching mosaic of colours across the sky start to fade, the villager return to their homes to prepare for the Gaaf.

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Sheep Logic vs. Goat Logic

During the Jiilaal seasons when winds and scarcity of water hit the parched Somali terrain, the nomads dig wells – Berkedo – to accumulate rain water. Those nomads who live at a distance from the Berked usually water their animals after every 9 to 10 days of thirst, thereby reducing the amount of journeys they’d have to make to the well. On the journeys to the Berked, the drover, walking alongside the herd, guides them into the direction of the Berked. The goats, being the leaders they are, pilot the herd and often seem to automatically recognise where they are going – or at least show the Sheep that they have a clue as to where they are headed. The sheep are naïve creatures and simply follow them. They lag behind and often require gentle whippings from the drover and a pebble-filled canister thrown their way to move them. Sometimes even the whippings of the drover mean little to them because of their insensitive nature and the thick fur that protects them. They have no inclination to move on their own accord and appear to be very sluggish in their movements. Having been driven out early to the watering grounds, the herd is not allowed to graze, but the sheep are often seen nibbling away at the grass.

When soo hor, cries the young herder at the well to the drover for a part of the herd to be released to the Berked, the goats immediately rush headlong into the direction of the Berked, dip their heads into the containers provided and after quenching their thirst, play about joyfully with a rejuvenated oomph. The goats are born leaders – or have qualities resembling a leader’s. They are lively and enthusiastic about life’s prospects, though they are deficient in terms of experience and, some times, competence. The young Waxar gracefully gambols around the Ardaa soon after birth and imitates the Ceesaan, who in turn imitates the Goat (Ri) in its high-pitched bleating.

They are bold and brash, principally driven by an impulsive rush into things. Their skewed judgment of their own vulnerability hinders them from looking further ahead into the possibilities of their actions. Amused by their own frolicking, they are diverted from the flock, though their senses are promptly reawakened by the hint of fox’s presence.

The sheep, however, like inebriated beings in a moment of drunkenness, dawdle absent-mindedly into the open environment, confounded by the happenings. They glance at each other in a moment of murkiness, then at the goats rushing for the Berked and, being the insipid creatures that they are, walk with some trepidation and uncertainty towards the direction taken by the goats, blindly following them. Sheep are rather shallow and slightly slow on the uptake, thereby taking years to respond to little matters requiring little or no brain activity at all. The humdrums of daily existence mean little to the sheep who, in blithe disregard for any perils that lie ahead, graze in the thickest of the forest, unconscious of the darkness that looms and the jeopardy that seeps from within.

By evening when the sun starts its graceful exit from the earth and it’s time to bring the herd home, the sheep walk fatigued as if in a state of infirmity and on a strenuous journey, nibbling away whatever grass they manage to scrounge around. Though in the hindsight they are aware that they would be returning home, their feeble mind convinces them of the possibility of grazing for ever…little do they realise that the cunning fox lurks in the corner burrow and the hyena is dreaming of a succulent meat tonight; even worse, little do they realise that the sun is setting on them and soon darkness will engulf them…

When it rains, the sheep are unruffled by the thunder. They are competent swimmers and will swim through any flood, come what may, despite several losses and injuries. Locking their heads together, they form a ring of black heads in the enclosure around their young one and withstand the pellets of rain. If they find themselves being swept away in a flood, the sheep wriggle their plump bottoms about in the water with their head always above the water – except when overcome by an enormous surge. They somehow manage to swim out of the tide that carries them.

The goats, on the other hand, are expert whiners and their Qalaad could be heard a distance away. Little floods could cause serious inconveniences to their health and a flash of lighting would agitate their nerves. If swept away they have little chance of survival and, as a habit, dip headfirst into the water. They are often heard making a racket of noises as they are seized by the surge.

The ones that perish in the floods, of Sheep and Goats, are never mourned for and the survivors never look back. That the floods could rise once again and swallow them is inconceivable to their brains. Death means nothing to both the Sheep and Goats. One lost Sheep or Goat does not render the average herd from pausing in their graze and reflecting upon the future that awaits them – even if that death occurs right in front of their eyes and a fox devours a young delectable Sabeen!

The Somali population’s mentality differs not much from that of the animals they rear. The general populace, with their Sheep Logic, are desperate to be led, having no capacity within them to do so. They largely follow their whims and desires and though they perceive the goings-on in their surroundings and the chaos that envelops them from within, they are too blasé about them do not comprehend all that they perceive. Their limited mental vision and the grass they graze on obstructs their view from the perils that lie ahead. Living off the handouts of other countries plotting bigger schemes on their country, the Somalis live in a state of almost total unconsciousness.

The elders of that population have passed down years and years of traditions and practices. The chain of Goat Logic is passed down through an uninterrupted chain until it reaches the Waxar. The young ones born either in or outside Somalia, with a developing sense of Waxar Logic, aspire to become just like their parents and are often seen regurgitating their ideas and behaviours. The dwelling of the young ones or their birth place, even if outsie Somalia, does little to change the inherent susceptibility to Sheep Logic which is passed down by the elders. Neither does the Waxar Logic differ much from the Goat (Ri) Logic, nor the Nayl Logic from the Sheep (Lax) Logic. From a young age, the progeny of this type of logic is infested with the endemic Qabiil Syndrome that takes root and eventually turns them into either whiners like their seniors or leaves them in a state of complete insensitivity. The middle aged ones, with a half-lived life and the logic of the Sabeen or Ceesaan, are in no position to change things and inflict the lashing of Qabiil on the growing young ones.

And just like the Goats and Sheep they rear, death is of little significance for they grasp it not. It does not engender a feeling of loss to say the least. The loss of hundreds or perhaps thousands is of no value and moves them not even in the slightest sense. This sense of insensitivity is shared by all and sundry.

The primitive admiration of inherited Goat/Sheep Logic supersedes any new rebellious, counterculture Waxar or Nayl willing to change the long-established and unequivocally revered perceptions of the elders – perceptions which any Ceesaan or Sabeen with a bit of nous would easily rubbish.

Those who rule, with their Goat Logic, are very much short sighted and scatter at the slightest hint of a commotion. They are an impetuous lot and carry huge, impenetrable solid heads above their scraggy shoulders – a weight too much for them to bear and as a result of which they disappear after a short time. With an imprudent penchant for control, they lead their susceptible flock astray into parched fields and dehydrated pastures where the Jiilaal winds have swept away the very remnants of life from the surface.

All in all, Waxar Logic = Ceesaan Logic = Ri Logic and similarly Nayl Logic = Sabeen Logic = Lax Logic.

There is no change in sight…We are all of the same Goat/Sheep

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A nomadic Experience 2

A Nomadic experience 1

I woke up from my sisters hut. Beside me, stacked in some corner or hanging from the boughs were Sati, Sallad, Bocor, Hadhuub, dhiil, etc. – the very finest of a Somali nomad’s handmade utensils (I will explain these in another post hopefully in detail). Being my first time sleeping on a mat on rock solid earth, after so many years, together with my peculiar habit of sleeping on one side, I woke up with that morning with sore shoulders and a bruised ribcage.

It was a bright day, with a clear blue sky above. Not a single cloud hovered in the sky. The villagers of Habarshiro had already woken up and were by now at the wells, watering huge numbers of animals. My mother sat outside the hut – ardaaga, a partly enclosed area at the entrance of the hut plastered with tiny pebbles and covered (usually) with a mat – and made breakfast. That day it was Ruub – special thick round bread baked under burning ashes served with Sixin. After gobbling down the food quickly I made my way to the berked, for I have been informed that my younger sister, Zainab, would be arriving to see me today. I watered the animals from the Berked, all the time expecting the figure of my sister to emerge from behind the small hill that surrounds the village. After about an hour, she finally emerged, exhausted but with a radiant smile and with her seven-month old baby on her back! I couldn’t believe it – she had walked from a distance of four hours to come and see me and there were no words, however lofty, to repay that kind of love…

By noon, after we had lunch, I was sitting amidst several of my relatives when we were informed that a she-camel belonging to my father had gone missing a few days ago. The news came as a bolt from the blue to all the people, for their love for camels is without comparison. Generally, for the nomads, the lost camel is far dearer to them than all the present ones combined, so they would do everything at their disposal to search for it, often hunting it for days in the wilderness without returning home. Soon my brother, Mohamed, an expert camel herder, was sent with information of its last known location to follow it and bring back any news or sightings – a confirmation whether it was worth the pursuit or if it has been disposed of by the ever present predator, the hyena. They wanted a confirmation and as the old proverb goes “hubsiimo hal baa la siistaa” (precision/certainty is worth a she-camel). The rest of the day passed without much vibrancy.

 

 

 

The next morning my brother came early into the village with some news. Traditionally, when someone brings news to the nomads they welcome the bearer of the news in hope that he brings glad tidings. They say;

Warran oo lagugu ma warramo,

wiilkaaga mooyee walaalkaa ku ma dhaxlo,

la waari maayee waayo joog,

wax xun iyo cadaab la’ow

 

Bring news, but may your news not be brought

May your son inherit you and your brother not

Life won’t be long but may you live long

May you be free from all that is evil and hell

And he did bring some news. “There have been several sightings of a she-camel,” he said, “but its whereabouts were still unidentified. I have seen some tracks and followed them. There appeared to be a hyena chasing the camel, but just past Manshax the tracks disappeared.” The news was even worse than they had expected. The involvement of the hyena had raised their worst fears. Immediately an expedition was organised. The car that brought me to Habarshiro was still with me and so was the driver. It was then decided that we must take the car and look for the she-camel. We set off early, two of my brothers, my cousin and I, following tracks and trails of animals. Stopping at several huts yielded no valuable information. We finally met a young shephard in the vast Sool plateau and that’s when we were informed by the nomad that a ‘lone she-camel’ had been spotted earlier somewhere to our East. A sigh of relief came upon the faces of my brothers and cousin.

 

A nomad with his sheep and goats

We followed the direction of our informant nomad and headed east. The car drove slowly across plain fields and desiccated terrain, stopping from time to time and my brothers getting out to inspect and sift through the hundreds of footprints on the soil. Analysing the trails very precisely, they’d decide upon the time they were left and in which manner, as in if the camel was running or walking, and then they would decide upon the direction the tracks were leading to, thereby estimating a specific location that it would have reached.

A camel-herder with his camels. This is my brother

The nomads are expert trackers and their knowledge of their land is unrivalled. Using trees as landmarks and indicators of their location, the nomads know exactly how long it would take a camel, or a person for that matter, to travel from one place to another, and using this knowledge we headed for the probable route of the she-camel and the estimated destination. After about 2 hours, and regular intervals to inspect more tracks that would confirm our quest, we finally managed to find the she-camel, among other camels. She wasn’t in a bad state, except for her rear which was bitten by a hyena. This explained the running tracks that Mohamed saw on the first day of his inspection of the surrounding areas – the trails of the camel being chased. And what a relief it was. Such a relief that the camels were immediately milked and we were served with fresh camel milk with Ruub.

  

Milking a camel (haaneed)                                      suckling her mother, though she is a bit old for that now.

As the days progressed, I learnt more about the customs of the Nomadic tribes and soon started to admire them. Though living in the throes of water shortages and meagre resources (this is during the dry seasons or Jiilaal. When it rains and water is in abundance, the nomads live a luxuriant life for they don’t have to take the animals to far away watering places and traditional songs and folk dances are performed regularly in the open. There is always plenty of meat and milk to be consumed and it becomes a merry time for weddings, so young men go scouting for their brides in these dances), the nomads are perhaps the one group of people who have understood life’s fundamental lesson of simplicity. They care neither for the trials the barren land may unfold tomorrow, nor do they weigh themselves down with the burdens of yesterday. They live for today, with as little of life’s encumbrances as possible. In their secluded world, detached from all worldly lures, the present is all that matters – the past has no relevance and the future no certainty. Enjoying whatever the earth yields, they live a frugal lifestyle without extravagance. They wake up the morning, each person going about his assigned job. No worries or stress, for as long as they have their camels, life is jolly good (except for the dry seasons when they struggle hard to find grazing grounds and water for their livestock).

Eating Ruub with camel milk. What the man is holding is called Hadhuub-gaal or Gaawe

Now that I have returned to London, I have become slightly disenchanted with all the superfluous material pleasures and their impermanent value. Life in Miyi has left upon me an indelible impression and my wish is to return there as soon as chance permits me. I now have a clearer insight into the nomadic lifestyle with all its perils and pleasures. I do not think I could live it through though (settling down there I mean), but try I will one day!

The Somali Nomadic lifestyle is what defines the Somali culture. It is from these dry plateaus, valleys and watering holes from which all Somali traditions spring, forming the bedrock of the Somali society and a rich cultural heritage handed down to generations of camel herders and pastoralists. The traditional dances and weddings in Miyi forms the basis of almost all Somali poetry and music. To understand the meaning and origins of Somali poetry, music and literature, one must be fairly informed about the pastoral lifestyle, for without that one looses majority of the meanings, metaphors, allusions and insinuations imbedded within them.

 

  

The camel, as I have mentioned in an earlier post as well, is the centre of hundreds of poems from the earliest poets to the ones of today. Here is a poem that summarizes the life of the she-camel in 5 lines, from birth to maturity (I’ve added the ages the poet talks about for your convenience) ;

 

gugey dhalatay geed lagu xiryoo xariga loo gaabi

guga xigana gaaleemadiyo* dhogorta qaar goyso (2 jir)

guga xigana uur-giringiri* geela ku hor meedho (Qaalin yar, 3 jir)

guga xigana awar garabsatoo gooja* la hudeecdo (hal, 4 jir)

guga xigana good* nirig dhashay gaawe* laga buuxi (5 jir)

 

The year she was born, she is tied to a tree and the noose loosened

The year after that, she peels off part of her fur (age = 2)

The year after that, with a round belly, she parades in front of the camels (age = 3)

The year after that, she mates, becomes pregnant and dawdles (age = 4)

The year after that, good has given birth and a gaawe is filled (age = 5)

 

*Gaaleemada  = the first fur the she-camel develops at a young age. this coat of fur stripped when the camel reaches about two years of age.

*uur-giringiri = by this time the calf develops a slightly big belly. She is neither suckling nor is she mature enough yet.

*Goojo = when the she-camel is pregnant the first sing is that as soon as someone approaches it, or a he-camel approaches it for mating, it spreads its hind legs and urinates. This is called Goojo and the camel-herder estimates a time when it would give birth.

*good = the she-camel is now called Good. As soon as she gives birth she is given a name, but before giving birth she is called “daughter of such and such” or “ina hebla”.

*Gaawe = Hadhuub gaal used for milking camels.

 

In another poem, Cumar Australia composed a brilliant poem about camels.

Ragga laxaha sii dhawrayow dhaqasho waa geele

Dhibaatiyo adoo gaajo qaba dhaxanta jiilaalka

Dhoor* caano laga soo lisoo yara dhanaanaaday

 

O’ you men who tend to sheep, rearing is camels

when adversity and hunger finds you in the winds of Jiilaal

The milk obtained from Dhoor with its sharp taste

 

Nin dhadhamiyey wuu garanayaa dhul ay qaboojaane

Goortaad dhantaa baa jidhkaba dhididku qooyaaye

Ragga laxaha sii dhawrayoow dhaqasho waa geele

 

A man who tasted them knows where they cool down

as soon as you drink it, does sweat drench the body

O’ you men who tend to sheep, rearing is camels

 

Waxa dhaba habeenkaa ninkii dhama galxoodkeeda*

Dhallaanimo qodxihii kugu mudnaa kaaga soo dhaca e

Ragga laxaha sii dhawrayoow dhaqasho waa geele.

 

Guaranteed it is that a man who drinks its (camels) Galax*

In childhood the thorns that pricked you would be discharged 

O’ you men who tend to sheep, rearing is camels

 

 *Galxood = comes from the word Galax. When a camel is milked, the fresh milk is initially hot and forms a lot of froth on the surface. The milk is left to settle down and the froth disappears. Once it disappears, very cold, pure milk is what remains. This is called Galax.

*Dhoor – Mane. Also known as Baar. A camel with a mane has not been used for carrying water or disassembled huts. Dhoor is also sometimes used as a name for a she-camel.

 

Cumar Australia also goes on to say that;

 

Inkastood adduun badan dhaqdo dheemman iyo daaro

Inkastood dhar wada suufa iyo dhag iyo laas qaaddo

Dhaxal male nin Soomaaliyoon dhaqannin koorreey*

 

despite having a world of diamond and dwellings

despite you having luxuriant clothes of cotton

Inheritence he has not, a Somali who doesn’t rear a camel

 

*koorreey = comes from the word Koor which means a wooden bell – the one tied around the camel’s neck. Here Koorey refers to camels.

For centuries the Somali Nomadic lifestyle had existed, people have endured the worst of droughts and famine and were content with their herd of camels, and though that lifestyle is now somewhat sluggishly diminishing, pastoralists will continue to exist despite the growing number of villages and urbanisation of Miyi.

 

cp.s I have attended a wedding in Miyi and will give you the details about the customs along with some pictures soon Insha-Allah.

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A Nomadic Experience.

 

We left Bosaaso just before twilight set upon us. Accompanied by my brothers, we left my hotel at Al-Rowda, passed by Bosaaso Hospital, a thousand and one restaurants at the edge of the main road, countless hawkers by, cars, lorries heading out and entering the city, people, goats, sheep, soldiers, more hotels, carts and finally silence. Except for our short stay at Xalwo Kismaayo whilst we bought some sweets and mineral water, there was no commotion-filled, busy and eventful streets to be heard, no clamour of voices, no obnoxious Qat sellers, no loud conductors pulling you into their buses, just the noise of rubber eating away the tarmac. Arid, dry land occupied either sides of the road as far as the eyes caught. Further ahead, great mountains towered above the levelled ground. The enormity of such mountains loomed over the vast barren earth and formed a somewhat pleasing sight. By then I was all expectations. Every minute that passed brought me closer to an emotional reunion with a family I’ve left a long time ago and filled my heart with anticipation. I was starting to feel the goosebumps appearing.

The long stretch of road led us past the city control limits where the cars are checked for weapons, then past the villages of Laag, Karin, Kalabaydh, and several other tiny ones along the roadside and then just after we passed the dangerously serpentine road of Alxamdullilah, the driver came off the asphalted road and took a narrow rough path, through the arid land formed by the tyre tracks of cars and constant usage . The rough road rapidly rolled in front of us and the car bounced up and down at great speeds. We followed that route through an immense dark terrain, through Ballibusle, through Laag Xaariseed and after a gruelling five-hour journey set foot in the wilderness of Sanaag at 2 AM. A small hut erected in the middle of no where greeted us and adjacent to it, two thick fences made from the thorny branches of Galool trees formed two large rings. Inside the rings, animal dung had plastered the earth, covering the thin layer of soil. This is where the sheep and goats along with their lambs and kids come to rest after a day of traversing the plains of Sanaag.   

 

From the hut exited my young brothers and sisters and my step mother and from there started the emotional reunion. It was an occasion worthy of a celebration and fresh meat was immediately served. We stayed that night or whatever was left of it and slept in the open, watching the millions of glittery stars that decorated the sky and danced around the vivid moon to form an enchanting display. What a pleasant night that was!

Waking up early that morning, I observed my surroundings. I noticed with enthusiasm the extent to which my vision was restricted to – as far as my eyes could see. With trees such as Qudhac, Meygaag, Galool, Damal, bilcil and Higlo along with some Dhirindhir spread sporadically along a vast flat land, the wilderness was as open as the sea and stretched out for perhaps hundreds of kilometres. Such a vast area of land is called Sool (not to be confused with the region of Sool). Sool means an area that comprises of mainly the trees I mentioned above covering acres of land. It was the Xagaa season and the land, being slightly sterile was rainless and dry. Small bushes, usually a few centimetres off the earth, known as Dureemo and others slightly bigger, known as Duur, covered the earth. Duur is used extensively for building huts and enclosures for animals. All this I observed whilst on my way to where my mother lived – a small village called Habarshiro, right in the heart of Sanaag.

  

Habarshiro, a tiny village lying at the foot of a small hill has Ceelbuuh as its nearest neighbour. Here, the vast land was, for the most part, unoccupied except for a few houses that conspicuously took up their rightful places in the middle of no-where. Barren and dry as it was, there were hardly any trees either, apart from the few dry trunks that stood like solitary soldiers assigned to keep watch and guard the village. Several wells surrounds the city known as Berkedo (sing. Berked). These serve as watering grounds for more than two thousand heads of camels, sheep and goats almost every day.

 

As the car closed the distance between me and Habarshiro, my heart hammered heavily in her chest, threatening to crack my ribcage open. I even thought I heard its pulsating beats. A reservoir of tears gathered at the brim of my eyes, ready to gush out at the very mention of the word “hooyo” – mother! The car had not even come fully to a halt when I pushed the door open, jumped out, flung my arms around my mother and silently sobbed tears (though strongly repressed ) of delight, relief and excitement. A graceful woman with finely tuned features she was, though baked by the sun into a dark chocolaty complexion, and must have been without comparison in beauty in her glory days.

Gradually my heart came to rest and the thudding was replaced by a wave of comfort. The warmth of my mother’s embrace disposed of the inner restlessness, evaporating all concerns and worries into thin air and putting my troubled heart to rest. Everything else seemed insignificant then, my mind was for the first time completely free of thought! This was where I wanted to be and this was how I wanted to feel. At that very instant my life had changed and without regard for what perils and tribulations lay ahead, I’ve decided that this was where I wanted to spend the rest of my stay – under the shelter of my mother’s hut. The rest of my siblings were away, dispersed into the immense terrain, so whilst my father and relatives sat under the shade of the Higlo tree, I grabbed my younger sisters and mother and went inside the hut.

 

After a few days stay in Habarshiro, it was time to discover the customs of the nomadic tribes. I set out early in the morning towards the Berked to water and load the camels my brother had brought from his hut in Manshax – three hour’s journey away from the village. Every two to three days he makes the same journey and loading his camels with water, returns to his house. This is called Dhaan. So that particular morning, with a strong desire to walk the plains of Sool and discover the land by foot, I volunteered to accompany my sister Seytun who was to take the dhaan back to my brother’s house. Being the first time I have seen her in her 20 years of living, I wanted to be very much with her all the time. Little did I know what lay ahead and how much trekking I would have to do.

  

We set out with five camels loaded with water for two families. As soon as we disappeared from the sight of Habarshiro, I stopped and looked around. Not another single soul in sight, except for me and my sister and not another living thing except for our five camels. The immensity of the terrain simply astonished me; you could be walking for miles and not come in contact with a human being. We strolled along at leisurely pace, talking passionately about our lives through all the years of separation. An expert trekker, having traversed the entire terrain in every direction perhaps a thousand time, she knows the location of almost every tree in the area.

 

The evergreen Higlo tree.

We were walking for only about an hour and I could feel that my body was spewing out sweat in excessive amounts and my feet begged for some rest. That I gladly welcomed and sought the shelter of a Higlo tree at which point my sister teased me for being unhealthy. That is how I completed my journey – walking for about an hour in the open and then finding some shelter under a tree. We finally reached our destination by noon – two small huts, intricate in their design, in the middle of a vast open space – and unloaded the water. There I sat, fatigued and panting for breath, and accepted a fresh cup of camel milk from my sister-in-law. I dreaded the journey back to the village and wished for once that I hadn’t been so impulsive. A three hour journey awaited me and I had to make it before darkness envelops the land, for then hyenas own the night.

Luckily I did manage, greatly exerting myself, to return to Habarshiro as soon as the rays of the sun plummeted down the horizon. After a few days rest and the pain in my feet subsided, I was ready for another ‘excursion’ – a painful excursion.

to be continued…

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Bosaaso

 

Bosaaso >

 

It was about three in the afternoon in Bosaaso and the sun was still intensely oppressive. From my window, I could see that the plane had landed on a coarse runway, between mountains, scattered with gravel and stone. A barbed wire bordered the stretch of the airport, leaving just adequate room for vehicles’ entrance and a small concrete wall guarded by some exhausted soldiers. A small house with two rooms, each with two windows and a tin roof occupied a corner of the airport and passed for ‘Imagration’ (immigration). Along its borders, each of the wooden windows was reinforced with a shield of iron. Within a distance of a few paces stood another building adjacent to a cafeteria; a house built in the same way as the former. “Customs Office Airport Bossaso” was painted in faint dark colours on a board attached to a mesh of concrete patterns. I was in Bosaaso, and the constant fear of the small clattering Russian plane crashing at any minute had left me.

As soon as I stepped off the plane, some memories of the Dubai temperatures floated before me. A wave of baking heat greeted me, and my lungs seemed unable to inhale the boiling air. It seemed as if I was short of breath and the quick agonizing gasps of hot air scalding my throat felt like drowning. Huffing and puffing, I glanced ahead in to the bright sunshine with my eyes slightly squinted as my body tried to adjust to the severe conditions. With great struggle, I managed balance my weight on the wobbly staircase and set foot on land. I was on home soil and a slight sensation of relief came upon me. I was still brimming with my anticipation of life in Miyi and that of meeting relatives and family. But that feeling was soon drowned under the humid air.

A gush of uncontrollable trickles of sweat appeared on my forehead. I hate sweating profusely, and no matter how many times I wiped the sweat off with my face towel, more sweat from the open pores would drench me again.

Giving my ticket and passport to my cousin to deal with the immigration, I made my way past the swarm of porters each pestering in his own unique way to carry my luggage and went and sat in the car. Thirty minutes later and I was at the hotel. Situated in AL Rowda, Emirates Hotel is a new four-storey building attracting a large number of visitors. After a flight of stairs, the smell of fresh paint swimming through the corridors of the first floor waylays the nostrils and in the far corner several paint cans confirm the source of the smell. In each room of the hotel are two beds, two bedside cabinets, two cloth hangers and a TV. The funny thing about the rooms is that they rent the beds so you would have to share it with another person, thereby throwing privacy out of the window – that is unless you want to rent the whole room. The <em>rent coast</em> of each room as the Conditions of the Hotel stated – is 9 dollars a night for a bed and 18 dollars for the whole room.

Bosaaso is perhaps the fastest growing city in this region. The city that was almost concentrated on the port a few years ago is now being stretched out. Almost hundreds of houses are under construction everyday and new houses, some with brilliant designs, stretch the city far out of its borders. Soon people will be building houses on the bordering mountains or even past the city control limits. Along the main road – the only asphalted road in Bosaaso – that originates from the port and dissects the city into two are thousands of people displaying different merchandise under corroding tin roofs and makeshift shelters. Perhaps one of the most valuable, highly purchased and highly profitable commodity displayed on the side of the road is the stimulant Qat. Several stalls of Qat decorate the sides of the main road, and are usually filled with animated activities. You will also find roaming products – people carrying their goods along with them and selling them. These are usually young children and sometimes even adults with a few pairs of clothes, some watches, batteries, socks and perfumes for sale.

By day Bosaaso is a city full of activity, blaring horns, busy streets and the clamor of noise that fills the street. The main road road is the hub of commotion and becomes almost jam-packed with cars and people and it seems as though no one has a right of the road, thereby adding to the angry outbursts from drivers, carts and people walking by.

But as soon as daylight disappears, the city’s face of evil is adorned in the darkness. Criminals wait in ambush at almost every corner, sharpening their teeth, waiting for a victim to take along. Walking through Bosaaso at night could mean the end of your life. A new wave of crime has erupted in the city. Groups of armed robbers, thugs, rapists and murderers roam the streets at night, stripping any possession from whomever they jump upon. It has been reported that several women have had their breasts cut off, ears chopped, raped and then discarded. The perpetrators, sometimes dressed in Burqas for anonymity, seize their victims and torture them until the early hours of the morning when they either release them or their bodies are found lying in some dingy corner.

Women too have now become part of this trade. Though few of the women are reported to have killed their victims, the majority of them would prey on lone men at night, rob them under gunpoint and take them home. This may seem absurd and incredible to say the least, but it happens.

Throughout my short stay in Bosaaso I was confined to the limits of my guarded hotel everyday after 6 PM except for a very few days. One particular day was when I stayed late at my cousin’s house and froze with fear on my return to the hotel. Darkness seeped from every little corner that led to the hotel. I expected that at any moment a Burqa or balaclava-clad person would jump out of the dark corners brandishing a gun. The wad of money I had then seemed of little significance. The possibility of being stabbed or shot for a few dollars or shillings hovered like a gigantic cloud above my head. With every rock that I stumbled upon, a fresh wave of panic startled me. I looked to the left and right in quick successions. Then behind me, then front. I observed every wall, every corner and expected someone. Sometimes I even saw people squatting down where rocks huddled lifelessly. I then looked back and saw darkness, adding to the constant fear that amidst the darkness, something will bounce upon me at any moment. Even the gentle breeze of warm air that blows at night startled me until the minute I reached the compound of my hotel.

The streets are teeming with beggars and shoe polishers. Even when the sun is at its peak, you will find shoe polishers as young as 5 or 6 years old, walking barefooted in the torrid heat of July or August, or beggars with the clothes outstretched on the streets.

Outside Al Rowda mosque, several women sit at the door regularly with their Hijabs widely spread in front of them. Several shoe polishers also shine shoes while people pray. And this is where I met him. A young scruffy chap in tattered black tee-shirt (looking closely I realized that the colour was originally blue) and a threadbare trousers came to me while I sat at Al-tawfiq restaurant, just outside the mosque, and said something indiscernible. I asked him to repeat what he said and he once again mumbled the same indiscernible words with a small smile, pointing to the water bottle I’ve been drinking. At this point, a waiter at the restaurant saw the incident and chased the little boy away. I went outside after him and handed him the water bottle at which he graciously smiled.
   ‘What’s your name?’ I asked him.
   Several flies took off and landed on his forehead in succession. He made no effort to wave them off. They descended down the bridge of his nose, scavenging whatever nutrition they could along the way, then down to his lips. His face darkened by the scorching heat had accumulated so much dirt and from neglect had become darker than the hands of a car mechanic.
   ‘Liban,’ came a faint reply.
‘How old are you Liban?’ I questioned him.
He looked up at me with pitiful eyes, parted his lips slightly, and then lifted his left hand up and gestured the number three with his fingers, then the number four and finally two. From his lack of willingness to talk and mumbled voice I sensed that he had a speech impediment and did not know his age either. I guessed him to be about 6 years of age if not younger. Hundreds of children similar to Liban roam the streets of Bosaaso daily hunting for their livelihoods. They are paid 1000 shillings – the cost of a small chewing gum – for a pair of shoes they polish.

My stay in Bosaaso lasted only for a few days whilst I waited for a car to take me to Miyi and when it came I was glad I was out of the heat, for the nomads live in far cleaner atmospheres with cooler temperatures…

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Dubai – A Desert of Dreams

The flight

As we ascended to lofty heights and houses diminished in size, the vast British coastline was clear from above. At an altitude of 37000 feet, the earth looked picturesque. From my window seat, the beautiful green pastures, adjacent to one another with hedge-defined boundaries, looked like pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. It looked just like a picture from Google Earth – just more real. Soon enough clouds resembling huge quantities of froth suspended in mid air gently floated past us. Yet they seemed somewhat still and motionless, except for the few diverted clouds that were, like soft pieces of cotton, driven by the wind far below us. Tired of starring out into the open, I reclined uncomfortably in my chair and tried to sleep. We were above Bucharest by then.

I closed my eyes for what seemed like a few minutes, but by the time I opened them Bucharest was now far behind, as the on-screen map showed, and we were right above Iraq. We have crossed the Black Sea and by then light had given way to dark, and there I sat starring into an endless labyrinth of darkness and my reflection. I could see below, through the clear skies and odd patches of clouds, that the cities below resembled millions of glittery stars adjoined in irregular patterns, trailing off to somewhere in the dark before disappearing from sight. This continued until we reached Dubai.

The Airport

At the airport, haughty Arabs, with flowing white silk dresses and sandals occupied the seats at the Passport Control, just before the Baggage Claim area. With a disdainful flick of his finger, he beckons the next passenger and reclines back in his chair, staring into space, if not ogling the female passengers around. Once the passenger presents his passport to him, he then works at a snail’s pace, contemptuous in his manner, and callous in response. You could almost feel the sense of pride that consumes him from the way he talks to people apathetically.
About seven or eight queues formed parallel lines in front of the passport control, and two separate queues for GCC nationals, where a few Arabs stood. The other queues were all jam-packed with people of every descent – majority of which were Indians. Whenever an Indian man presented his passport to him, he’d look up at him, without moving his head and slightly lifting his brows up, with scorn. And once when a man went the wrong way, he’d shouted at him, “kya damaakh nai hein” (what, don’t you have a brain?), pointing his open hand to his temples. The poor Indian man simply turned and walked the other way with a smile and shake of the head, whilst the Arab watched with revulsion.

Ignoring us, he then called the few Arabs at the GCC line and started stamping their passports, even though they had separate queues and checking points of their own. Favouritsm here is accepted, for no one said a word.

The Weather

An oppressing wave of heat accosted me as soon as I stepped outside into the Greeting Area. Immediately, tiny beads of sweat appeared on my face, my hands felt clammy and my jeans damp under the humidity, while I gasped irritably for some air to fill my lungs. In front of me, hundreds of dark faces, with sweat dripping from their foreheads, stood packed like sardines, leaning on the metal barriers and each fighting for some space at the front. Their eyes followed each exiting passenger with an imploring look. None of them was Arab or wearing Arabic clothing. For once I questioned whether British Airways has taken a detour to India and left me stranded, for everyone there was of the Indian Subcontinent.

By the time I found my friend at the exit, I was sodden with sweat. It felt like walking right through a furnace, with extremely hot air scalding your skin. Thankfully, all the cars, houses, shops, restaurants, etc are equipped with air conditioners.

The next day I woke up at about 12 and after a quick shower decided to have a feel for the outside world. Stepping out from the luxury of my cool apartment, I went out. But as soon as I set a foot outside, hot air slapped me across the face and I retreated in defeat.

The best times to go out, as I later learnt, were not during the day, but evenings. At about 7pm, a mild wind blows from the ocean and sweeps across the city. It is not cold, but bearable and that’s when the city comes to life, bustling with activity and Arabs.

Tip: drink a lot of water and always keep a face towel in hand.

The people

Behind their immaculate exteriors and musk –soaked bodies lie putrid souls and stagnated minds. During the sweltering heat of the day, you would be hard-pressed to find an Arab guy with his silk robe walking the streets of Dubai. Lazy as they are, they eat off the strength of the poor Indians who are labouring day and night to pay their costs of living and sending money back to their countries. With an ostentatious display of wealth and lassitude, the Arab man parks his 4X4 in front of the grocery store, give two hoots on the horn and waits for the Indian man to come out, gives him the money and orders his goods.

It is their inert natures and gluttonous eating habits that their obesity is credited to. At night time, majority of the Arabs roam about aimlessly in their tinted 4X4s, to and fro the city, leering at girls wherever they find them. They go to malls, walk around, hunting for their prey, but never getting to devour it. Whenever a female is spotted, loud hoots are emitted from the car and bellows of delight fill the car as it slows down and the tints are rolled down.

Their women too, having reached a point of frustration from idly sitting at home, now do the same thing. It is like watching a pathetic flirting scene – where the man and woman constantly gyrate around each other with smiles, winks, nods of the head, waves of the hands, each keeping a safe distance that which cannot be breached. This is how the night is spent and the same routine is executed night after night, except for Ramadan when care races are taking place throughout the cities.

For people of such lifestyles, their arrogance is unmatched. The word discrimination here is held in a class of its own and given its own abode, festooned with all the decorative charms of injustice. A Pakistani friend of mine, describing his life here, once remarked “they don’t have to respect you.” Another friend who was born here, but also of Pakistani origin, said “you have no rights here even if you were born here. You and the guy who came yesterday are the same – the only difference is you know the city and he doesn’t.”

In Sharjah and Ajman, the police have the authority to do as they please. If they stop you they will take out their ‘Egal’ – the black rope that rests on top of the turban on their head – and lash you across the face with it if they wish. In Dubai things are a bit different for Sheikh Mohamed Bin Rashid has taken stringent measures to ensure that the law is respected by all.

With their disproportionate bodies and gluttonous bellies coupled with a strange sort of gratuitous arrogance, theirs is a life of pomposity and hedonism. Their survival as a country and as a nation depends on foreign strength and their economy would instantaneously crumble down if all the hard working people of the Indian Subcontinent were to leave UAE for their homes. I doubt they will have the necessary skills since majority of them, getting monthly allowances, homes and cars from the government, haven’t yet taken a dip into the labour pool.

But not all the Arabs are contemptible. The ones that behave like this are called “Mujawazin” – they are people of Iranian, Balochi and Zanzibari descent given citizenship a long time ago. The Bedouins, who are the natives of UAE, are the most genial of people I hear, and its these adopted breeds that are polluting the country.

Places to see

I have been shopping for my trip to Somalia, so I haven’t had the time to enjoy and take pictures, but I will be coming back to Dubai at the end of August and by then I plan to explore more of the city. Await pictures then…

I am flying to Somalia tonight insha-Allah and if I get an internet connection, every now and then, I will drop you a line…

Take care folks!

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Escapism

There was silence. Nothing moved. I have left behind the blaring horns of the busy streets and the impurities of the vitiating air and headed for the banks of the river Thames. I have even deserted the little stream behind my house where a reservoir of calm, clear waters languidly flows through the middle of the small Broadwaters neighborhood, giving it a tranquil feel. Along the banks of the stream, weeping willows dangled their branches lazily upon the water below with pleasant reflections. I used to spend most of my evenings there, sitting on one of the ageing brown benches beside the willow tree lost in contemplation. But now that has changed, for the Thames River provided a cleaner air, a better view and a vast space.

As I sat along its banks, some grass beside me, tickled by the soothing breeze hissed continuously, swaying from side to side. The surface of the water, unruffled and silent except for the tiny waves created by the wind sailing across it, shimmered in the setting sun, reproducing a picturesque scene patterned with intermingling colours of orange, grey and gold. And as they floated across the surface, the crests of each wave created a magnificent interplay between the tones of the colours reflected. A few feet away from me, soft splashing sounds emanated from the gentle lapping of the waves against the banks of the river.

Inhaling a lungful of the clean air, I lifted my eyes up, slowly, to the Docklands and above to the skies. Under the glowing clouds, the sky was bustling with activity – a stunning display of aerobatics and some spectacular dives were in effect. Several birds have taken to the air, soaring and diving before gently landing on the serene water surface. Then the black plumage of what appeared to be a blackbird flipped its wings a few times and looped around the surrounding trees in gentle twirls before landing on another tree and disappearing from sight, but not from my ears, as its melodious sounds wafted soothingly through the air. It wasn’t long before others of its kind joined and a cacophony of sounds pleasant to the ear, strangely enough, erupted.

At some distance away, but not far from sight, another bird landed; a rather shy bird, keeping its distance well away from me. And beautiful too; with black and white markings highlighted with a lustrous tinge of blue, green and purple and a long gleaming tail. The Magpie is a striking bird and its flight is delightful to watch. A bane for most gardeners though, its hoarse cackling call alone is enough to send shudders down their spine; and it is often associated with evil. What such a humble bird could have done to warrant such loathing and how anyone could find the sight of such an elegant creature objectionable is totally beyond my grasp, but I caught sight of it as I sat there along the banks of the Thames. And it looked magnificent.

Conspicuous with its elongated tail, the Magpie started flapping its wings once or twice before soaring up to the lower branches of a tree. Enclosed in the ovoid overlapping leaves, it then began its lively chatter. In England it is, traditionally, unlucky to see one on its own or so they say. The victims, it is widely believed, must either cross themselves, spit three times over their right shoulder, raise their hats or chant ‘Devil, devil, I defy thee’ upon the sight of a Magpie, but these are mere superstitions; just as the thousand superstitions we have in our country involving animals. I stood there, transfixed, eyes set on the tree, pleasantly admiring its delightful cackles.

Several other birds were gliding effortlessly above. I watched them in earnest and mulling over their exceptional sense of freedom, I felt a lovely breeze running through my body. It was then that the limitations in my life became apparent. I envied their infinite independence. They too, I thought, must envy something about us. But then, by just watching them, a feeling of stillness descended upon one. I sat there, quiet and composed. I wished I could sprout wings at that very instant and fly with them and take to the skies. And for that short moment the thoughts occupied my mind, I was with them. I felt the wind on my winds, combing my feathers and caressing my tail. I saw London from above. Well, one would be lost in contemplation standing on that bank on a cool summer evening watching the sun lowering into the horizon. And though I tried to describe it here to the best of my effort, the impalpable feeling this place gives me is beyond measure. Tranquil is the word I thought of as a myriad of fancy thoughts absorbed my mind and I surrendered to the influence of the lulling atmosphere.

One word of advice – don’t stay there too long, you might be sucked in to tranquility!

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A trip to the Marfish…

You are instantly accosted by the clouds of smoke on entering through the grubby door; rings of white puffs sail along the faded walls of the corridor and softly circle up to embrace the moist ceiling. The strumming of the Oud, with Axmed Mooge’s voice floating through the thick air, can be heard coming from a broken tape recorder in some corner. And as you walk in to the shabby room, the clamour of slurred voices deafen the atmosphere. The walls inside the room, sweating with humidity, are usually of green or blue in colour with mismatching yellow patterns at times and the windows, misty with condensed air and water drizzling down to the window sill, always seem to be locked. Several stained Arabic cushions lie on the floor, going along the walls of the room to serve as the seating area and a carpet, decorated with ashes, cigarette butts and burns occupies the middle of the floor, covering a washed-out wooden flooring.

A group of about 20-30 men in dowdy garments, grinding mouthfuls of leaves with their stained teeth and a green paste of saliva dribbling from the corners of their mouths as they speak, sit huddled together on the cushions as if clustering for warmth. In front of each of them lies a blue plastic bag with his treasure in it – several small greenish-brown twigs, each with a few leaves at the top, all assembled into fine rows and ready for consumption. Beside the plastic bags, lies a waste bucket, covered in a plastic bag, a thermos flask, some bottles of still water, Shani drinks, and a hubbly-bubbly.

In the far corner, a wooden desk stands, enclosing the dealer or owner of the Marfish. Underneath the desk lies bags of Qat, clustered in bundles for sale at about £5 each. Beside the dealer’s desk is a small refrigerator, containing some more boxes of Qat and bottles of drinks. A small television set is mounted atop a desk with Sky sports channels but the sound is muted.

These men, grandfathers, fathers, sons, uncles and brothers, coteries of pitiable simpletons, of whom half rely on the dole, have neglected families and friends for these leaves. And as you stand in the room, a strange mixture of smell seeps out of it and into the corridor. One can not be sure as to what it is – the cigarette smoke, the hubbly-bubbly, or the perspiring bodies. The health and safety auditors must have neglected these premises, but the evening here is the grandest, or such a feeling their minds are imbued with, and any other sort of leisure activity to match this is deemed futile. The lavish supply of leaves and the effect they induce is simply unmatched.

Welcome to the Marfish!

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For the Love of Oud

The strings are plucked. Gently. A rich, high-pitched tune resonates from its hollow chest. The pear shaped body releases a melodious sound upon plucking the strings. Regarded as the queen of instruments, the Oud, or Lute as it is generally known, is a non-fretted piece of highly ornate wood. Hadrawi’s Hooyoy La’aantaa, played on this instrument, strikes at the heart. It’s beat, rhythm and carefully chosen words bring it to life, breathing through the wind and pleasantly resting on your ears. I could almost feel the column of strings being plucked on the ivory Oud, as I repose in my cluttered room in some ravaged street in London, vibrating as they are struck and producing a resonating sound of great delight to the sensual ear. I pull the radio closer to my bed and wait patiently for the lyrics.

Hooyoy la’aantaa
Higgaad lama barteenoo

O’ mother without you
None would be lettered

As the music starts and the undulating melody is carried through the air, my mother whom I’ve left a long time ago comes to mind. Her ageing features and beautiful colour darkened by the sun into a chocolaty complexion are brought before me. Having been away from her for a very long time, this song reminds me of her and the time I spent in her company and the warmth of her care. The dark nights that we sat outside the tiny hut in Cal, talking, watching the brightly lit stars above as I lay in her lap came to mind. The sense of serenity and contentment I felt was without comparison. The vast territory of Cal consisted mostly of barren and desiccated terrain where nomadic settlers, like my family, dwelled.

Hooyoy la’aantaa
Hadal lama kareenoo

O’ mother without you
None would be able to speak

The smooth, mellifluous song of Hadraawi made the constraint of time and space disappear by propelling my mind at once, thousands of miles away from London, to the arid plains of Cal in search of a mother I had left behind a long time ago; and also to revisit past scenes of delight. I could almost feel the incense that hangs on the boughs of her tiny hut – the woven mats that made the roof, the comfy grass that carpeted the earth, the brushwood that held the wooden pillars, the flap of woven mat that made the entrance; I could smell the distinct dry-grass scent of her highly-decorated mats as I hear the song and the fragrance of the fertile earth and morning dew that envelops it. As night falls, and howling of the wind lessens, and darkness engulfs the surroundings, the family would form a circle around the burning logs of fire, gazing at the thick skewer that held the roasting lamb. And tales of our forefathers would be narrated before the meal.

Ruuxaanad habinoo
Kolba aanad hees iyo
Hoobey ku sabinoo
Hawshaada waayaa

Whom you haven’t nurtured
And at times with a song
And hoobey not chanted
And misses your diligence

I remember the bright flames of the fire dying and the rest of the family slowly recoiling back into the hut, except for me and my mother who would be sitting beside the smouldering embers.

Hanaqaadi maayee
Hoygii kalgacalkee
Naxariistu hadataay

He will reach nowhere
O’ provider of affection
And compassion abound

And then the strings are plucked again, and the music travels pleasantly and the sonorous voice of the singer wafts into the air. Then I’d remember the songs my mother used to sing whilst tending to the herds of goats and sheep. On that torrid heat of August, I would sometimes accompany my mother to the arid plains and keep her company. I was very young by then and my job within the family circle was to tend to the kids and lambs. My father, though feeble, tended to the camels along with my brother, whilst the flock of goats and sheep were in my mother’s guard. Tall Trees with withered leaves served as our shade from the sweltering heat and by evening when the sun started to plummet down the horizon, we would make our way back to the hut. The enchanting trails left behind by the setting sun guide us to our hut and the quietude of the countryside coupled with the stillness of the unvaried cycle of life was something wonderful.

Hooyoy la’aantaa
Higgaad lama barteenoo

O’ mother without you
None would be lettered

And then the strings are plucked again, and serenity descends upon me. I lie on my back in complete tranquillity; harmonious respiration, a detached body buoyantly reposed and a dreaming mind. And as the song evoked memories of my departed childhood, it also recalled the ethereal world I’d created through poetic imagination. And the following poem, which I wrote upon seeing my mother after several years of separation, vividly appeared before me:

Have you ever cried tears of happiness
That on the cheeks do gently flow
Upon the sight of a special someone
Whom your life and joy duly depend
But separated by need and necessity

Like a caged bird set free
Do your wings now feel the breeze
As they flap and flounder and finally fly
Chanting and chirruping for all years of solitude
Soaring and diving to your hearts delight

Like a blind man with his sigh regained
Does your heart convulse in rapturous merriment
Has the greenness of the grass blinded you
Or the splendour of a flowing stream
Whose roar you’ve always heard but never saw

And then the strings are plucked again in the background. The chest of the Oud resonates throughout the room, filled with melancholic reminiscences. And the hollowness of the abyss of the heart is recollected thus; a poem floating in mid-air before it is disassembled into words, syllables and letters and finally vanishing into thin air.

Oh how this pains me mother!
This enduring absence from your eyes
And though dearly dissembled, this distress
Is easily discerned despite my disguise

And then the strings are plucked again. No chiming bells in the background, no excessive piano loops, no discordant drum beats, no cacophonous sounds; just simple, mellow rhythmic sounds deep from the chest of the Oud; the voice of the singer and the plucking of the strings in perfect harmony and the air gains a mildly gratifying feel as my heart, under the watchful eye of my mother, lies tranquil and my mind restful under the soft pillow as the shutters of my eyes slowly come together.

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The Cycle of Life…

Life sometimes behaves in some strange ways and shows you some glimpses of its brutal reality in peculiarly effortless ways. I went to Brixton to pay my condolences to the family of a deceased relative and with us also was my little grandson. I watched him, in the silence in that room where hordes of people had gathered to pay their regards too. Issa, nearing his two-year mark now, ran with an air of joviality and delight around him, jumping and kicking a small football to and fro, emitting those pleasing childish laughs, pulling my beard at times. He was blissfully unaware of the sorrow that surrounded the sitting, the air of melancholy that tainted the white walls and the pain that the news of the deceased man had brought. Unbeknownst to the young soul, and perhaps alien to his underdeveloped mind, here, a life was starting to blossom – exhibiting a new beginning without blemishes of any sort, a life that is immaculate and pure – and at the same setting another was wilting – decaying under the soil somewhere in the outskirts of Kismayo.

In a frail, disconsolate voice, the deceased man’s wife spoke as we expressed our tributes to her late husband. Issa, on the other hand, clung on to the hem of her clothes, rolling on the floor with his intermittent “Daadah, Daadah, Daadah” what a contrasting scene it was. Here I witnessed, with greater contemplation, the life cycle of a man and the great distance the deceased had travelled to reach where he now was. Death had caught up with him, unawares, and here my grandson was, oblivious to it all!

My temporary time in reflection had been abruptly terminated by the politics-obsessed Somali men, in their multi-coloured suits, who requested for HornAfrik, to hear the latest development in the Somalia conflict. Of all times to exchange trivial tribal banters and feed one another with fictitious tales of their tribal nobility, they chose this – a time appropriate only for reflection; a time for grieving. Little did they know, that they will be ending up as such, and their tribal nobility and meaningless banter will count for nothing in the darkest recesses of the earth.

When I reached home, I reclined on the large cream sofa in the sitting room. Mounted on the wall directly facing me, was a large silver timepiece. I watched its chrome hands for no apparent reason, but in the silence that surrounded me, I couldn’t help but pay attention to the tick, tock, tick, tock of the Seconds hand. This irritating clanking it made seemed quite loud and unwelcome. I wondered how I never pay attention to it during the day.

Every second that passed, I observed with intent, was bringing closer the terminator of my soul. The seconds slowly moved in a loop, each loop budging the Minute hand into slight movement and pushing it forward, and in this manner deducting a minute from my life. It was agonizing to listen to and worse to sit and observe your life, literally, flashing before your eyes!

Coincidentally – on my way to Brixton I was listening to Jeremy Hardy
on BBC R4 humorously talking about death!

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The concluding chapter

A mere 150km away from Rotterdam was Verviers and I am in love with this ancient city – a quiet place with a relaxing atmosphere, especially at night. Situated on hills, this tiny city has the calmest feel to it and if you stand on any one of the multitude of hills, you’ll see layers and layers of glowing lights above the city. Descending and ascending layers of lights mark the uneven contours of the city, giving it a beautiful yellow hue. A delicate breeze gently flows atop the hills, calmly caressing your face as you stand there in awe. I stood on a hill at 3 in the morning and observed the tranquility of the place, its empty lit streets, its dark sky, its few flickering stars, the array of lights hovering in the distant, its houses and above all, its stillness.

I also visited the neighboring French-speaking town of Liege, about 22km from Verviers and Aachen, Germany, about 30km. After that I drove to Brussels, another 130km. I have a few pictures of Brussels but unfortunately my battery has died out on the camera and I don’t have a travel adapter. I will hopefully upload them as soon as I get to London. My trip has then taken me a few times back and forth to Lille, Roubaix and one visit to Paris and then finally back to my little Kortrijk.

On my return, I met an old Englishman by the name of Tom. A tall, lean figure from Exeter, Southwest of England, who was remarkably agile despite his ageing face and who, along with his family, came to cheer his son in the Cycle Race. He too, as I noticed, was quite pleased to meet me;
“Do you know how many people took part in the race yesterday?” he asked enthusiastically in a rather posh accent, after becoming acquainted with a few formal greetings.
“How many?”” I asked
“17,000!” replied he emphasizing the figure and then passionately told me about his son’s participation in the race. He was a nice chap – a genuinely nice person with an amiable character.
This all happened when I was returning the rental back to Hertz. The location was somewhere far out of Kortrijk and no bus routes either. Having returned the car, we had to walk back about 20km back to Kortrijk. A rather exhilarating walk I must admit, though very long, with pleasant views of the countryside and our only companions were the few cars that zoomed past every few minutes or so and the horse riders on the fields giving us curious looks. The Englishman was kind enough to give us a number of a cab but unfortunately there was no telephone box in sight!

It seems very strange doesn’t it? There are people whom you would never speak to or even greet in London or anywhere in the UK even if they crossed your path a gazillion times, but once outside your territory that perception is soon changed. The person that you wouldn’t have ever greeted on the streets of London now becomes something dear outside – you soon develop a mutual connection and an understanding that stems from you being from the same part of the world and laying claim to the same residential territory. Perhaps Mr. Tom wouldn’t even have had the opportunity to talk to a young black man on the streets of Exeter, but in a far away land there seems to be in place some commonality of language and territory.

I must admit though, I did play the game too. You know, “Spot the Somali” game! They have a tendency to stare at you, as if expecting an acknowledgement of some sort or are they simply trying to figure out what clan or sub-clan you belong to from the mere looks of you? Whatever it was, I duly rewarded them with a nod and a greeting here and there to the elders.

That’s it from my trip and though I didn’t take as many pictures as I would have loved to or visited many places, I return this evening to London. Hopefully my planned trip to Somalia this coming summer will be more eventful and I will make sure I record every intrinsic detail of it.

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On the road

Antwerp

There was silence. My travel companion, Osman, a Kortijk resident had gone silent on me and even the Sahra Ahmad’s smooth, dulcet voice had gone silent on the radio. The only noise that constantly reverberated in my ears was that of the roaring wind battered against the windshield, and the rubber eating away the asphalt road surface. The disturbingly pleasant grunting created by the friction between the thick rubber tyre and the road was something you had to get used to. It’s the sort of buzzing noise that you’d still hear resonating in your ears even long after you have stopped driving. I was on way to Gent, a distance of about 50km from Kortrijk and then Antwerp – the world’s diamond trading centre – about 100km.

The long stretch of road that connects Kortrijk to the rest of Belgium is one that is quite familiar to me. The farm houses now became visible once again. Large houses, some tin-roofed, others built of red bricks, with acres and acres of greenery surrounded by tall trees sat on either sides of the road. Freshly ploughed fields, countless small cottages, streams that slowly and tranquilly meandered into reservoirs, grazing cattle and galloping horses gave this otherwise austere landscape a picturesque stroke. This is the sort of place I would love to spend my evenings, and take a breather from the stifling pollution and denseness of the city. Having spent my early life in the mountainous region of Cal Madow – a fertile landscape abound with streams and greenery – and its surrounding areas, this place sort of made me conjure up images of the past.

It was nearing six in the evening and the sun was still oppressive, dazzlingly reflecting off the wing mirrors. By now I was familiar with the left-handed driving of the Europeans, though at first I had countless near-accidents resulting from my driving on the wrong side of the road and looking at my right side at roundabouts instead of the left. The amount of cyclists and pedestrians who scuttled away for their dear lives swearing indiscernible Belgique jargon at me is incalculable. I turned a deaf ear to all, but now I have figured out the system and drive comfortably. The car they gave me was tediously slow too and though the maximum the car can go is 200km (120miles) it was locked on 160km/hour. But eventually we did reach there, after about an hour and half later.

On entering Antwerp, large willows planted on the sides of the dual carriageway cordially greeted us, welcoming us to the city with their extended drooping branches. There isn’t much I can say about Antwerp, but here are a few of the pictures I got from there…

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Rotterdam, Zwijndrecht and Eindhoven

After briefly exploring the city of Antwerp, we made our way back to the motorway once again towards Breda, which then leads us to Rotterdam. The sun that had earlier oppressed us was now retreating back to its sanctuary and gradually losing its glow. And it did so with great magnificence; it had expelled its blinding outer brightness and was now flaunting its less bright, but more vivid colours just before twilight. A few multi-coloured rays started to blossom from the dwindling light and shaped themselves into colonies of arrows shooting down the horizon, leaving behind trails of magnificent shades of orange and grey in the sky. The few remaining clouds, too, have now scattered, forming silky discarded layers of wool, darkening from red and orange to grey the further they descended down the behind the trees. The land became spacious as soon as we left Antwerp. Open fields, some ploughed into corn rows, and some, though left unattended, yet managed to stay green and pleasant, took their place on both sides of the motorway.

The multitude of incandescent lamps that stood silent and stationery throughout the day had now become animated and alive, firstly unfolding a slightly red light adding brilliance to the sky’s resplendent orange glow, then emerging fully into bright amber/yellow to illuminate the road. It was fun driving at such an hour – enjoyable I should say, with the vast open road that lay ahead. It gave one a sense of freedom to go at full throttle, thought that was, for me, restricted to 160km.

The distance from Antwerp to Rotterdam is roughly 110km, but soon the numbers lessened and we found ourselves in the brightly lit city. Tall building stood on the banks of a river and bright fluorescent lights glittered in the dark. Surrounding the Central Station of the city were even taller buildings and apartments, some covered with floor-to-ceiling glass panels. The city was teeming with cyclists, and every so often you’d see what resembles a small torch moving towards you at great speed with bells chiming and it’s not until they came close that you’d figure out that it was a bicycle. Everyone is on their bikes, from the young chap to the ageing aunt. After that, we then set off for Zwijndrechtm, about 30km from Rotterdam and rested there for a while.

As soon as I stepped into the Netherlandian territory, an old female friend, A, came to my mind. Having lived there since her childhood, she was forever extolling the splendour of this land and its peaceful landscapes. We met an acquaintance of Osman in Zwijndrecht, and rested at his house. As I stood at the balcony of his apartment, a scene A described to me almost three years ago had now manifested itself right in front of me: beside the carriageway, tall chestnut trees with thick swaying branches that gently wafted with the breeze stood at the sloping banks of a large lake. The grass on the slope trailed down to touch the tip of the water, and beside each tree was a luminous lamp whose light shimmered and danced in the lake. The full moon that flamboyantly smiled on us from above, as well as the glowing red, green and yellow neon lights from the nearby shops were also reflected on the lake creating a mélange of all different colours. It would have been very still and calm, had the wind not rustled the branches every so often.

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The next trip is to Verviers, Spa and Liège, see you there…

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Kortrijk

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My first few days in Kortrijk were, of course, with some relatives. But the time for pleasantries was quickly over and my intention was to discover as much of Belgium as I could before I left. So the morning came, bright and warm, bringing along with it a pleasant Belgian breeze, and I started my walks in the city.

The best way to discover any place is by walking through it, from one end to the other. But since this was impossible, given the time constraint and the immensity of this little city, I walked through much of Kortrijk . Several mazes of streets – narrow, dusty-looking, brick layered streets – sprung from every corner, one after the other, each street featuring its own set of antiquated shops and flower stalls which sent sweet scents wafting through the streets. As if public announcements were a regular thing, loudspeakers were mounted on the walls, between every three or four shops, releasing non-stop voices of men and women into the air. This reminded me of George Orwell’s 1984 somehow, where constant orders were shouted over the Telescreen. At some point I was half-expecting to hear the words “Attention! Attention!” through the loudspeakers, but perhaps even that would have been indiscernible by me. The country is linguistically challenged and has adopted the languages of its neighbouring countries – French and Dutch are the main languages spoken here.

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Sets of apartments, adjoined at the sides as if leaning on one another for support, stood adjacent to the city centre, some slightly slanted and dull, displaying years of solitude and neglect, some standing tall. Nearly all the apartments were of equal height and resembled each other, and on the ground floor, the shops took their place. There Pakistani man was busy stacking up his stock outside the shops. And the few black faces I saw stood huddled around a table at a coffee house, engrossed in their conversations. As I passed by them, they turned around, particularly an ageing man wearing a grey suit with a matching Kappa hat – the sort that Samuel L Jackson wears. Maybe he expected a formal greeting, but we shared a short moment of unspoken exchange of greetings, as I expressed my silent reverence. Nearly all the flats stood surrounding the city centre, with a few exceptions of flats that have skidded off the path. Narrow roads left the city centre, leading to the outskirts of the city. After a few irregular traffic lights that always go directly from red to green, and you’d come to open roads – either leading to the Motorway or to the farm houses of Kortijk.

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Having familiarized myself with my surroundings, with the help of a relatives, I’ve decided to brave it and rent a car. But after travelling throughout Kortrijk, I couldn’t find a place to rent a car. When I finally did find Lux Autos, I sadly left without the car, as they were out of stock. This led to another exhausting search for a car rental company. We finally did find, much to my delight, Avis, a few kilometres down the road from Lux Autos. I was rather excited by the presence of something familiar in this city, and the opportunity presented by Avis, I thought, was grand. Unfortunately, they too declined me due to the minimum age requirement of 25 which i failed to meet. I’ve travelled far and wide into every corner of Kortrijk but still couldn’t find a car to rent. A generous man pointed us towards the direction of Hertz, about 20km from where we were and thats where finally our efforts paid off!

A limit of 4000km (they use km instead of Miles) is imposed on the car, and i intend to return it just 10km short of that!

I am off to discover more of Belgium and the Netherlands! see you there…

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Bon Voyage…

Vast green countryside planes covered the land as far as the eye could see. In some places, a blanket of daffodils gave the green grass a bright upper yellow coating; a soothing sight indeed to an eye oppressed by the concrete blocks of London flats and imprisoned by its narrow roads. From my window on the train, I envisaged myself hopping and leaping in that ocean of daffodils or rolling down freely on the lush green landscape that generously invited one to do so. The sun was gently sloping towards its den, its flickering rays piercing through the tall pines trees, which as if guarding this paradise stood tall surrounding it, giving the immense lush scenery a more striking appeal. A few houses here, red brick houses, vast gardens, some tractors, and streams that of their beginning or end was no sight, some serene reservoirs of water here and there – all this I saw from the window of the train that was taking me to France then Belgium.

Change of scenery is good sometimes, so I have decided to take a short break to Belgium and Denmark via France, to have a breath of fresh air for some time. I will report on any discoveries I make in the meantime.

I am in Kortrijk, Belgium as i type this, and having passed through Lille, France, the French aren’t in my good books…

p.s will reply to the comments soon as i get some time.

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Of Hope and Despair

Through patience and perseverance, one can survive the worst difficulties life throws their way. With a little determination, a person can triumph over many hardships and endure them resiliently. Sooner or later he/she starts to skilfully adapt to their surroundings and the great dangers that they pose. Whatever burdens one faces, with a strong will and perseverance one can survive them, whilst deep inside their heart, they constantly pray that the day that follows might have a touch of optimism to it. They dread the day that follows, but with that little extra courage and diligence, they can summon the belief that they can make it through, even it means fighting for dear life.

And through hope one can have aspirations and ambitions in life, and dreams of a better place. With hope one soon starts to take comfort in the fact that something worthwhile is decreed ahead. Hope is what pushes a person to pursue a path unbeknown, however surreptitious it maybe and keep at it, despite the prickly thorns, hoping that soon he will reach green pastures that lay ahead. But one cannot always dwell in the depths of despair and have nothing but hope – hope that one day things will change – to cling on to. For every day that passes, a person’s conviction and likelihood of a particular thing happening or a situation improving decreases, if the situation doesn’t show any signs of fruit-bearing. And soon faith starts to decline, as one is pushed to the verge of hopelessness, and so does a person’s confidence.

Though hope is valuable and indispensable, at times acting as the prime mechanism that bounds a person together, and at times acting as his only method of survival, yet there comes a time when he/she become despondent in the face of daunting difficulties. Today there is so much happening in Somalia, that make one lose hope in an entire Nation. A Nation of failure! How long can one hope for the better? How long can one hope for a piece of land that he can call his own? How long can one hope for tranquillity of mind, when everyday occurrences drive one to despair? Surely, hope is bound to fade at some point, for it has been exhausted! After all, hope has turned out to be but a distorted perception of fanciful opportunities that never may be.

When will we be done with chaos, warlords, and bigotry?
When will this beleaguered population recuperate from the plague that engulfs it?
When will these ceaseless phases of instability fade?
When will we finally feel some freedom from strife?
When will I stop feeling hopeless yet homesick?

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The Third Encounter

The First Encounter
The Second Encounter

For centuries, men have always been the ones to take the first step and advance a relationship. They have been at the driving seat and still are, but sometimes it is satisfying just to take a step back and analyse the situation, without being emotionally involved in it at all. Most people have the tendency to rush into the first waiting arms they encounter, and thereby, with their high enthusiasm, dispel any hopes of a possibility of interaction and relationship. If nothing else, crowding your object of desire creates a sense of insecurity, which becomes immediately unmistakable. That is why I have given her some time and space – so as not to appear needy and wanting and leave adequate room for imagination.

Then I visited her, as the day was coming to an end. She was, as i always expect, at her usual place when I spotted her from afar. The closer I got to her, the more appealing she became and the more she glowed. Her back was turned to me, as she held a paper cup in her hand, talking to a colleague. I could her her laughter as she chatted away. Her colleague spotted me, looked at me for a few seconds and at once whispered something inaudible to Sacdiya’s ear prompting her to turn around.
“Hey, Shaafi, how are you?” she said in a rather lively manner.
“I am fine. How are you?” I replied in a calm tone, “How’s your day going?”
“It’s alright, not bad.” She said with a beautiful smile and look to accompany it.
“I see,” I said, observing her. Her eyes this time. They had something repressed, an inexpressible attachment or possibly anticipation.
“I’d like to taste them all,” I said, pointing to the Ben & Jerry’s ice creams displayed appetizingly in the glass container.
“Which one would you like to taste?” she asked
“I’ll have all of them”
she looked at me with her eyes wide. “All of them?” she questioned
“Yes,” my eyes fixed on her
“Are you sure?”
“yeah, why not?”
She smiled, just widening her lips without parting them completely, her eyes cheerful.
“How about I have a taste of your favourite one?” I said
She looked up. She wasn’t expecting it. I caught her off guard. I wanted to get to know her better, without asking her. Her likes, her dislikes, etc, and perhaps by talking to her more, I would even bring out her lurking doubts and anxieties. There lies within everyone, somehow or the other, a feeling of inadequacy that they repress by wearing a mask. What perturbed her, I wondered!
“I don’t really have a favourite one. They are all the same,” she replied, wriggling her thumbs and running her eyes quickly over the ice creams tubs.
She looked up at me once again, picked up a tiny tasting spoon and looked around. I followed her eyes, as they carefully went over each tub of ice cream on the display counter, carefully analysing each. There were sixteen tubs in all. She went from one to the other, as if tasting them each with her eyes and determining their texture on the palate, denouncing one then moving on to the other. She stretched her extended hand to a tub of Chocolate Fudge Brownie, and then retreated. Perhaps, I thought, she remembered what I told her on our first encounter – that I don’t particularly like chocolate.
“Taste this,” she finally said, holding a spoon of Cherry Garcia in front of me.
“hmmm..not bad at all,” I said, after recovering from the onslaught of the freezing dollop.
I lied. I didn’t like it. Cherry Garcia isn’t one of my favourite B&J’s ice cream, but The Vermonster wasn’t in stock, so I had to settle for something like this. It was rather bitter and too fruity, but I had to carefully conceal my distaste as her eyes cautiously scrutinized my face for a reaction. She picked, after some deliberation, her favourite ice cream and I didn’t want to let her down.
“What film are you watching today?” she said, after a while
I looked at her, studying her facial features, her lips, her eyes, the few strands of hair that managed to force their way through her black scarf, as if hunting for some fresh air, despite her constantly pushing them back to their territory.
“You” I said. God, how cheesy did that sound, I thought, but it was too late to take it back so I went ahead with it. I was on my way to North Greenwich station to meet some friends, but as they were late I though, I’d stop by the cinema and recapture some magnificence from her sight. Of course, I came to see her, and I knew she wouldn’t believe that I did, solely, come to see her. A clear case of “runtaa sheeg, beenta hala moodee” (utter the truth, so it may come across as falsehood) The cinema, anyway, was only about 3 minutes from the station.
She smiled at me, displaying the set of brilliant white teeth and looked down at the ice cream tubs below, still smiling. Her hand inadvertently rubbed the silver edges of the ice cream container, and then she stared at me.
“No, come on. Really, what are you watching”?
“I’m not watching any film”
Her eyes still stared at me, this time with an inquisitive look.
“I came to see you. You know – to see how you’re doing”
“Came to see me?” she said, half surprised and incredulous, half smiling, with a coy look in her eyes. I thought I saw a glint in her eyes as she said that.
“Yeah, I came to say hello. It has been a while since I last saw you, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess”
Her stare lowered, but still the smile was plastered across her face as if it was a permanent feature of her face.
“Why? Can I not even come to see you and say hello now,” I said light-heartedly
“No, no, no. Of course you can,” she replied quickly, baring her teeth with a smile again
“But how did you know I was working today?” she asked intrigued
“Instinct”
At that precise moment one customer approached, as if it was timed. A good timing indeed, and time for me to depart. How did the customer know I wanted him to interrupt me at that very precise occasion.
“I’ll see you another time,” I said and slightly moved back to make way for the customer and depart.
She half-extended her hand, as if stopping me or intending to shake my hand, and half-mumbled something unintelligible. I stood lingering, but with a detached mood, intending to emphasize the conclusion of the conversation. Her eyes shot at me. She was hesitant about something – she still wanted to talk and finish the conversation. Perhaps, my last comment had appealed to her. The customer stood staring at us both, waiting for her to finish. I smiled at her, and she reciprocated it with one alluring one and we parted – unwillingly. This should be an enduring spell that she can either reflect upon or keep her vaguely intrigued for some time.

Untill, next time…

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The Second Encounter

>> Read First Encounter here

The evening came and I was all expectations. The sun and its heat had descended down the horizon, and the few trailing clouds were following in sequence. A clam breeze, playfully wafting to and fro, restored the sense of serenity that has eluded me during the day. Maybe it was the enthusiasm and this newfound excitement about Sacdiya.

The cinema, as anticipated, appeared animated and dynamic. Several people lined up at the box office, again, displaying their usual carefree comportment at such a place. A little child, in a pink frock ran in circles between her parents, her golden ponytail bouncing in the air. Though I was displaying a somewhat convincing feel of placidity and composure, inside my body a fiery argument ensued. Why was I doing this? I was neither besotted with her to be behaving like this, nor so was I engrossed as to revisit her. It was a simple. There was nothing much there, well, except for her smile and her expressive eyes which, indicative of delightful times ahead, prompted a unique form of understanding and communication, implicit in its approach – partly because of her beauty and partly a self-induced embellishment.

I walked over, almost mechanically, to the Ben & Jerry’s counter looking here and there. But Alas! She was not there. A part of me sunk immediately, but kept staring into the delectable ice creams whilst conjuring up images of the day her bright smile sedated me. I walked to and fro, enquiringly, looking for her cocoa skin or her scarf somewhere behind the counters. Several minutes had passed, before I decided to look in a different place. I walked round to the Mainstand, an extensive counter mounted with several tills stationed in the middle of the sphere-shaped lobby of the cinema, and my eyes began their hunt. Dilated and deficient, their source of delight was missing, and find her they will if she was there by any means. It was not long before they found her, carefully scooping popcorn from the popcorn maker. Under the enormous light that looked down upon her, her skin glowed. She hadn’t seen me for a while, as I stood there, staring at her, exploring the contours of her body.

A long queue awaited at her till, all expectant customers, including myself. I advanced towards her, hands twitching, eyes bright, and face beaming. With one customer after another being served, it wasn’t long before the file shortened. Two people now stood between her and me and, no doubt, she had seen me. At once her eyes gleamed in gladness, or so I thought, and her wide smile took its natural form across her face, broadening it, shaping it and transferring it onto mine.

She hasn’t changed a bit. Her smile was still as captivating, her face still seamless, her lithe body unblemished, and her eyes inviting.

“Hope you weren’t offended,” I said as I came within reach of her and the two other customer in front of me had left. I knew very well she wasn’t offended, but this was to give her a chance to have a say about the incident and expand on it. It was what I saw fit to open the conversation with
“No I wasn’t, not at all,” she replied
“Are you sure, or are you just being polite about it?” I enquired, teasing her to say something and get a depth of her reaction
“Yeah.” Came her reply, timidly
There was a slight pause. She waited for me to ask the next question. I didn’t. Sometimes a slight interval is indispensable – it creates a room for imagination and leaves the person slightly lingering. It also creates a brief moment of discomfort and imbalance at this initial stage.
“I actually thought it was quite sweet,” she said, after that brief period, bashfully lowering her head slightly with a half-smile – a sort of an impromptu flirtatious smile which seemed so natural and hard to conceal.
“Thanks,” she added.
“Your welcome,” I said with a smile, though not a beaming smile so as to conceal my liking. “I just had to make sure, you know, some people have sensitive spots and might get offended by such stuff.”
“No, its alright,” she responded, still smiling splendidly.
I found her behaviour obliging and came across as greatly affable. The willingness was there and so was the openness and her guileless eyes could not do much to conceal her swelling appetite.
“What film are you watching?”
“Oh God, I don’t even know…What was it? Oh yeah, that’s it, Blood Diamond,” I had briefly forgotten about what film I came to watch and my friend who was in the auditorium already waiting for me. He came before me and I was to meet him there.
“Oh ok. It’s a nice film.” She replied.
A short moment of silence once again ensued. We looked at each other briefly, eyes staring at each other, following the same path in unison, and smiled.
“Can I have a medium tango please?” I said
“Why don’t you go large for 10p extra”
“I’ll have large one then, but bear in mind, I won’t be able to finish it”
She smiled and pulling a large Pepsi cup from the cup dispenser below started pouring my drink.
“You look exhausted,” I started, observing her sluggish movement, “had a long day?”
“Yeah I feel tired, I started at 2” she replied, placing her left hand on her forehead, furrowing her brow.
“What time are you finishing?”
“10 pm”
I looked at my watch – The short hand was on the verge of 9 and the long hand on 10.
“About an hour and you’ll be in a cosy bed I presume,” I said
I looked at her, now observing her as I always do. God! She is beautiful. There is a hint of naivety about her that is even more ravishing.
“Enjoy your film,” she said as she handed my drink and serviette, to which I courteously smiled a thank you.
I took my drink, went upstairs into the auditorium and reclined on the comfy seat, placing my drink in the holder. I picked the drink up to take a sip, as the trailers ended and the film was about to start, just to realize that I had forgotten my straw downstairs – with her!

Well, another chance to catch a glimpse of her, I thought – and before you say it, it wasn’t deliberate!

p.s It seems like a Third Encounter is well worthy here.

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If only a room could speak!

A chair, an ageing rug, a wooden cupboard. A bed, a laptop, a bedside cabinet. An iron, a charger, a towel. A shoe here, a trouser there. A sock here a sock there. A plate in the corner, a mug on the rug, a plate holding the door. A bag under the bed, befriended by dust, besieged by wood. A jacket hanging on the cupboard door, suffocated by some shirts, neighboured by some hangers.

These chiefly constitute the contents of my room to a viewer. A room that looks bland and lifeless even at its most glorious days – the rare days when the brush and the mop pay it a gratifying visit. Nevertheless, here are many more things invisible to the naked eye – subtle things that, though beyond any meaningful description of words, alleviate my existence. As unadorned as it may seen, there is a decorative charm that uplifts this austere space and enlivens it.

Upon the four colourless, naked walls are my stories engraved – every conversation, every song I sang in high spirits, every cry, every moan, every element of elation, and every shriek of excitement. Here they are all, with my name neatly embossed in large print. The bed provides me some solace from the strain that has saddled me the day that passed, and there I repose in its comfort, the glowering grey clouds above my head replaced by the bright ceiling. My pillow gladly makes my confidante, with no recompense for the damages resulting from my firm grips in times of glee and fierce punches in times of gloom – it always seems to bounce right back up. My quilt clearly volunteers to become my shield, as I unload my inhibitions me at the door, allowing me to become myself without pretence or pose.

Inside these plain walls is a cosy and a warm place, even in the harshest of winters; a place affluent with countless comforts, though not seen or felt by anyone but me. A particularly familiar scent waylays my nostrils at door of this room every time I enter it. Not a scent like the scented blooms Primroses or Lavenders, but one well wrought upon the senses over the years. Without interruptions here, an unvaried cycle of life oscillates between the dawning of the sun and its dusking, eagerly awaiting my arrival everyday so I can share my proceedings of the day for them to record – for even my deepest thoughts can be heard by the washed-out walls. It is only in this room, this room of mine when I resign to, where my limbs renounce their fight, my mind relinquishes its protest to make sense of insanity and, eventually, the insatiable hunger for tranquillity is somewhat achieved, despite the clutter. It is in this room, that I have penned many of my favourite poems and passages of prose. It is this very room, which I describe here;

It is my only realm of independence
On which I retain my sole dependence

But in this realm of independence of mine, I have had several relationship problems and squabbles to gain freedom and at times wrote;

This bed’s comfort I have
But sleeps comfort I have none
This blanket that envelopes me like a glove
Is a tangled web of worry that cannot be undone

Like a ship capsized amid a blustery storm
And the tremulous seas turn and twist
While the hapless crew stick into form
And struggle for some air to subsist

But at times, the great joys this companion of mine gives me is expressed;

Like the bird that chirrups from its prominent perch
Safe and sound, on the thin branches of the birch
And the undulating melody that floats the air
Such is my sensation, when I lie in here

Only if the occupants of my room could speak would my life be out in the open, for it’s only they who document my comings and goings and my life’s minutes without fail. If only the pillow that bears the burden of my pain could be made to speak, would my silent wails be heard across the corridors of the house. Only if these colourless walls, that now stand mute, could be made to speak, would both my moments of merriment and melancholy be made known. If only the fractured mirror on my faded cupboard could be made to speak would my body be laid bare and only by opening its handle-less doors would my closest companions be uncovered, lying in heaps, one atop the other, all lifeless without me and I, bare with out them. If only permission could be sought from the door of this room of mine to open wide, and it would yield all its fruits, piled up, after all its years of harvest, for opening the door to this room, opens the door to my soul, thus making the invisible visible!

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The First Encounter

“What shall we watch?” I said to my friend, as we entered through the double doors of the Multiplex Odeon cinemas.
“Anything. I don’t mind” she replied. After browsing the film lists for about 10 minutes or so, we settled for The Freedom Writers, a film they said was based on a true story. I was in an ecstatic mood, the day was bright and the mere presence of my friend A was an added pleasure. Her company is always alleviating.

With a cloud of joviality, we left the box office and went over to the Ben & Jerry’s counter to relish in the assortment of ice creams colourfully displayed before going into the auditorium. As soon as we approached the counter, laughing and preoccupied in our own world, I caught sight of her standing behind the counter – a Somali girl, approximately 5’7, of slender build with smooth, well-defined features and a complexion akin to darkening of cocoa on a soft skin, with her black headscarf accentuating her glowing colour. The unusual radiance that emanated from her face was incandescent against her cocoa skin.

My surrounding teemed with a multitude of people, laughing, giggling, kissing, holding hands, queuing at the counters, eagerly awaiting their films in excited movement. Nonetheless, she was, by some means, very conspicuous in that crowded place, and at once our eyes interlocked in harmony -in complete accordance – for a few seconds, after which I was compensated with a cordial smile – a smile that I am, hitherto, still rummaging through my brain to find ways to describe. Her burnished lips concealed a beautiful set of perfectly aligned white teeth that glared when she smiled, hence the added radiance. To say that she had the most beautiful smile is an understatement. Her eyes – the windows to her soul – were of dark brown pupils with a bright glint in the middle. When our eyes synchronized with one look, I had, for one moment, thought I stared deep down into her soul and forged an understanding – an amicable understanding though not by spoken word. Something about her eyes uncannily befriended me and, simultaneously, attracted me. They have an unusual power these eyes. They do. A man of sanity would, with one gracious glance, find himself lost wandering in an unfamiliar territory, all at loss for words and gumption.

Our turn came to be served.
“Hi. How can I help you?” she said, upon which we ordered our Oatmeal Cookie Chunk and Caramel Chew Chew.
“Sacdiya” I said, reading the name on her badge and looking at her. She smiled. I took this as a cue to further the conversation.
“Is that your real name, or one of those names they just randomly put on the badges?” I said, my mind not finding anything else to say. I had forgotten about my friend A, still standing beside me. From the corner of my eye I can see her smiling too, perhaps at the oddity of my question or my brashness at such an inopportune a time.

She smiled again, parting her lips widely.
“No, it is my real name,” she beamed.
“Sacdiyaay jacaylkaagi, hurdadan ka salalaa, sariritiba qaban waayey” I said uttering the lyrics of the famous song. “Heard of that song?”
“Of course, Axmad Cali Cigal” she replied with a fervent urge to prove her knowledge of Somali songs. Still A stood beside me patiently, listening to our conversation, whilst Sacdiya, behind the counter, stood with a scoop and a paper cup in her hands – ready to serve us, but stopped midway as we chatted.

After a while, we received our servings of ice creams and bidding her goodbye went to enjoy our film. Throughout the film, her infectious smile lay in front of me, plastered on the extensive curtain on which the picture was projected. The surround sound echoed the few words she uttered behind the cold counter, whilst her name resonated in my ears…

After the film finished, as I walked past her, I handed her a serviette as she waved me goodbye with one of her smiles. On the serviette – the very same serviette she gave me with the ice cream – was written;

If anything has made my day today, it is your smile – your captivating smile.
Keep smiling!

…And I walked away still spellbound by her smile.

p.s Second Encounter to come soon, as it occurs.

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Ephemeral Pleasures

Though soothing a sight the sunsets may be
And the ocean’s silence – a solace for the sore sight
Slumberous, still, and wading birds waddle with delight
As calm waves kiss the sandy shores and leave their trail
But soon that turns to turmoil, come the tempest overnight

Though magnificent the moon may be
Dazzling In the distant enchanted land
A visual feast, so hypnotic and grand
As the Nightingale its mesmeric melody sings
But all soon wanes once the sun takes command

Though delighted once a person may be
Possessed by the gaiety that fills his air
Without much dread and less for care
But when it comes the time to grieve
Soon all his efforts turn into despair

Though now willowy, at the peak of your prime
And many marvel at your graceful manoeuvre
And pompous gait and gloat, too busy to discover
That covertly it creeps and calamity will befall
Alas! The infamy of age and all will be over

Though steadily fleeting with time,
Your profound beauty remains
As pure as white, as heaven ordains
Like a Lilly that gently floats
Atop the placid pond it reigns

Though in its full blossom and ripeness
Your sight is but a pleasure the eye
Even to the larks that twitter in the sky
But like an ocean of bluebells in May
Soon that fades come the month of July

So bask yourself in its rays while it lasts
And live and laugh at your life’s height
For even one kissed by the summer’s light
Though becomes merry for a time prescribed
Surely awaits seasons of mist and wintery a night

Go ahead, my dear, and rejoice while you can
And fragrant wreaths and garlands make
For even the flowers that opened at daybreak
Too become dreary and dull at the dawn of dusk
As darkness from their petals all glory does shake

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