Nomadic Ramblings

Is this thing working? Are you sure it’s working? He said the last cassette we sent him was not clear enough and he did not hear much of what we were saying. Please make sure it’s working ok.

Is it working now? Shall I talk? What, now?

Hallo, hallo, hallo! Son, I’m sending you this tape with the hope that you’re in the best of health and spirits. We are all well here and we send you greetings that we wring from the deepest void of our hearts. A void we developed the day you left us. Son, we send you our good wishes with the flying clouds, the migrating birds and the blowing wind.

Everyone here is doing fine. The people of the town are all as you left them. We have no complaints whatsoever and we daily thank almighty god for making our lives an easy one and reducing our burden. Life is all about being content, my son, and we are content and happy with god’s will.

Son, we received the money you sent us last month and it helped us greatly in sorting out the sanitary problems we had. The rest of the money we used to purchase more animals.

You see, our donkey, that faithful companion of your youth, has died, son. Don’t shed a tear for him though. The brute lived a good and long life and fulfilled all the ambitions or target any average donkey would have wanted to fulfil.

Eight of our goats have developed diarrhoea and we had to slaughter them all and give their meat to the needy. The needy also developed diarrhoea (which I believe is unrelated to our goats) and the authorities are talking about persecuting me. Don’t worry though, son. Remember your cousin Ali? Well, he’s here on holiday. He works in London as an interpreter in a law firm and has, in his eight years of working there, learnt a great deal about law. He assures me that I’ve done nothing wrong and has promised to prolong his holiday until my court case (if ever it reaches such a drastic end) is over. He even volunteered to act as my legal representative, solicitor and QC. He keeps repeating the words Habeas corpus and says that all this stuff is really not cricket. I have no idea what any of it means but your aunt Nadia, his mother, assures me that he knows what he’s talking about.

Your brother ran off with the maid. He resented being the youngest one in the family and having to do all the petty jobs, because he’s the youngest. He, along with the scheming maid, who in turn resented being a maid, came upon a genius idea. They decided to get married! As a married man, he reasoned, that nobody would look down on him as a youngster or expect him to fetch the hand-wash and towels after food (unless of course it’s a dinner in his house and there are no young people amongst the dinner party). His (future) wife, the wretched maid, also reasoned that as a married woman, none of the youngsters of the family would try to take advantage of her or the girls will look down on her as a mere maid. The last we knew of them, they were walking the seventy miles to the capital. I wouldn’t panic if I were you though; no sane judge, mullah or old man is going to marry off a fourteen-year-old girl to an eight-year-old boy.

Your mother wants a divorce, again! She still claims that I have not looked after her as I promised and that I lied to her as a fifteen-year-old girl when I told her that, in ten years’ time, we would be millionaires! As you are well aware, I always tried to explain to her that man makes the best plans but providence smashes right through them. As you’re also aware, I usually manage to eventually convince her of my love and devotion. However, this time, none of my remonstrances are working. This, if you may allow me to hazard a guess, is due to two reasons. First of all, your grandmother is back and is slithering about the place and hissing all sorts of nonsense in your mother’s ears. As a result, your mother has recently taken to reminding me of her lineage and her ancestors’ good name! Your grandmother promises to find your fifty-year-old mother a suitable match if she would only divorce me!

The second reason for your mother’s change of heart and coldness towards me is Omer. Settle down, son. I’m not accusing your mother of adultery. But I believe that she has the hots for young Omer. Oh! I beg your pardon, Son. Omer is the young man I employed to help me with work. He’s young, good looking and from the same tribe as your mother. He also has a way with the ladies. The girls in the neighbourhood all make all sorts of excuses to come and see Omer. Our shop is now always full of girls and our house too. Well, our house used to be full of girls but your mother drove them all away. With no maid in the house anymore, your mother has to make all the food and clean the house. She spares the best food for Omer and spends hours cleaning his room (yes, he moved in into your old room. Your mother insisted he move in!).

Your sister Fatema has tamed her husband. Yes, I was surprised too. Remember when she used to come home with black and blue eyes? Remember how every time we offered to go round and ‘fix him’ she would protest, cry and plead with us? She was in love with him back then and said that his karbaash (whip) was an expression of his love for her and that we should stay out of their business. Well, your sister grew up, son. Her beloved husband, in a fit of anger, destroyed all her China Cups. Remember the China Cups you sent her from America (she tells people you sent them from China)? Well, her silly husband broke them all because he was not happy about his breakfast being late. Your sister, as you well know, loves her husband dearly. But, she was also proud of the fact that she was the only woman who owned China Cups in the whole city (and three other neighbouring cities, I’m told). With one silly motion of his hands, her unthinking husband smashed her lofty position in town (and the three neighbouring towns) to the ground. With one motion of her hand (and a few of her feet, nails and teeth) she smashed his face in. I wouldn’t say that your brother-in-law is drinking out of a straw now, but he sure is not drinking from China Cups.

Did you hear about our parliamentary elections, son? You must have. The newspapers here say that the eyes of the world were on us. Everyone who is everyone made sure that they voted in these elections. To start with, many of us wanted to vote because the politicians told us that it was good for the country and us. We all want what is good for the country. One politician told us that if we all voted, the Arabs might remove their ban on our livestocks. He said they only banned them because we did not vote in previous elections! That was before I slaughtered my eight sick goats. I really wanted to sell them to the Arabs but when the politician said the ban will not be lifted until after the elections, I had no choice but to slaughter them, son.

Many people voted for their cousins, relatives or those that promised the biggest windfalls. I waited for your instructions on who to vote for but received none, so, I had to gamble and vote for the tallest candidate. If we’re going to have a farsighted winner, it’s most likely that he’ll be the tallest in the party.

This election was a farce, son. Two days before the main day, a vicious rumour has spread about town that not many people can read or write! Of course, as you can imagine, in a proud town as ours such a rumour is not tolerated. People started going round and wanting to know who can and who can’t write. There were no volunteers willing to stand up and prove that they can indeed write or demonstrate their ignorance by showing that they can’t write. Every person that was approached got angry and remonstrated about being singled out or muttered darkly about tribal conspiracies.

We finally all agreed upon a cunning plan and amazing solution to prove that we all can read and write. Some bright spark has suggested that we all take part in the parliamentary elections and vote for our preferred candidate! Everybody was happy with this ingenious compromise and we all argued that nobody was obtuse enough to derail the wheels of democracy and disrespecting the will of the people by voting in an election when he/she could not read or write. Besides, we all knew how easy it was to read and write an election slip. All one has to do is read the instructions, look at the photos of the various candidates, stick a finger in the ink and stamp the finger next to the chosen candidate’s photograph. For one to prove that one can read, all one has to do is come out with one’s stained finger held aloft.

We heard in the radio that the level of literacy in our town is 88%! Everyone in town disputes that figure. We all voted in the election and everyone had those blue stains for weeks. We finally agreed that the 88% figure includes all our sons and daughters that have moved away (like you). I also, secretly, knew it includes your silly brother and the wretched maid.

Son, the tape is running out and I still have not said all I need to say. Besides, I have a treat for you this time. Remember our local singer? You used to love his songs and look up to him when you were a kid. Well, I invited him to lunch today (along with his band). They’re now sitting here having eaten and had their drinks and are ready to sing you a song. This is a 60 minutes cassette, so it might end any minute now and you might not be able to hear the entire song.

Before I let the band play, I have a favour to ask, son. Will it be at all possible to send us more money this month? The monthly allowance you send us is usually adequate enough for all our needs. But, what with the need to employ a new maid, sack Omer and hire an assassin to sort out your grandmother I had to spend all of the allowance earlier than is usual.

Your sister has been depressed and is begging you to send her new China Cups.

Take care my dear son. Until we speak again, enjoy the music.


Take it away boys.

This guy always sells me stale khat. No matter what I say to him and in whatever way I do it, he always manages to sell me the worst stuff he has. If I were not a reasonable man, I would say his attitude is tribally motivated. Most people in this room are not reasonable men.You look like a reasonable man. We have not met before, have we? Don’t answer that. I am very proud of my photographic memory and never forget a face or name. Besides, the khat stimulates my memory too. Yes, even stale khat. That still does not mean I am happy with such offensive treatment.I’ve searched my database of faces and sadly can not place yours anywhere. You are indeed new. Never mind. Everybody is new once at least. You probably feel out of place in this strange room, don’t you? Well, let me show you around. The guy selling the khat, you’ve already met. His name is Omar; his nickname is ‘the liar’ - it’s a long story though I’m sure, with time, you’ll find how apt the nickname is.I don’t know who is the guy he’s arguing with. There are lots of these new riffraff that got used to this place and would come to buy their khat from here when the other places run out. I bet the liar still offers them a better service than I receive (and I’ve been a regular here for seven years). Never mind, never mind, let us continue.The two guys sitting opposite us and arguing, hate each other’s guts. One is from Puntland and the other is from Somaliland. Haha, I saw that look in your face just now! This is not an ordinary place, you know. We have people from all parts of Somalia coming here. We like to think that we’re the trailblazers for peace and unity in Somalia. We even get some white guys who occasionally come and chew here. Anyway, those two guys. They immensely dislike each other’s politics but can’t help liking each other’s personalities. Other than politics, both of them love poetry and would bore us with it all night if we allow them. We usually don’t. This is why they sit huddled together like a couple of lovers and whisper sweet nothings in each other’s ears. Of course, sometimes their whispers turn to politics then turn to shouts and that’s the reason for their frequent lover’s tiff.Ah! I see you spotted professor bluebag. Don’t be fooled by him. Appearances can be deceptive, my friend. I don’t know what his real name is. In fact, I don’t think anybody does. Judging by his accent, we all think that he’s from the north of Somalia. He refuses to answer direct personal questions and tells us all that we, Somali people, are savage, backwards and have no manners. We all think he’s mad, though some of his arguments are very convincing. He once told a man that asked him about his background to go to hell! Then followed it up by asking him if he was a police officer. The man of course, replied in the negative. The professor started nodding and winking knowingly, as if imparting some mysterious knowledge that only the two of them were privy to and then said, ‘I have the right to remain silent, anything I say might be taken in evidence, etc’. We all laughed at his madness but none of us understood his meaning. He knew we didn’t (he always says we don’t). He explained his comments by saying that nobody should be rude enough to ask another person ‘personal’ questions. He said not even the police have the right to do so. All they can ask you is your name and address and since there are no police officers in this room, he’s not prepared to even share that with anyone.Professor bluebag is called that name because of his obsession with bluebags. He managed to convince half the room that the blue plastic bags create a chemical reaction that keeps the khat fresher and makes it taste sweeter. Other places in town might use white, green, red or orange bags. We here consider anyone that does not use a blue bag a damn amateur. Don’t panic, I’ve checked out your bag the minute you walked in. The liar does not think you an amateur yet. You wait though, once you become addicted to this place, he’ll toss you out like a used bluebag.That loud fellow in the corner is Qaasim Dhirbaaxo. You know, slap slap! He once told us his theory about fighting and that’s the origin of his name. He believed (and still believes) that the best offensive move in a fight is a slap! He argues that whilst a punch is painful, it’s not as startling as a slap. Apparently, most grown men have last been slapped when they were children and have forgotten how upsetting such a thing is. He also argues that if one were to use a punch, one would have to be accurate and aim for the bridge of the nose to knock his opponent out. However, if one were unsure of one’s ability to knock the opponent out, the best course of action would be to momentarily render your opponent disabled, slap him. Slap him real hard. Everyone here believes in Qaasim’s theory. Most would also love to test it on him.Here comes the Beekeeper. Don’t look confused. It’s merely a nickname like all the others. This guy is a real comedian. He’s the type that would start a fight in the proverbial empty room. However, he believes that he’s a peaceful man and always blames his black and swollen eyes on Bee bites! The whole world (and now you) knows that the habitual reconstruction of his face is the result of yet another fight, but he insists that he got bitten by a Bee! He broke one of his arms once and still blamed it on a Bee.I say, how fresh is your khat, esquire? Here, let me taste a bit. Hmm! The liar outdid himself this time. Your khat is even staler than mine. Doesn’t this guy have any sense of hospitality? Here, I’ll swap you two of my orbitos. No, no, think nothing of it, old chap. It’s my pleasure.Heh. That guy fiddling with the TV is Cabdo-Qabo. He’s always fiddling with the TV. The remote control has become his personal property and nobody dare touch it without asking for permission first. As you can imagine, he always gets into fights and arguments with Cali-Qaraami (that’s him in the other corner with the Hi Fi system and the headphones). Cabdo-Qabo’s name has a funny story behind it. You see, every Saturday night after we’ve watched Match of the Day, he would start flicking that remote control and going through all the channels on the cable system we have. For some unexplainable reason, every Saturday at midnight, as Cabdi is flicking the channels, the remote happens to get stuck on one of the filthy channels and would not budge until the ‘free ten minute’ period is finished. Everyone would of course shout and ask Cabdi to spare us such filth. He would protest that the remote is faulty and invite us to try making it work ourselves but never actually throwing it to us. Instead, as he states his disgust and abhorrence of such dreadful channels and acts, he will shout Cabdo-Qabo and pretend to throw the remote to the person sitting opposite (who usually is not even called Cabdi). Of course, once the ten minutes are over, the remote starts working again and we all return to our arguments, fights or silence contemplations.What time is it now? Really! Haha..arr Cabdo, naga qabo dee....

Dr Nimco Cali an eminent Canadian anthropologist has gone back to her homeland to do “her bit” for her people. Dr Nimco was not a feminist, though she believed in women’s rights. Dr Nimco was not a sexist, though she supposed all Somali men to be a bunch of sick misogynists. Dr Nimco was born and raised in Toronto in what could be termed a middle class family; her father was also a doctor and her mother was a university lecturer.

Nimco was an ambitious bookworm who studied and worked hard to gain her doctorate in anthropology at the young age of 30! She was single and fairly inexperienced.

Nimco was an independent and strong willed individual. As soon as she set foot back in her homeland, she hired a small house and bought herself a landcrusier! She could have stayed with her relatives but this was a statement of intent on her part. Nimco’s mission was to empower her Somali sisters. She believed the first part of achieving that was by asserting her very own independence and showing the women of her homeland that a woman can take charge of her own destiny.

After a few months of staying in her country and mingling with the womenfolk, Nimco decided it’s time to up the ante a little and tackle one of the main problems facing Somali women. She dreamed of abolishing the dreaded practise of FGM!

During the same period, the rumour mill has been working extra hard and various stories have sprung up about this western-acting spinster who lives alone and drives a car! People wondered about the reason for her single hood at the age of 30. Some used this, her independence and some of her “shameful” western ways to suggest that it would not be a farfetched idea to assume that Nimco also had a secret smoking habit. Others spread more sinister rumours about her. In no time at all, it was agreed by most that western and uncultured Nimco was a lesbian. Living alone, driving a car and having an alleged smoking habit were all strong signs of this “western” disease.

Nimco, unaware of these rumours, got down to work and started questioning women about FGM and their feelings about it. Being the studious scientist that she is, she did not start by asking specific questions but rather limited her questions to those that were general in nature at first. She would strike up a conversation with a woman and ask her if she was married, how good is married life, were bedroom activities to her satisfaction, etc.

By using this gossipy style of eliciting information, Nimco hoped to get an honest and fair idea of the effects of FGM on married women. The married women on the other hand, thought this western lesbian was flirting with them and were all aghast at her daring and shameful behaviour.

The womenfolk decided to save this lost child and talk her into changing her disgusting ways. One day, while Nimco was sitting at home reading a book about FGM, a delegation of females knocked at her door and asked to be let in. Nimco put her book down on a table and invited them in with the usual exclamations of how her humble house has been blessed by such a visit, etc.

The women, upon entering the room, noticed the book on the table and saw a glimpse of a photo of a female’s private part! They were horrified and one of them loudly declared this to be a lost cause and suggested that they all leave. The chairwoman of this delegation was adamant that they should all stay and have a word with Nimco. Nimco on her part, was very excited, and having been reading the FGM book for the past hour or so, felt equipped to tackle the issue head-on!

The chairwoman started by eulogising the Somali culture and the Islamic faith (as you do). She went on to talk about how hard a woman’s lot in this world is and how Somali women always bore such hardships and responsibilities with great dignity and never neglected or rejected their duties.

Nimco interrupted the old lady and told her that while it was indeed a noble thing to adhere to one’s duties, some parts of the Somali culture were wrong and needed to be eradicated. She was using FGM as her point of reference and assumed that the women implicitly understood her aim. The women were using her abnormal lifestyle as their point of reference and assumed that she tacitly understood their aim.

When Nimco informed them that God created humans equal and that women should not meekly submit to the unreasonable whims of men, the women sighed in unison. This was, in their eyes, a confirmation of Nimco’s lesbianism and her desire to really be a man! Some of the women quietly surveyed the room for signs of cigarettes, but when they did not find any, the sight of an empty ashtray on the table was enough confirmation of this woman’s deviant ways!

Nimco was appalled by what she perceived as meekness and submissiveness on their part and thought it was high time for plain talking. She was not going to mince her words anymore and was going to talk, directly, clearly and specifically about the horrid practise that is FGM.

The women, having seen the stubbornness of this mixed up western spinster, were also outraged and decided to, once and for all, put this woman in her place. Whatever credit or respect she had from them was gone, the benefit of the doubt was no longer to be extended. This was a wayward child that’s needed a telling off!

Nimco started speaking and mentioned FGM and how barbaric that practise was. The women were instantly on the defensive and, despite hearing the sense in her words, were not going to agree with a lesbian! One of them stumbled upon the brilliant idea of asking Nimco if she had gone through the, very normal process of FGM! Nimco told her that, fortunately for her, she never had to suffer such barbaric treatment. The women all looked at each other in shock and stared back at Nimco with petty, as if she divulged an embarrassing secret!

Nimco, for her part, was shocked at their reaction! She was on the point of losing her temper and that was becoming obvious from her words as she told them that they all are, in a very small way, deformed! The women laughed, all at once. Some had tears in their eyes as they informed her that, in this society at least, she was the one who was deformed. Dr Nimco Cali the eminent Canadian anthropologist was independent, intelligent, highly cultivated and deformed!

A few weeks after this incident took place, Dr Nimco was back in Canada where she felt normal again and was in no way deformed (though of course, being a Hijab wearer, the Canadians regarded her as a poor and oppressed woman who was forced by men’s interpretation of their and her faith to be submissive and meek).


PS

The above story is a work of fiction and none of the characters in it are real. In addition, it was my aim to leave it open to all manner of interpretation and not give my personal take on the issue.