Khat
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....
