Nomadic Ramblings

A candidate’s speech.

My fellow Somalilanders, with this extraordinary election, we embark upon a path of fairness, freedom and democracy. Once we were a renegade state, a shambles and a mere dream. Now, we’ve a democratically elected president and are about to elect a democratic parliament. We’re well and truly on the road to nationhood.

My people of Burco North: I am contesting this election with another twenty-five candidates. We’re all fighting for your votes. Hush. We’re all competing for your votes.

My esteemed opponents have all decided to tackle this election with a national mindset. They all speak of political parties, presidential impeachments and international recognition! Beware of their forked tongues and misleading rhetoric.

My cousins, my family and kin. The whole of Somaliland knows of you, the whole of Somaliland respects you and the whole of Somaliland reveres you. Throughout the centuries, the whole of Africa had heard of your heroic deeds. Throughout the years, the entire Somali people had marvelled at your great literature. Your men are great and women pretty. In faith, though our mosques are tiny, they’re packed to the brim with faithful worshippers. In trade, though are businesses are new; they compete with the best of African businesses.

People of Burco North, one can’t fault your hard work and efforts of turning this part of our nation into the great social, financial and political hub that it became. You’ve built the villas, the schools and the hotels with hardly any governmental help. You’ve summoned the aid of our migrant brothers all over the world and used that help to build great hospitals and more schools.

My brothers, unlike my fellow candidates, I believe that it is time the government contributed some money, experience and work into making Burco North a better place. Like all the faithful and patriotic citizens of this great and prosperous land of ours, we’ve been promptly paying our taxes and helping in filling the coffers of the central government. All the while, we had nobody to speak up for us and pass our requests to the powers that be.

My beloved North Burcawis, I hereby declare my candidacy for the post of Burco North MP. I pledge to have your interests at heart and fight for North Burco’s right to share in this nation’s wealth. Why should we not have running water like the people of the capital, allegedly, do? Why shouldn’t the government subsidise our villas like it, allegedly, does with the people of Borama? Why should we not have our cake and eat it like the people of Laas Caanod?

My exploited brothers, we’re no less important than the people of Hargeisa, Borama or Ceereqabow! Even the Southern Burcawis received government assurances (and opposition pledges) to ease their suffering and, allegedly, build a state of the art Ice Rink in the centre of that area! We, my brothers, have been asking for proper and adequate sewer system for years. We offered to help with the cost but our cries and protests were ignored. What, I ask you; will the Southern Burcawis do with an Ice Rink?

My relatives, it’s your duty, responsibility and obligation not to waste your vote on any weak candidates come Election Day. I don’t covet your votes for personal gain, prestige or tribal reasons. I want your votes because, I believe, that I could help alleviate your pain, contribute to your gains and banish the chains; of misery and poverty.

The other candidates are attempting to appeal to your tribal links, heritage and emotions. They aim to divide you, o people of North Burco. I don’t. You are all my brothers (and sisters). You all mean the same to me. I am not like these other candidates that went to canvass in their own neighbourhoods and used the clan politics to secure votes. Yes, North Burco is my neighbourhood and yes my house is round the corner from here. But, no, I am not running on a clannish agenda. These vulgar ideas and this unhealthy politics might work in South Burco, but I have enough respect for you North Burco people to know that you will never fall for any clannish rhetoric. The people of the capital, those of Borama and all those of the various areas of Somaliland might elect their candidates alongside clan and tribe lines, but not the knowledgeable people of North Burco. Never the people of North Burco! Therefore, I come to you with pledges.

Vote for me and I’ll ensure there is hot and cold water in every home
Vote for me and I’ll make certain that North Burco boasts world-class sewers
Vote for me and I’ll guarantee that North Burco has non-stop electricity
Vote for me and I’ll promise to improve the local economy
Vote for me and I’ll pledge to start a drive against illiteracy
Vote for me and I’ll vow that we’ll always be ahead of South Burco
Vote for me and I’ll make sure that North Burco is always at the centre of any national discussion.

Do not waste your votes on self-serving politicians and their puppets. I’m the candidate for you, ilma adeeryaal.

Long live North Burco.

In other news (waxa la yedhi) that the government of his Excellency Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed have also offered to help the United States in its hour of need.

In a long and elaborate speech delivered to the journalists of the world, the president sought to compare the tragedy besetting America today to the one that’s been crippling Somalia for the past fifteen years.

He started by talking about the chaos, death and despair. He talked about the need for strong leadership and steady resolve. He cleverly contrasted the floods engulfing New Orleans to the flood submerging Somalia (him). He concluded that mischievous comparison with a chuckle and repeated the old age maxim of one man’s meat being another man’s poison.


His Excellency the president praised the efforts of the countries that sprang to the aid of the United States of America. He told of his amazement at the expertise of the Cuban doctors, the discipline of the Mexican soldiers and the calmness of the Egyptian rescue-workers. With what seemed like neighbourly banter, he praised Djibouti for its very large donation of $50,000 and used it as an example to other bigger and larger nations to also donate to this cause. He spoke of the temporary negative impact such a large donation will have on the economy of Djibouti, yet still praised that selfless country for answering the American calls for help.

President Yusuf is a very meticulous man. He made sure that he spoke about every country that made a donation to the United States of America. He marvelled at all their efforts. However, (and here, most people that are familiar with this great man would have anticipated the sting in the tail) President Yusuf said that none of these efforts were of that much benefit to the United States. Like the wise man he’s always been, he reminded everyone that America was the sole superpower in this world. That it was the richest, strongest and most organised. However, he also spoke about its naivety when it comes to natural disasters and the way to deal with them. In one of those sentences that are usually quoted and repeated by the masses when great men utter them, he said ‘America does not know everything, only Allah does’!

While everyone was lost in thought and looking up in awe at the great man, he amazed them further by suggesting the most obvious of ideas. With hindsight of course, we say such an idea is obvious. However, if his Excellency did not suggest it, it would have stayed in the recesses of his mind and the world would not have benefited from such great wisdom. Be that as it may, the idea is now out and President Yusuf’s name will, once again, enter the history books with yet another great thought.

This idea was so simple, so cunning and so ingenious that most present journalists agreed (as if lowly assent was needed) that Mr Yusuf was the wisest man alive.


Seeing the level of devastation and lawlessness in New Orleans reminded Mr Yusuf of his very own capital. He recounted his feelings as he watched those people shooting at the police on TV. He told of his anger as the looters were shown walking away with other people’s goods. He wiped a tear as he thought of the killing, rape and abuse.

All of a sudden, there was a twinkle in his eye and a naughty look in his face as he eulogised the abilities, organisation and greatness of the Somalis of the capital Mogadishu. He then stood up. All the journalists stood up with him. He looked far into the distance and started speaking. He was not speaking to the journalists anymore. He was not speaking to the Somalis and he was not speaking to himself. Mr Yusuf was talking directly to America. He told them that he’s not going to send them money. He’s not going to send them medical supplies. He’s not going to send them doctors or nurses. He told America in general and New Orleans in particular, that he’s going to send them ROAD BLOCK experts. There shall be no more looting, he said. Peace will return and New Orleans will be back again on its feet. Mr Yusuf then turned back to the awed journalists and told them that he’s sending 50,000 of these roadblock experts (along with their leaders).

He looked back into the distance and whispered words of encouragement to America before blessing them all and refusing to accept any thanks for his efforts. The journalists, the Somalis and everyone else wondered why other world leaders did not have a similar aura as this great man! Some worried that the Americans, after seeing the success of his idea, might decide to headhunt him.

Picture a large hall; it could be based in a grand old hotel or a local community centre. There is red carpet all over the floors, the tables are nicely clothed and have small vases with plastic flowers in all of them. There are helium balloons hanging in every corner of the hall (they have the names of the bride and groom written on them). On a prominent corner of this hall, there are large speakers and massive lengths of cable. A solitary keyboard is lying on the floor! On the far centre of the hall, there are two stylish chairs (the type usually found in the sitting rooms of posh old style villas in 40’s Hollywood movies).

A group of young girls with rolled up hair; manicured hands, half done makeup and casual clothes are running all over the hall. They stop to talk to each other while trying to hold two other conversations on the two mobile phones they’re carrying. There is panic in their eyes! The wedding cake has not arrived, the food is late and the bride has phoned them for the umpteenth time to check if everything is under control!

The bride’s brother and a couple of his friends arrive carrying huge pots full of food from the morning’s lunch! They claim that the older ladies back home had thought it a good idea to make use of this food. The girls panic! This was supposed to be a classy wedding; the rice and meat will only lower the tone!

The brother and his friend’s attempt to fish in murky waters by flirting with these panicky girls! He receives a phone call. His mother wants him to visit a distant relative on the other side of town to fetch a golden belt; the belt would look really nice on her daughter’s white dress, she thinks. The brother claims not to know the address and persuades his mother to ask one of the girls (the one he likes) to accompany him on this task. The delighted girl fakes shyness and moans about all the preparations she still has to do, but, reluctantly agrees to join the brother on this pointless trip.

The groom arrives with a couple of his friends, his stressed wife to be, had phoned him crying and told him that all her wedding plans were falling apart. He came to assess the damage and see what he could salvage. He speaks to the girls, finds out what the problems are then phones his own mother for advice! The girls faint, his friends heroically try to comfort them.

The bride’s mother arrives on the scene. One of the girls had phoned her and told her about the little conversation the groom had had with his mother! This old lady is not going to be upstaged; it’s traditionally known that the bride’s family are in charge of such events, what does that old woman think she’s playing at by sticking her oar in where it’s not wanted?

The groom receives a call from his elder and very religious brother. He’s ordered to present himself at this brother’s house immediately! The groaning groom wonders if it’s going to be another lecture about the sinfulness and waywardness of mixed weddings! The poor unsuspecting man is unaware of what’s about to hit him. His brother, in addition to the usual lecture about mixed weddings, is planning to lecture him on the birds and the bees tonight. Our happy groom is going to be instructed to, erm, deflower his wife as soon as possible; it’s Sunna!


Meanwhile, the bride is at home being fussed over by a crowd of women. Her best friends are not there to comfort her; they’re all in the hall trying to recreate her vision of a great wedding (one that they spoke about all their lives). She’s got her hair done already; she’s got her henna on. An old lady that’s been staring at her for the past five minutes walks over and declares, in a loud voice, that the bride is looking pale (or rather dark). Everyone panics! Some suggest she puts on the usual skin whitening chemicals (apply it one more time, they say. It’s your wedding day, dear). Others suggest she uses the traditional Somali skin products (which she already used, but one more time will not hurt). She refuses and tells them that this will ruin her hair and she herself will have to reapply her makeup (she knows she can’t do as good a job as the woman in the saloon did earlier). Faced with such rejection, the old lady decides to utilise an old traditional trick, she starts pinching the bride’s cheeks to make them look redder and livelier! The makeup is ruined!

Back in the wedding hall, the guests are starting to arrive. Young girls with dollops of what looks like Vaseline in their hair, teasingly saunter in; young boys with varying styles of dress, raucously stroll in; old ladies with obscenely colourful dresses, casually amble in!

A group of men, dressed in identical and ill-fitting suits arrive carrying more cables, a guitar and a tiny speaker. They place themselves in the corner and start testing the musical equipment. This wedding is in full swing. Among the chatter of the people, the laughs of the girls and the posturing of the boys, a man is heard shouting into the microphone the words “testing, testing, 123”.

A sudden panic sets in amongst our original group of girls. They’re now fully dressed and looking a million dollars. They’ve just been informed that the groom’s family has arrived! One rushes over to welcome them and guide them to their table, they ignore her and sit on another table instead. The groom’s two sisters disdainfully look around and make biting comments about the hall, the tables, the position of the band and everything to do with the setup of this wedding. The groom’s mother shares their sentiment but regally refuses to sully her royal tongue with such base utterances!

The band starts playing, a balding man with a tight suit and retro glasses glides into the dance floor. A couple of girls join him (out of pity perhaps) and start to lazily dance. The band ups the tempo and plays a popular song, whereby all the girls race to the dance floor to join the lazy dance, the shiny bald head of the man can be seen from the distance bobbing away amongst all these fair maidens. A pang of envy goes through all the boys!

The groom, having pacified his brother and promised to consummate his marriage forthwith, and the bride, having reapplied her makeup, fixed her hair and disentangled herself from the clutches of all those women, arrive, sweaty and holding hands.

A line forms at the entrance of the hall to usher the couple in. Envious girls look at the bride’s beauty in awe and absolute wonder; desperate boys hopelessly try to attract her following bridesmaids attention with much winking and rising of eyebrows! The band plays the customary song and the crowd start clapping and singing. The happy couple slowly walk through the parallel lines of cheering guests. A baby in a tuxedo runs across their path, falls and starts crying! A quick-footed girl with a long neck darts in, picks him up and disappears into the crowd.

The bride and groom reach their seats; they’re attacked by our group of girls who start fixing the creases on the man’s suit, the twists on the woman’s dress and the angles of the chairs. A middle-aged man’s voice is heard above all the hubbub. He loudly declares this wedding party, a party that has been running for the past three hours, underway! He invites one of the members of the band to bless this wedding by reading a few verses from the holy book. The band member reads the shortest verse he could think of. A few guests on one side of the hall start clapping, while from the other side of the hall the sound “shush” is loudly heard!

The band start singing a dull song, this is the signal for the bride and groom to begin dancing. They both look uncomfortable and depressed as they tentatively hold hands and start slowly swinging them around while not moving their feet! Each bridesmaid quickly grabs an uncle, cousin, brother or a distant relative and ushers them in into the dance floor. They start whispering encouraging words into the bride and groom’s ears. The bald man glides back into the dance floor with a suitable female partner this time. He grabs hold of the bride and starts energetically dancing with her. Both sets of families wonder who the hell is this man!

An hour later, and while the band is playing a really popular song, someone orders them to stop because the heavyweights are ready to strut their stuff. Everybody groans at the sudden interruption of that great song. A group of old ladies march to the band and one grabs the microphone. Without any instructions, signals or orders the crowd form a circle. The core of that circle is all made of old women and a few daring young girls. It’s ringed by another circle of many young women and a few old ones. That is also surrounded by yet another circle of young women, a couple of old ones and many many leering men. The woman on the microphone loudly (almost savagely) calls out someone’s name. The bride cringes but manages to keep a straight face. Suddenly, a drum is heard! Boom, boom, boom – boom!

The old ladies in the inner circle start bouncing around, sometimes with both feet off the ground! They display an amazing and superhuman level of energy! These ladies, after all, are all registered disabled! They’re the proof, if proof is needed, that joy is a great healer. The baby in the tuxedo is seen jumping amongst the old ladies.

The fun ends and the band starts playing another dull song for the benefit of the bride and groom. Both reluctantly amble back into the dance floor and nonchalantly pretend to dance. The bald man is dancing with a different partner this time. They’re oblivious to the shocked stares as they hold each other closely and slow dance next to the happy couple.

The bride and groom are ushered back into their seats and the band starts playing a fast paced song. All the women stampede into the dance floor, many tying scarves round their waists and shaking their backsides faster than a food blender! The men try but fail to avert their gaze. The baby in the tuxedo stares at all the shaking backsides and heaving bosoms in utter fascination and absolute amazement.

A non-Somali man enters the hall, he sticks out like a sore thumb and one of the bridesmaids is seen in deep conversation with him. He’s the hall manager and he’s there to tell anyone that’ll listen that the party should be over in the next five minutes! An hour later, the band start playing the final song and the bride and groom quickly cut the cake on their way out. As soon as they leave, the streets outside are fully of chattering Somalis and a traffic jam materialises out of thin air. Everyone agrees that it was a good wedding then go on to list all its faults. The boys start circling the crowd and searching for sweet looking single girls in need of a lift home, they get caught by irate old ladies and end up driving them home instead.

Groups of nicely dressed young men and women arrive, late, but coolly slip into the crowds and pretend they’ve been there all along. Two hours later, the streets are empty and the bride’s brother is seen loading empty pots, balloons and various other materials into the boot of his car, the pretty girl is sitting in the passenger seat (could there be another wedding on the horizon?).