Dear Somalinetters;
This is a postcard about nothing. I saw myself writing it without an underlying thought.
To some of you, I am a “good” storyteller. To others, I am a grumpy middle aged man.
Let me share with you a secret; I usually write something when I am on my travels. I try to include nostalgic aspects in my stories.
Writing is not that simple, especially when you want to include both historical and spatial contexts as well as giving the narrative a modern day setting .
It is not as simple as saying “ Jaalle thinks and Jaalle does”.
I know you are wondering whether I am a victim of hubris at best and a narcissist at worst.
I am neither. I am a humble man. A modest man whose is too shy to crow. A simpleton.
Jaalle is my screen name on Somalinet. My “naaneys”. It is “comrade” in English. Although it was given potency by the Somali communist regime to cuddle Marxist brotherhood and sisterhood, the word Jaalle is “old”. It is contained in folklores in Somali territories. The name “Jeelle” ( colleague/enclosed neighbourhood) and the related word of Jeel (brethren) could be inferred to the word Jaalle.
Unlike other nicknames, which are often given to you by detesters and admirers, no one gave me the nickname “Jaalle Marx”. I gave it to myself to venerate the importance of comradeship in interacting with Somalis. The suffix is inspired by my profound appreciation for one of the best economists, thinkers; philosophers- yeah call him even prophet- who has ever lived.
I am sure I am almost guilty of blasphemy by having the “naaneys” of such a great mind because my knowledge of his dialectical approaches is meagre.
I travel a lot. I have been to many countries on several continents. I usually buy a non-fiction book at the airports before departure, to read on long-haul planes and in hotel rooms. It was long time ago that I read a novel and I still remember the days when I read a novel every week; African writers’ series (Chinua Achebe, Wole Soyinka, Ngugu wa Thiongo and our own, Nuradiin Farah, were my favourites) and others such as J Archer, John La carre, Sidney Sheldon (If tomorrow comes) Frederick Forsyth (Dogs of war and The day of the Jackal) were my favourite novels. As a teenager, I also read Shakespeare, Defoe, Hemmingway etc.
I don’t read regency, gossip and paltry romance novels as our resident queen of Tinsel town, her Royal Grace Basra of Lughaye.
For this particular journey, I bought Richard Dowden’s “ Africa; altered states, ordinary miracles” at the WHS smith in Heathrow, terminal 5. By the way, if you are the 25-30 year old Somali woman who worked at the shop and showed me how the automatic tills work, I say thank you. I was the middle aged man who had a strong accent and who did not look like a “Somali” . I surely believe that I made an impression on you considering your “come to bed smile” when I called you “adeer” and you said “aboowe” followed by a cockney accent barrage of sentences that I hardly understood because I speak in “East African” English mingled with an aristocratic Oxford English as you put it.
I read the likes of Bowdenbook so that I could read them to sleep.
Last night, I was reading the chapter on Somalia and was fascinated by author’s knowledge of the somali psyche. In addition to discussing some of the root causes of our morass; arrogance which creates an illusion of false pride (Bowden captures by describing how a somali man who was shot and bleeding asked the treating doctor to start bandaging his stomach so that he could laugh instead ofattending to his brain and other vital organs), it also provides diagnosis; tribalism cannot be used as a state builder .
However, sleeping proved elusive. I could not do as Knowthyself and satiate my thirst for a sleep with shots of the xaaran stuff. I could not pray salatul leyl and recite the Quran with Arabic accent.
All I did was to toss and turn. I tried all the best sleeping positions that I could think of. I finally settled on one choice; feet slightly propped on a soft cushion and head supported by a pillow, I covered my eyes with my left hand, the inner of my elbow joint suspended just above the top bone of my nose and my other hand , curled into a slight fist, supporting my neck.
I was half-asleep and half-awake when I saw faces and heard voices. I also heard myself conversing with elusive characters. I saw familiar faces and let these faces flash by as if on a train with a faraway terminus. Faces of people I met, people I had met by default or design, faces of people long gone.
I knew that come tomorrow morning, I would be left with faint sketches of what the faces looked like. But, this particular night, the faces were faint as it were in my memory. I really can’t tell you where this conversation with myself ended and when or if I got sleep before being woken by the soft purr of my phone.
A female voice on the other end asks, “Marx miyaa?” I say “no” in a sleepy fake voice. I pretended I was an Indian and added “ no disturb please”.
The voice on the end insisted “yaa waaye?” Who is it? I could simply have responded with my name but, irritated by her lack of comportments, I quickly hang up. Who was she calling at midnight half way across the world anyway, the Somali in me alleged. I recognised the censorious voice in my mind. It was an old sweetheart, Qaali. Lack and destiny had disjoined us decades ago.
It was too late to call her back. My “no” response and Indian poor imitation had probably done an irreparable damage
But Qaali’s simple question “yaa waaye” would not leave me. I tossed and turned as I thought about it. What if she is in this town? What if she is in the next room? We could reel and roll until the break of dawn.
I dozed for what felt like just 40 winks of sleep but this did not last. I was roused again at by loud noises. A rich mixture of foreign accents laden with the sweet melodious, bird-like trills of local women came up towards my window. I opened the window and leaned out into the warm sea breeze. It was a full moon and the raucous, inebriated party was clearly not in a state to reason with me. I figured even if I tried to shout at them to take it down a few notches to allow me get some sleep they would not listen.
I woke up a few minutes to 8 am. The next morning, I noticed that nocturnal tormentors were gone. I stood before the mirror, toothbrush in hand, staring at my new shaggy look. The trim figure was buried under a new layer of fat and my clean shave replaced by what looked like a beard. I could discern a new rebellious streak in me.
I took a quick shower and walked out without a care as to how I looked. By now, the sun was trying hard to break free of the dark clouds that held it captive, its golden rays playing games with the unrelenting dark clouds. Like a trained boxer trying to tire an enemy, the sun weaved, bobbed and ducked between tufts of clouds, sending down one or two powerful jabs of sunlight down to the cold ocean waters that acted like a very excited crowd of spectators.
As I beheld this breathtaking view, I could not help linking it to my own pensive mood the last couple of hours. Was the scene reminiscent of my own struggles and aspirations? Did the sun represent my good nature and the dark clouds the daily demons we struggle with, the excuses, the procrastinations, and complacence?
P.s. I wish I were in Oslo to celebrate Norway’s national day (17th of May) and Somaliland’s (18th May)rise as a beacon of hope for Somalis everywhere. Tribal zealots aside, all sane Somalis appreciate the strides this “nation” made in regards to democracy and peace. I think the road ahead does not lie in fetish “aqoonsi” nacnac but economic development. Abandon the tribalistic rhetoric on citizenship (the ancestor/genealogical gobbledygook) and attract capital (human and monetary), and view Taiwan as a benchmark. There are thousands of Somalis who are facing the wrath of Machete welding thugs who will be attracted to Somaliland. Aqoonsi, even if it is realised will be the end of the road; evidence; see other African countries
