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THE
FROG & THE RAHANWAYN MAN
When
I look back
Back
at the year of 1991
It
is
Most
Anno Mirabilis
Most
amazing
Most
miraculous
That
I am still kicking among the living
Every
morning
On
a Mennonite Peace Mission
On
a Somali Ergo
In
1991
In
mad Mogadishu
I
Ping-Ponged
Between
Hope & Despair
I
seesawed
Between
Faith & Fear
As
I would brave a hail of Hutu Hawiye bullets
With
these words of Allah
Burbling
Upon
my lips
I
will not be afraid of this Hutu Hawiye Horror in the night
Nor
the bullets that fly by day
Not
the pestilence that walks in darkness
Nor
the death and the destruction that waste Somalis by noonday
A
thousand Russian bullets shall fall at my side
And
ten thousand American bullets at my right hand
But
it shall not come nigh me
Because
I have made the Lord my refuge
And
the most High my habitation
No
evil shall befall me
For
He has given His angels charge over me
To
keep me in all my ways
The
angels of heaven shall bear me up in their hands
Lest
I dash my foot against a stone
I
shall tread upon the lion and the adder
The
young lion and the dragon
I
shall trample under my feet
Because
Allah has set His love upon me
Therefore
will He deliver me from the this Hutu Hawiye Hell
With
long life will He satisfy me
In
Canada
In
the land of Milk & Maple Syrup
And
show me my salvation
In
Montreal.
I
believe now
It
is most true now
That
I shall only die
When
the leave of my tree in Paradise falls down to earth
When
it is Maktoob
When
it is written down in the book of life
When
Allah intended for me to die
And
not because the Hutu heartless Hawiye Heathens
Make
the Somali skies rain
Russian
& American bullets
&
Dirty
Darod Marehan Afwayne bullets
As
it says
Most
succinctly
In
one of the Suras of the Holy Koran
There
is nothing more punctual than death
When
Allah wants me to die
I
shall die on time
When
it is my time
Not
one hour earlier
Nor
one hour later
I
particularly remember now
That
lonesome night of maximum danger
In
1991
In
Mogadishu
In
the Hotel Towfeeq
Owned
& operated by my maternal uncle
Hajji
Yusuf Hawiye.
Hotel
Towfeeq
Was
the only clean cool well lighted place
In
terror-ridden clan-crazy Mog
Which
was later destroyed
By
Aideed’s killing Habar Kintir crazies
From
Mugdi Mudug
Who
later dubbed the ruins
With
Cainish contempt
Hotel
Tol-waaye!
The
Hotel-With-No-Clan to defend it!
I
could not sleep that night
In
1991
The
ceaseless barking
The
relentless coughing
Of
the kalanishkovs
The
constant shelling
The
artless heartless artillery
The
menacing lights of the tracer bullets
The
mindless Moriyan
Kept
me awake
I
was most curious
Since
the dreaded Darod devils were driven out of Mog
Donkey
years ago
I
kept wondering
I
kept questioning myself
Why
were the Hutu Hawiye Heathen still firing their guns
At
what invisible enemy were they shooting at now
At
three in the morning
It
was most incomprehensible
I
just couldn’t help but remember
Joseph
Conrad’s HEART OF DARKNESS
For
I was in absurd Africa
Where
nigger death was as common as niggers
For
I was on a continent gone bonkers
For
I was in bad mad sad Somalia
For
I was truly in one of the darkest corners of the human heart
Conrad
wrote in his own heart of darkness:
Once
I remember
We
came upon a man-of-war
Anchored
off the coast. …
She
was shelling the bush. …
In
the empty immensity of earth, sky, and water
There
she was
Incomprehensible
Firing
into a continent.
Pop,
would go one of the six-inch guns
A
small flame would dart and vanish
A
little white smoke would disappear
A
tiny projectile would give a feeble screech—
And
nothing happened.
Nothing
could happen.
There
was a touch of insanity in the proceedings
A
sense of lugubrious drollery in the sight …
It
was like a weary pilgrimage
Amongst
hints for nightmares.
In
the morning
The
hints were gone
But
the real nightmare was on
I
asked one
Apparently
One
inured to this Hawiye Hell
One
quite acclimatized to this Somali noontime nightmare
To
explain
This
aimless
This
ceaseless
This
crazy cacophony of the guns
He
crushed my cowardly query
With
laughter
With
a single shot:
You
brushed your teeth this morning
Didn’t
you?
Here
in mad Mog
We
also brush the teeth of the guns
Clean
By
firing them every which way
The
better to bite
The
better to pierce
Deep
into the Somali Flesh
Killing
the Somali Spirit!
At
the market
Where
I used to hang out
After
playing hooky from the Koran School
In
Wardheeglay
In
the pool of Clannish Blood
I
paused at the stand of an elderly woman
Minding
two huge piles
A
pile of ripe rich red inviting tomatoes
Crying
cherry-ripe themselves
&
A
pile of bullets
I
wondered which one was cheaper
She
replied:
To
grow these now red rich ripe inviting tomatoes
That
are crying now cherry-ripe themselves
I
labored
Inspired
Perspiring
With
the sweet sweat of life
With
the love of life
The
tomatoes are Somali life
The
bullets are baksheesh
From
Russia with hate!
From
America with malice aforethought!
They
are foreign Aids from no good foreign devils
They
are the death of all of us slow-witted Somalis
Nothing
in the world
Is
cheaper than the senseless death of niggers
Niggers
like us Somalis
That
night in 1991
When
I could not sleep
In
Hotel Towfeeq
To
beguile the time
I
opened
With
weariness of the Spirit
With
little faith
The
book I had brought with me
From
North America
The
autobiography of Arthur Miller
TIMEBENDS
What
relevance
What
anodyne
What
relief
What
release
What
balm
What
manna
What
succor could Miller offer
To
my suffering Somali Soul
No
sooner had these dispiriting sighs assailed my soul
Than
Miller rose to the occasion
&
Delivered
Big
time
Than
Miller spoke out
Loud
& Bold
Than
these very words seized me
Burning
into my memory
What
is still ailing us Somalis:
The
ultimate human mystery
May
not be anything
More
than the claims on us
Of
clan & race
Which
may yet turn out
To
have the power
Because
they defy the rational mind
To
kill the world.
There
it was
In
black & white
Staring
me in the face
At
three o’clock in the morning
In
the dark night of the Somali Soul
The
reason why we Somalis are still killing each other
The
reason why we Somalis
As
a nation
Are
committing right now collective suicide:
Because
of the crazy clannish claims of
Darod
Dir
Dayoos
In
the morning
I
happily ran into a familiar face from my happy childhood
Avocatto
Abdirahman Hajji Ga’al
When
I was Sheikh of the Somali Indian Ocean Shore
Before
Somalia became the Sharmooto of Shaytaan
The
Sharmooto of Yankee Doodle
The
Sharmooto of Ivan Sovietski
When
I did not know the pain
Of
the woes
Of
the blows
Of
the NOs
Of
this sad bitter exile
Of
this wandering on a forlorn foreign strand
With
a sad heart
Sick
for home like Ruth
Standing
in tears
Deep
Amid
this alien Canadian cold snow
I
told my friend
Avocatto
Abdirahman Hajji Ga’al
What
had lured me back to murderous Mog
I
told him
That
I was on a Mennonite Peace Mission
That
I had brought a message from the Mennonites in North America
A
message for the Hawiye
That
I had brought a Message of Hope to Somalia from the Mennonite Church
That
the Mennonites were willing to come back again to Somalia
To
reopen the hospitals they once ran
To
reopen the schools they once ran
To
revive our hope
To
minister again to the dire sore needs of the Somali people
Once
the guns fall silent
Provided
The
Hawiye ceased their senseless shooting
Since
the Hawiye have freed themselves now
From
the yoke of the detested Darod MOD Dictatorship
Since
Mogadishu is now
Darodfrei
Free
of Darod
As
Darodfrei
As
Hitler’s Berlin was once
Judenfrei
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