Bisharo Ali of the Afarqoable & Iidoar Qaldaan clans was literally maddened by the ignorance & the arrogance & the

 

stupidity of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. Graham Hancok wrote (in1989) in his sensational, seminal,

 

muckraking exposé, Lords of Poverty: The Freewheeling Lifestyles, Power, Prestige & Corruption of the

 

Multimillion Dollar Aid Business:   

 

In 1987 Bisharo Ali, a Somali living in Canada (where he had obtained economics, sociology and social work degrees), applied for the job of the Field Assistant at HCR’s office in the central Somali town of Belet Weyne. He was turned down by Robin MacAlpine, HCR’s Assistant Representative in Somalia, on the astonishing grounds that he was too well qualified. ‘With your broad experience in Canada, MacAlpine wrote, ‘It is considered unlikely that you would be able to spend years in such a post without considerable frustration.’

 

Bisharo told me 1988:

 

After receiving that letter I felt angry, humiliated and rejected. It proved to me that whatever we [Third World] people do in achieving academically, professionally and technically we would still not be acceptable in the white bureaucracies who enjoy the good life at our expense.

 

Ever since that ugly UN experience, Bisharo has not been the same, has not been playing with a full deck, just like Somalia has never been the same ever since Uncle Sam’s UN Christian crusade robbed Islamic Somalia of all of her hope & her dignity under the disguise of Bush père’s “Operation Restore Hope in Somalia”. Somalia’s hope, dignity, integrity &  pride & faith in Allah were restored by General Aidiid’s fearless Hawiye Moriyan heroes of Black Hawk Down rep who kicked Uncle Sam’s can & his UN out of sunny Somalia into the outer darkness of hell. But alas & alack! My poor friend, Bisharo Ali, remains unhinged after his run-in with the UN.

For those of you who don’t know Bisharo Ali, he is the Somali Murusade crazy Canuck from Ottawa who hacked his wife to death with machete in Nairobi, Kenya when she tried to stop Bisharo from hacking to death the head of the UN’s office for Somalia in Nairobi, Kenya who is still fleecing the poor people of Somalia out of millions of dollars of the aid money allotted to Somalia.

Bisharo Ali is now on the run, on the lam, from Canuck & Interpol justice. And the UN can’t move its offices from Nairobi to Mogadishu as long as Bisharo remains at large in Mog where he is capo de tutti capo of all the powerful Murusade militia Moriyans of Mog & Die-niile!  Bisharo can’t come back to his kids in Canada & to his old haunts in Ottawa. As a matter of fact, he knows he is not safe & secure anywhere else in the civilized world where the writ of the law is applicable. That is why Bishaaro Ali lives right now among Kipling’s “lesser breeds without the law / half devil and half child, in the jungles of Somalia, the paradise of Osman Atto & fugitives from justice & other jinnes & jinnoale where the writ of madness & mad men who dabble in disasters prosper.  That is why Bisharo fled to Mog that once was the capital of the late Somali nation; but which is now the Hutu Hawiye morgue of all of our Somali national dreams & aspirations.

I was recently in Mad Mog where the Moriyan still roam, still full of piss & beans, spoiling for another fight with Uncle Sam & his floozy UN!  Mog where the Moriyan still boss everybody around in their careening & careering crazy technicals fuelled by King Kat. I decided to pay a visit to their Prepotent Boss & Potentate, my old Somali-Canadian friend, Bisharo Ali now busy acting the lunatic part of Conrad’s Dr Kurtz in the jungle Congo of Somalia. He is very famous now in Mog, so it did not take me long to find Bisharo who is well known to all & sundry now in Mog as the Distinguished Doctor Bisharo Kurtz who is now the Director of the main insane asylum of Mog. I was sure I had the wrong Bisharo. The one I knew in Canada was a mere MS in social work.  But I knew I had the right one, the moment I laid eyes on the pictures of beaming Bisharo boy hanging everywhere in the reception room, with long lines of patients & their relatives & supplicants from the UN & from the international press, all waiting to have a word with the Doctor.

When I informed his secretary that the Doctor is a friend of mine, that I am an old Somali-Canuck friend of his here to pay him a short courtesy Canadian call before I return to old cold boring sane & sensible goody two-shoes Canada; she whisked me right in.

Dr Bisharo, in a white coat, behind a massive mahogany desk, jumped from his seat and embraced me with a genuine warm feeling. Bisharo is my Abtie: my mother is of the same Afarqoable clan as Bisharo. I was most moved by his civilized Murusade manners. So different from vulgar Qurunle Qanyare who told the Darod on the BBC that the extent of the relationship he wants to cultivate & cathect with them will never exceed the actual reach of his large sized  Afarqoable donkey dong & the commodious sweet cunt of his dear Darod delightful wife!

 I decided for once to keep my big absurd Abgal mouth shut & just listen to what Dr Bisharo had to say. Dr Bisharo did not disappoint me nor did I disappoint myself by opening my big Togane trap. I just listened to Dr Bisharo billbill away his bona vides & spill his Somali beans& guts & glory, still full of piss & vinegar.

—Togane, Zio, I am most delighted to see you. Welcome home! I hope you are here to stay with us in Somalia for good. Look at this view of the lapis lazuli lapping waters of the Indian Ocean! Just this Ocean View with its warm wafting wonderful winds is worth to me more than all the loonies & the toonies & the townies & all the maple leaves of cold old boring Canada, our Lady of the Snows, where the moose booze & boozle. Last week, a Somali–Canadian friend paid me a visit. You know him; he is my kinsman; a fellow mindless Murusudi called Jess in Toronto but plain old Jinnee Jiisow here in Mog! What a fool! He wanted to know how I got away with the murder of my wife! So he too could murder his Murusade memsahib! I set the moron straight right away. Looky here, Jiisow Jinnowle, I says, we are here now in Somalia where reality is real; as real as this fucking Kalashnikof I am cradling now; don’t fuck with me; we are not in your Toronto where you all live in ersatz virtual reality & vicariously enjoy all that fake violence on the idiot box!!!  Between Aideed & Ali Mahdi & our uncle, Qurunle Qanyare & the USA & Canada & the UN, at least 500, 000 Somali men, women and children were murdered in cold blood; and yet you can’t forget & forgive me because in a fit of Somali patriotic anger against the UN & all her devilomacy, I macheted a mere Murudade woman, my wife, my life, my Murusade sister—I macheted her into the dusty death of her grave. Jeesow Jeenowle, go ask Ali Mahdi, Osman Atto, Musse Soodi Yellahow, Qurunle Qanyare & Abdullahi Yusuf, the Punk of Puntland & Ina Sad Sack Salad ‘Air & Afwayne Heir & his greedy goat from Garowe, Hassan Abshir, how they all got away with the murder of the whole Somali nation; with the murder of hundreds of thousands of Somali men, women & children! My wife lies here in Somalia; in her grave, here on this hospital grounds; she was the chief nurse here. I miss her terribly; she was my helpmate & right hand. My comforter & confidante. I will show you her grave & the beautiful epitaph I had lovingly composed over her grave. Yes, right here in my office, there, is the replica of the epitaph hanging. Read it:

Epitaph On My Wife

 

Here lies my Murudade wife

Here let her lie!

Now she’s at rest

And so am I

Now that’s the best

For both of us needed rest!

Now right here in Somalia we have the best system of managing this mindless Somali society; we reverted to the same system we maintained before paleface put in his unwelcome appearance in these parts. We have now Anarchy here, the Utopia of poets & pundits; Anarchy is the natural system & state for us Somalis who are nature’s aristocratic savages. We Somalis are cunning connoisseurs of Chaos; I am right now in my natural element, just like fish happily swimmingly fucking away in fresh water! I feel fresh & frisky! When my Murusade clan put me on trial, I was moved to tears of joy. I did not have to say a word in my self-defense! I had no lawyer; I did not need one; after all, I was not being tried by my cousin, that absurd Abgal Sheikh Ali Dhere, the mad Mullah of Mog, that mad dog of the sodomite Saudi wogs, who was then busy chopping off the hands & the limbs of his Abgal braves; it was my merciful Afarqoable agnates who were going to decide my fate. Qurunle Qanyare advised our clan elders to hand me over either to Kenya, Canada or Interpol. They laughed in his funny fucked-up face! They asked him, what clan does Interpol belong? That really made him shut the fuck up! You see Qurunle Qanyare considers me a threat because I am the most educated & the most notorious slayer of wives & the sanest Somali patriot (second only to Ali Wardhiiglay) of our Murusade clan. I let the tribal elders do the talking for me! I told them that I accept whatever they decide. I told my clan, I trust in clan traditional Xayr justice, not the paleface’s kangaroo courts in Canada. I am not crazy like Aidiid, like General Wow or Animal Howe; I am not like Aidiid who was also Gardiid!! Aidiid was the proverbial Somali Hawiye crow that always finds the milk, but does not have the luck or the knack to drink it at all! He needs another dignified Darod crow to show him how! But Aidiid refused to allow one single Darod back into  Mog; he made Mog Darod-frei (free of Darod) just like brother Hitler made Berlin Juden-frei, free of Jews. Since the judges & the jury were all my Afarqoable Klansmen, I had nothing to fear. After an hour of solemn deliberation, they rendered this judgment on my case of wife-macheting-to-death which I had accepted wholeheartedly. They said, we checked & we found out that neither Canada nor Interpol is Murusude; the woman, you Bisharo had murdered is Murusude; Bisharo is Murusade; we are Murusade; and most importantly, we, the Murusade, have no extradition treaty with neither Kenya, Canada nor Interpol; therefore, you are free to stay with us & we put you in charge of this Mad House in Mog! Jinnee, jinne aa lagu daaway-ya! Only a mad man like Dr Bisharo Ali knows how to deal with Madness! Only Dr Bisharo Ali has the hair & the hide & the how of the mad rabid dog that bit us all Somalis. We all believe that you, Dr Bisharo Ali, fills the bill; that you were mad enough once to have killed your own Murusade wife, but all that now is banal & bagatelle. Some beat their wives; some eat their wives; some are eaten & beaten by their wives; some kill their wives; some are killed by their wives, so what?  Don’t worry. We won’t give you another Murusade wife to murder. One is enough. Once is enough: if you do one thing once, you are a philosopher; if you do it twice, you are a pervert. Dr Bisharo, we know, you are not a pervert. You are just insane, so what? So are all of us Somalis. Dr Bisharo, you are indeed as mad as the Mad Hatter! So what? Everyone else in the clan of Murusade is somewhat sane too and so whenever we see that you are in a sore need of some sanity, we will lend you some sanity & we will send you some sanity post-haste to you! Meanwhile, let the rest of the world go hang! Let the enemies of the Murusade say that you are nuts; we know you are not. Look at you. Look at how smartly you dress every day in a suit and tie and under this hot Somali sun too! Just like a Doctor! We know what a man does in Somalia when he decides to go ape & eat mad bananas: when a Somali makes up his mind to go crazy, he runs around in his birthday suit; he throws away his loin-cloth! Maratha O Tuuraa!!! He does not go around like Dr Bishaaro, like Dr Jayte Jiniqow Hayow, like Dr Omar Arte, sporting silk suits and silk ties made by the coolies of Hong Kong!

The BBC heard about this curious case of Dr Bisharo & the model insane asylum he directs so well in Somalia! The famous intrepid BBC reporter, Raage Omaar of Baghdad rep, went to interview him.

—Dr Bishaaro: Who made you a Doctor? Where did you earn your Doctorate? After we had checked with Canada and all her Canadian institutions of higher learning & the department of health & welfare where you were once gainfully employed, we learned that you only have Masters Degree in social work. Bishaaro, I dare say, you are a crazy fucking fraud!

—Absolutely! You are right! Brother, right on! Rap on! I agree. I really dig your moral outrage! That is just telling it like it really is! The Jew, Dr Freud, was a fucking fraud too! But I am not Freudian! I was trained right here in the Somali bush, in my natural habitat, by a Moslem Murusade Witch Doctor who is more eminently qualified to judge about these matters of degrees of madness than an idiot of an Iidoar Islawayn BBC Blabber Big Mouth like you. Furthermore, if the Ill-Jex called Ina Sicko Psycho Salad Boy believes that he is the President of Somalia, why can’t I fancy myself a Shrink & run this nuthouse so well that now all the international press is clamoring to interview Dr Bisharo& inform the world the miracles he has wrought! After all, as they say, the proof of the pudding is in the eating! Look how happy I make all the inmates of my insane asylum! I am indeed their Dr Feelgood! That is what my sister Aretha Franklin was singing about! About me, the original Dr Feelgood in the morning! Now, am I crazy or do I hear her right now singing the jiving blues in Jabooti where they love to shake their booties now that Sugar Daddy Yankee is in Djibouti!  

—Very well put! I love the way you alliterate; you must also be a bebop poet!!

—No. That is the province of my friend, Togane, whose American brother, Hassan, has just been shot for the second time. Imagine a Somali-American with a valid American passport stuck in this hellhole! Why doesn’t go back to America? I guess, he can’t; he too must have murdered his memsahib! Togane Senior is the Americanized Abgal poet, who was here with me not long ago. He has no wife to kill so he gone back to Canada! He is an Abgal poet who composes his verses in English! Just Imagine that! It is most true: if you live long enough in this world, you will even get to see camels copulating & at the very least one Abgal billbilling poet spouting off poesy in the Queen’s lingo! This whole world is all mad! That is why when we are born, we cry that we are come to this wacky wicked world, to this great stage of mad fools, like Ali Diesel! Go ask Uncle Sam what the hell he is doing in Baghdad after what we Somali Moslems had done to him in Mog! Why is he still insistent on crossing the Mogadishu Moslem line in Baghdad this time? Hasn’t he learned the lesson we Somalis had taught him in Mog? Damean dumdum Dubya, stop messing with them Moslems! They crazy as a coot; they ain’t Christian; they believe in even-Steven like Malcolm X; they don’t believe in turning the other cheek like Togane’s Mennonites!

—Do you think, Dr Bisharo, the world will one day wake up to find you, President of Somalia?

—Somalia is a nuthouse! It is about time that the real inmates like me run this jungle of a  joint of an insane asylum. Since we already run one insane asylum most efficiently, most effectively, most competently, I & my team are seriously thinking of expanding & stretching our mandate from the moon to us minions here below, under her sway, to cover this whole crazy country of coons with Kalishnikovs! North & South & East & West! We the so-called loonies will soon be running Somalia. Give us some time to get ready. We are just waiting now for our most important, most delusional Danyers of illusions of grandeur to come back from their wild trip of goose & gander chase. Go tell Abdullahi Yusuf, Hassan Abshir, Qurunle Qanyare, Osman Atto, Ina Sad Salad Boy & Yalahow Xaarow Xaayow to hurry home.

Go tell the world to stay tuned for final loony tunes, for the finis, for the final curtain, for the Goetterdaemmerung of Papa Doc Afwayne & the denouement of this dreadful decades-old Darod Doco-Drama of this our Hawiye Horror Show.

                                                   ----Mamud Siad Togane