Northern I heard the case and i think i am more privy to it than you. Had he had a contact with the young girl back at home? I don't know. But very much possible. was it a rape? certainly not. I think whatever has happened had nothing to do with a rape of a minor as has been propagated. That i know. And by the way, when Mohamed Moge was killed,he was killed because of clan feud.

JB I guess you feel how people get upset when you 'bemoan' the southerns testing times with glee, and yet i saw they take a note of you and argue! And hatred is a function of a definition. Propagating the dismemberment of a nation could be a manifestation of deep narrow-minded-ness and hate, to some as well. I hope you very well realize that. No hard feelings, and excuse my language, but I think Somaliland's quest for Independence is an elitist drive of 'some Islawayn's', based on flimsy justifications such as waa nala dilay (true),ma ******** baan wax la qaybsanaa,and we are inherently superior in governance to the southerns(partially true). And it is not a popular agenda of all inhabitants of the North. As true as it may be, all the arguments don't give me enough to reasons to believe JB is different than Jaamac in puntland or in Bay and bakool.

waa la isku qaloocinayaa miyaa? no! brother. not me!

JB tolerance is hardly a trait i envy in you guys! we have to put up with your hogwash about this or that for ages, and yet you can't stand a single article, which at best you could have replied to formally. I don't yet get what amounts to serious business to Northern! Is it how condem's don't fit men? for those of us who have a particular prediliction for earthly delights, well, it could be. and who am i to infringe on people's rights!

In Defence of A Wronged Legend: Mohamud Abdullahi Isse (SINGUB) Abdullahi Dahir Moge When a young man from a village near Aware town, ambushed and murdered Mohamed Moge Liban, he just avenged the death of one of his clansmen; by slaying a prominent member of ‘the rival clan’. It all amounted to that, for him. He had no idea of the colossal loss he had inflicted on all of us - the Somali nation; by cutting short the life of one of the most illustrious singers of the nation. A tragic loss to Somali art and entertainment! Not to mention, the visionary zeal of revolution in the deceased’s heart, that is buried with him. A vision, nowadays twisted to other trivialities, by few who care less about the true beliefs of the hero; and more about a new found ‘chants of convenience’. Equally, when a group of secessionists hatched an insidious plot to defile the name of Mohamud Abdullahi Cisse (Singub), it was all about settling an old score with a partisan ‘******’ of the rival clan. They had no idea they were sculpting a gigantic sarcophagus for an untimely burial of Somali art and poetry. For the man they zoomed in, in their vindictive pursuit of clan vendetta is irreplaceable; and an instantiation of Somali culture and folklore. A genius, some analysts compared to Shakespeare, in terms of the influence both men had in their respective languages. ‘A prophet is not revered at home’, they say. And it is true Singub is not a prophet. But he isn’t an ordinary man either. He is a man of intellect, a possessor of wisdom and a literary genius. A gifted actor, poet, and philosopher! Heaven knows how from a monotonous life of the Hawd, a shining star of a nation came. By all measures, Mohamud has already overachieved! And has no more to prove. From Xoriyo to Qabyo, from Qabrigii Jacaylka to Waa Maadays Aduunyadu, who among us had not twinkled with awe and appreciation when Mohamud let out the barrage of allegories and metaphors: giving us stories, guiding us to moral principles, warning us of vice and most of all refreshing our minds. And who hasn’t put palm to palm and cheered in standing ovations to his stupendous performances in those unfittingly small theater houses of the defunct country. Unfitting, because for a man of such stature and intuition, - a man in the pedigree of Mozart and Bach, the opera edifices of Vienna and Sydney would have been fortunate to host! If, however, Somali language is still a language of few millions of nomadic people in East Africa, and hence, the works of the man has no global appeal at that, it is not his mistake. He is just an ill-fated man. And as if his fame among this tiny people is menacing, sick minds have unearthed all the stones they could dig, to sully the reputation and regal standing of Singub. Because, allegedly, at the start of the Somali civil war, he has taken sides. I am in no mood to delve into whether he had or not, or whether he should have or not; but the fact remains, Mohamud Abdullahi Isse’s patriotism and nationalism are categorical. All his works bear out that assertion. If he had affronted some groups with his political aligning of the yesteryears, it is a choice he made based on either pragmatic grounds; or at worst an error of judgment. That is why if he had supported the falling regime, as alleged by the secessionists, it looks he was prophetic enough to foresee what is to transpire, and had chosen to throw his lot with the lesser of the evil. A bad Republic would still have been better than the carnage that ensued after the demise of Siyad Barre, and a united Somalia is far more sacred than a constellation of tiny banana republics. Looking at what has come of Somalia, and the unsavory intent of few who are hell-bent in curving out miniature ‘forts of loot’ from the ribs of a giant nation - driven by sheer ignorance, avarice and/ or hate; who would bet against the unassailability of the judgment of citizens who stood up to confront those who were wrecking the boat? In total disregard for Somali societal decorum, and with mirthful exploitation of loopholes in western laws, they rushed to quench an insatiable craving for his blood. And god knows pain they inflicted! But for a man who has swam in the tumultuous waters of the unpredictable life of Hawd and who single-handedly made himself, tenacity and patience are hardly an asset he longs for. He has it, and in time, the pain will be gone. The mind-numbing pain goes to the Somali nation, though. When will we finally lay down the bottles filled with clan venom, strapped around our waists, and treat national figures as public treasures well beyond and above the fray of messy clan feuds? The Pre-eminence of Singub’s works has withstood time and the competition of many other great Somali artists, and it is apparent it will survive the avalanche of lies and distortions of the marauding secessionists. If history is not ‘a fable agreed upon’ as Napoleon would like us believe, the day of deliverance is beckoning! And the day will come when grateful men and women of our nation will assemble and pay tribute anew to the mastermind and do honour to the toasts for him. In my mind, I see people lining up in bookstores and libraries, in theaters and exhibition halls to get a glimpse of the art and wisdom the man conferred to us. One day, some day. Meet you there!

I read it somewhere. why? call it cat's curiosity. soo in la istijaabiya ma aha. And frankly i know where i am in the scale. But again, such things are VERY private. Islaantu uun ha ogaato!!!KKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKk

Is it not sublime and tranquil. I loved it . Thank you JB.

Koora Tuunshe; Who is responsible for the rasso thing and by the way how it all started? Check your facts! but again ONLF has nothing to do with it. And as to the question of clan claiming land, ONLF is not fighting in any other clan's land, saaxiib! I am told you said. well brother, i am not told. i am there. And ONLF is not our problem. It is the Ethiopian army who are raping our girls. I refuse to accept crocordile tears and elephant milk (by way of hearsays). I have expected more substance and rigor of analysis from the mighty Koora-tuunshe; than the leisure talk at Majlisis.

I detest all Yey and his criminal gangs stand for. But there is no love lost between me and secessionists either. Petty mind peddling tribal zeal and a return to 'era of feiefdoms' at the 21 century. PATHETIC

I detest YEY and all he stands for; but there is no ove lost between me and secessionists either. at the age of globalisation, petty minds running around with tribe zeal and tiny fiefdoms. PATHETIC!

Ideally the thing has to be between 12-17.5 cms. 68% of people are between this range. 17.5 wax bakhtiyay..., So you can see where you are on the scale.

Actually i like all those you mentioned. By my favourite is When A man loves a women (percy Sledge) JB- bal taas soo raadi!

What About Ethiopia? I live there and i know the enemity between different groups eclipse anything the somali's are experiencing. He is a useless dicator who has taken all somali's for petty-clanists. up in your ***! Alshabab is which clan?????????/

President Abdullahi Yusf: Wearing betrayal as a badge of distinction By: Abdullahi Dahir Moge Note to the readers:- The issue of personal attack and character assasination seems to have been misunderstood by many somali readers, that a mention of a politician, nowadays, runs the risk of an outcry of 'it is a personal attack' clamour. I think Stating historical facts (which are still open for refutations) or bringing up names of political figures (with out infringing on their physical, family or ancestral quarters) can, by no means, be discribed as a slander or libel. Indeed, it has now become trendy to hide under the false sanctuary provided by the confusions that arise out of the mix-up of the very notions. And it is quite suffocating! If Lombroso was alive today, he would have buried himself in the sand in ignominy. Cesare Lombroso, the Italian criminologist, believed in ‘biological determinism’ and argued that ‘criminals have particular physiognomic attributes or deformities’. According to him, criminality was inherited, and hence ‘the born criminal could be distinguished by physical atavistic stigmata’. These physical attributes including, inter alia, large jaws, low sloping foreheads, hawk-like noses or hard shifty eyes. Well, Abdullahi Yusf Ahmed, Somalia’s ‘President’ has none of that; yet he is a wicked criminal. In fact, with avuncular looks, curly hair and ever-present ‘adeer, listen to me’ talk, he is just another elderly Somali father. The deeper I look into the man’s face, albeit irrationally, the lesser I could find any trace of proof to validate the Italian’s assertions. The very exploration of Lombroso’s supposition, was itself disconcerting, as I realized that such attitude will land me into the club of ‘eugenists’; and that after all, Lombroso’s assertions failed to stand to the test of times and are no longer considered as the foundations of contemporary criminology. To what does Lombroso’s purported theory amount to, then? To nothing. But that is not the end of the story. Luckily, criminals who escape that ‘natural detector’ can still be seized by the more rigorous one of scrutinizing their deeds and that is what I did with Abdullahi yusuf. Abdullahi Yusuf Ahmed’s litany of crimes, rebellion, killings, and tribalism epitomises the ugliness of treason and betrayal of national interest: a treason he wears with gusto, as if it is a medal of honour. In 1977, at the height of the Ethio-Somali war, a group of Somali Colonels hatches up a plot to subvert the gains made by the gallant Somali army. Somalia’s current president was a key resident in that abode of iniquity. He is, however, lucky because Somali’s are tribal society and treason is pardonable. Or so it looks. His revolt against the tyrannical dictatorship of the late President-Siyad Barre, is understandable and in many ways commendable, but his later day actions point to a less ‘nationalistic’ motives for the insurrection than he purports it to be. A man, who privately confides with associates and clans-men, that the ‘Qaran-diid’ X-clan deserve to be obliterated from the face of the earth; couldn’t have had the Somali vision in fighting Siyad Barre. Perhaps, it was all about inter-XYZ clan antagonism, or psychopathic lust for power that gave him the tenacity to wage a guerrilla war against the republic. Nothing in the man’s actions of the last decades suggest to an altruistic and nationalistic desire to emancipate the Somali people from the malaise of tribalism, corruption and ill-governance it was deeply engrossed with. In the 1990s, Abdullahi Yusuf sought the support of the Ethiopian regime to crush Al-Itixaad. Hundreds of Somali youth were ruthlessly butchered by foreign army under the stewardship of Somali traitors. The Ethiopians were also there to his rescue as he fought another clan war with Jama Ali Jama in Puntland. But the biggest crime was yet in store for the man who takes immense pride in the number of battles he fought and blood he shed. Thousands of Somali youth have fallen at their early ages for his throne, and were used as a ritual sacrifice for his comfort and political ascendancy. Millions of Somali’s hung their heads down in shame and humiliation when he collaborated with arch-enemy Ethiopia in the‘re-colonization’ of Somalia. Thousands have fled their homes and languish in squalor and hunger around the capital. Hundred of Somali girls are raped by the barbaric invading army. Most recently, the octogenarian ‘troglodyte’ president whose definition of ‘dawlad and shacab’ is pre-historic, to say the least, is busy sabotaging any possibility of a peace deal. Surrounded by a retinue of clan-maniacs and former warlords, he knows a peaceful Somalia will hold him responsible for the unspeakable crimes committed against its people. Hence, he prefers the last days of his life to end in exile and (in fortress when in Somalia) pretending to be a president – just an ordinary president; who can stand shoulder to shoulder with the rest of world leaders with his head high. What a pity? And an insult to the Somali nation as well! It is time Somali’s prepare dossiers for the Marshal Petain’s of modern era and manuscript their crimes for posterity. Or at least name and shame them for what they are! Traitors. The worst thing to do is watching when murderers masquerade as leaders; and people turn blind eye.

Those who are still busy on trivialities such as a name a liberation front has to take, are hypocrats. They could at least have sympatized with their bretherns who are dying of hunger and are being raped, before they run into the abode of 'all tribalsim' and find fault with a name. Koora-Tuunshe; Who else than the O are dying in the 'Somali' region? and who else is in the prisons of jigjiga? I have a lot of respect for you; but you got it wrong this one. And after all, have you seen the fallacies in the outdated article you posted here?

Koora Tuunshe; bal xaggaad sheekadii ula kacday day. Iyagoo O ah taageer waa walaaladaaye. Hadii kale soo galoo S ka dhig. War anagaa wax aragnay. You people never cease to amaze me!

I am sorry. wasn't that the land of serenity and tranquility? JACAYL BARO. What happened?

General; I admire your tenacity. But amazed why you can't get fed up of being the devil's advoacte. the last time i was banned becasue i couldn't stand when you inundate the forum with photos of some criminals. I hope i won't not be banned again.

KALSUUMO’S SHACK (Short Story) Abdullahi Dahir Moge The walls of the tiny four-by-six meters wide shack that Kalsuumo calls her teashop are packed out with scrapes of old newspapers to cover the foliage and wooden bits and pieces it is made of. From the surreal frieze that beautifully whittled out of the mosaic of papers stitched up to one another; Arabic, English, Chinese, Somali and several other languages can still be spotted effortlessly. Immaculately dressed bollywood, middle-eastern and Western stars and tycoons gaze from the glamorous pictures on the old and not-so-old papers on all sides of the walls. Heaps of grain-sacks that dangle down from the top formed a well-decorated ceiling. The inscriptions on the sacks are covered with dust but are still visible: ‘A gift from the people of the United States of America’ it reads. On the whole, the interior of the shack offered a view of a colourful billboard strewed with details of the latest movies, hot gossips in town, and news and arts of yesteryears and the contemporary. Dr. Deeq is like a son to Kalsuumo. He seldom misses out of the afternoon Qat-chewing routines; unless he is sick or he has got some ‘big’ money. In the latter case, he vanishes for weeks, only to re-appear with mountains of lame-excuses. And, miyaad ogtihiin waxa igu dhacay whines. He, like all the other clientele, calls the old women aunt Kalsuumo to show gratitude for the kindness she accords to all of them; when fate refuses to oblige and their day goes tough. She lends them money from her meager income. ‘Kalsuumo, please give us five cups of tea.’ Deeq said ‘You will have to wait for few minutes. It is boiling’ she replied. ‘Your tea is always boiling. Look, all the plates people ate from are still littered around. If I were your husband, I would have divorced you in a day’. It was Ina Kooreeye who cut in with rough tone, feigning anger. Kalsuumo sells food at lunch time. Some days -like today, the ‘chewers’ come early and inconvenience her. Ina Kooreeye, is an escapee from the ‘devil’s island’. That is what they say. He shows no mercy to anybody. In fact, he overly practices his native prejudices on this quiescent women, for the fleeting approval of his likes in the room; who would giggle at his vulgar remarks. Kalsuumo made a habit of ignoring him. Kalsuumo knows Dr. Deeq behaves himself well in her place, and don’t approve of the mean language and bad-mouthing some customers hurl at him. The other day, Ina Kooreeye was adamant that Dr.Deeq is not superior to him in medicine. ‘You don’t have to tell me what to use for my stomach-ache.’ He snapped at him, when Deeq suggested he should try some antibiotics. ‘You know nothing.’ he said. Ina Kooreeye is the famous dilaal (broker) in the livestock market few meters away from Kalsuumo’s teashop. ‘You! You respect no one. So, you don’t deserve to be talked to.’ Deeq said blithely. Of course, Deeq is not a trained medical doctor. He has started his ‘town’ life when he returned to Somalia, after the 1977 Ethio-Somali war. He was a brave fighter in Duufaan unit - of the Western Somali Liberation Front (WSLF). Later, he was promoted to taar-wade (radio-man). Kalsuumo knows a lot of things. What story had she not heard! When they come to her place, with their Qat and order tea; they tell her all their problems. And as if she is a psychiatrist or a psychologist, she has the patience of Prophet Ayuub; to listen and listen to their tales. Kalsuumo presents the biggest challenge to Deeq’s expertise. Unintentionally. She always complains to him about her health problems. ‘Deeqoow’, she said, ‘I am very sick today.’ ‘What happened? Which part?’ ‘It is all my body. No part is spared.’ ‘You could have caught cold. Or it could be malaria’. ‘I don’t think. I know what hit me. ‘ ‘What is that? You fell down?’ ‘No. qumaydaii aanu jaarka aheyn baa iggashay’, she revealed. It was uncharacteristic of her to extend discussion beyond yes or no replies. Maybe, it is the illness. Now, therein is where Deeq differs from the conventional medical practitioners. He doesn’t stick to the ‘dogma’ of those who are versed with medicine. He understands, not all things are explicable scientifically. ‘Taxaliil dhigo’, he prescribed. Yes, he is not a conventional doctor. And, he doesn’t like to talk about how he got himself into this profession. He only says, ‘since when Somalia collapsed, and I returned to my home town; I have done my ‘best’ to cater to the needs of the sick in my community’. He got ‘robust’ knowledge from his friend-a Nurse with whom he was a business associate. The nurse would send him to Somalia with a list of drugs to purchase, and Deeq would get a commission for taking the arduous journey back and forth across the border. Overtime, he learned what is administered for Malaria, Diarrhrea, Headache, and how to inject with needles. That is why he is employed by the regional Health Bureau as a nurse. And although he doesn’t insist, he doesn’t discourage either; when ‘grateful’ patients from the rural areas call him ‘Dhakhtar’ Deeq. His handsome looks and the white attire he wears all the time, gives him a scholarly allure and cement his claims. He is likeable, funny and engaging. So much that, even those who know he is not a doctor, don’t mind when others call him so. Her customers’ think Kalsuumo suffers from depression. They don’t see her getting excited, or happy. She is impassive and is usually detached from what is going on around her. Nonetheless, all of them appreciate her good manners. It is only Ina Kooreeye who insists her serenity is not innocence but cynicism. Balaayey la aamusan tahay, he says. Kalsuumo lost her only daughter in South Africa. She was murdered by thugs. And the old woman is not usually enticed to have fun. But, the day she heard what Deeq did in Saylo town, she couldn’t help but burst in wild uproar. He was there with a group of Islamic preachers (tabliiq), they told her. When the elder of the host village uttered the words ‘welcome to Saylo’; Deeq rushed forward in excitement. He loves music. ‘Is this Saylo? Are you sure this is Saylo?’ he asked twice with incredulity. Before anyone gave him a reply, he abruptly sung. ‘Sayloo guyaal badan ‘ Soo baxaa kaliishii Seel seela loo dagay Sannad geelu wada dhalay…’ Ma meeshii loo qaadaybaa? He asked. The rest of the Jamaaca looked at one another in bewilderment. He quickly cut off the song, but friends tease him with that blooper, thenceforth. Meecaad’s long story interrupted the harsh exchanges between Deeq and Ina Kooreeye. He was a stranger to this ‘majlis-miskiin’. He came from America, three weeks ago. ‘I came from America to satisfy my fleshy temptations. I came for a piece of tumasho and Beer. I like to do it the cheap way with Axmaaro girls. My elder bothers who reject my drinking habits and lustful life-style give me hard time in America.’ He started. Looking at the long faces of few who were taken aback by his audacity to narrate such filth, he introduced himself. ‘Excuse me. I am Meecad. I am fifty three years old. I am telling you about this bad thing, because I am stunned by what is going on here in Jigjiga.’ Ina Kooreeye was the first to mount the onslaught. ‘Go elsewhere and tell your dirty things to whoever is interested’. He was visibly angry. ‘Look at your age, and what spews out of your stinking mouth. Instead of spending your last few years in tranquility, praying for God’s forgiveness; you brag about your sinful exploits’. Others, mainly Muxyaddin who is the most polished and by far most ‘educated’ among the group; wanted the man to get to the moral of his story. ‘Waryaa, Ina Kooreeye; leave the man alone. Let him finish what he begun. You know how deafening your monotonous sheekada ceelasha is. And yet, we give you time to speak.’ Muxyaddin is crafty when hammering this loquacious man. He always taunts him with references to Ina Kooreeye’s rural background. So, Meecaad was cleared to continue. * * * * * * ‘I was picked up by policemen from the airport as soon as I arrived; and was put behind bars. I didn’t know why? On my second day in custody, I needed Beer. I am addicted and could not hold back for any longer.’ He paused to puff off the smoke from the cigarette he was ‘guzzling’ in. ‘I called the young policeman, who was looking down from the guards-post with intense vigilance. I gave him a bottle and asked him to buy me Beer from the bars. In exchange, I promised him five dollars.’ It was what Meecaad says the policeman told him, that made everybody gasp with shock. ‘The policeman looked at me, his mouth wide-open with disbelief; and asked me if I know what charges I am facing.’ Meecad squinted his eyes and got silent for few seconds. ‘I said no. the policeman, then, told me that I am suspected of being Al-Itixaad ’. ‘Al-Itixaad! You?’ the men around shouted. ‘I have thought my life will end one day when a drunken prostitute cracks my cranium open with a sharp-edged bottle’, Meecaad seemed genuinely surprised. ‘But, never imagined I will be incarcerated for being a religious fanatic’. Some didn’t get the story at all; others were hilarious. But none wanted to listen anymore, as Duwane suddenly came into the room. Duwane was furious. ‘Why did none of you attend my wedding last night?’ he asked. ‘Who did you tell to? We know your wife was laboring for the last three nights? That is what you told us before yesterday?’ Muxiyaddin was calm. ‘By the way, has she delivered yet?’ ‘And, so you didn’t hear I married another wife last night?’ Duwane queried and then said; ‘The first wife got a baby girl. But she is in a bad shape. She needed a surgical operation.’ Kalsuumo overheard the discussion. It made her queasy. ‘Oo ma iyadoo mid foolanayso, yaad midkale aroostay?’ she was not indignant. She has heard similar or even more chilling stories about couples in the neighborhoods, before. ‘Give us tea. And as to your question, I am allowed four wives’. ‘I would have killed you, if I were the unfortunate first wife!’ remarked Kalsuumo. It was one of the two or three comments she throws around the whole day. ‘I love the thrill of the chase and drama of a triangular or rectangular love-affair. As long as it doesn’t end up in a crime of passion, as you seem to suggest, eeddo!’ he joked. Kalsuumo lunged forward to the old flask on the metal-box that also serves as a safe. She had no time for a debate she knew she wouldn’t win. She didn’t hear what he was telling the other clients. ‘I will buy her gold when she recovers’, he said with pride, as if that will expiate him from the appalling neglect of his responsibilities. He thinks he is a believer in the utilitarian concept of matrimony. But no one knows if he pays attention on how to make it functional. And attractive, as well. Duwane has just been selected as a senior cadre of the Somali peoples’ Democratic Party. And whenever he comes to pay a visit to his old friends, he comes with a bit of politicking. ‘Politics is poison. It needs guile.’ He starts with. And concludes, ‘it is not a beauty contest but a beastly business. Only men like me, who can tread where the angels fear to tread, can swim through its murky waters.’ Minutes later, he broke the breaking news of the day. ‘Our party, today, decided to honuor the contribution of women to society by observing a one-minute silence in commemoration of the oppressions they had undergone’ he told them. Muxyaddin pretends to be too-sophisticated and all-knowing; thanks to his modest schooling in Somalia where he completed intermediate school. But, He is not someone who likes to pass baloney with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘Duwane, I think your rhetoric about ‘honouring’ women contradicts your deeds. I think the best example of honouring women is not set by abandoning your wife on a delivery-table; and flirting with another one.’ He said, contemptuously. ‘Do you know who I married?’ Duwane was agitated. ‘She is the nephew of the head of Finance Bureau. If you are a smart politician, you take tough decisions. Remember, audacity is an asset.’ The last few days, Kalsuumo couldn’t understand why most of her age-old clients stopped coming to her place. What has she done to alienate all of them? As far as she knows, she was good to them. She gave them tea, and food, whenever they asked for. Both, when they paid for it or when they promised to pay later. She has written-off the debts of many; although she earns less than three dollars a day. So she asked Dr. Deeq, who never disappeared. ‘Ina Kooreeye has gone to Nazreth for training. He is recruited by Duwane as a party member.’ He told her, smiling smugly. ‘Do you remember Meecaad? The old man with the curly hair. He is sick. They say he is admitted to the TB ward of the hospital.’ ‘What happened to the poor man?’ Kalsuumo asked. ‘I saw a relative of him. He says, the doctors say he might not survive. He is not responding to the drugs.’ ‘Ilaahay ha u sahlo.’ She prayed for the man she doesn’t know. ‘Ilaahay ha u sahlo, but he was a bit of waayeelka jaqafsada.’ Dr. Deeq said. Kalsuumo didn’t get what Deeq was driving at. Even if she was told Meecaad was HIV positive, she wouldn’t have understood. Deeq told her that Muxyaddin is arrested on charges of ‘spreading subversive lies on the internet’. Muxyaddin has the habit of exaggerating his skills. And one day, he bragged about how he is an expert on matters pertaining to computers. In deed, he was only capable of writing and reading e-mails, and browsing websites. He could not have posted the pictures in the blog he is accused of running. A week before he stopped showing up; as Muxyaddin strode from the nearby market to her hovel, in the midst of a gentle drizzle that was falling, she heard one man in her teashop, pointing fingers at him. ‘You see that man coming. The one with the hat. Waa dadka internet-yadda wax galgaliya.’ ‘What is that he puts in?’ she asked him, not knowing where he is alleged to have put things in. ‘I don’t know. But I know the man is our enemy. Reekanaga lama tussi karo.’ The man said. ‘Most Somali’s are tied with shackles of narrow-tribalism; and fight over trifling matters’, a Whiteman who once visited her teashop commented to her. ‘Gaalkii baa idin sheegay, what you are made from’, she says since then; when she gets fed up of the fiery sound bites. Muxyaddin recalls the analogy Mr. Hugh Scofield, the British veterinarian who lived with this community for three years, drew when he spoke about the conflict among Somali’s. It was the conflict between the fictional tribes in Jonathan Swift’s widely known book Gulliver’s Travels. The conflict between Lilliputians who preferred cracking open their soft-boiled eggs from the little end, and Blefuscans who preferred the big end. Three months after the day Duwane’s marriage was announced to her; she heard him over the radio. Over Idaacadda Afka-Somaliga ee Radio Addis Ababa. ‘We have to use our knowledge, skills and experiences to develop our people.’ He was saying. She couldn’t agree more. If Muxyaddin was listening, he would have said, ‘War Ina Kooreeye, are you not going for the Presidency?’ That is, if Duwane was by his side. ‘Unless, he is so daft, he would get the hint’, Muxyaddin would have thought. Kalsuumo wasn’t banking on Duwane to transform her life. Instead, she was thinking about whether he will have the time to remember to come, and pay the fifteen dollars he owes her.