Reer magaal Dhaqane, million thanks saaxiib. Forgive the rural folks please, they are not yet like you.

Nuune, waan saxaye, kan xiiqsan ee i quote gareey edit garee adigu.

!! :D I think he met Ramla online and shuukaansi was going fine with the single mother of five, laakin he did not give her all details.

Sayid*Somal;904386 wrote: Walaahi kan soomaalida iyo dhaqankooda ba dhulkuu ku jiiday - all because of lies - and he has the audacity to shout at the woman and say "why you asking me all this question - why why you confusing me" :D kan waa reerkayga, he is from our region. Badawnimadiisa ayaan ku garan. My brother died in Ethiopia and I married his wife kulahaa. Yaa waydiiyay how he married his wife. Looool he tries to bully the immigration lady by invoking the name of the US embassy.

He is a Somaliland diplomat, most likely. He was dramatic for a purpose. When he comes back home, he will say Holland oo dhan baa isugu kay timid oo wax iga qaadi kari wayday. I told all the airport officers up to their neck and they could do nothing about it. Typical Somali argument. When the guy said I am risk-assessing, the guy was like " oo! That is it; so I am risk now?!" I would say all this was a terrible communication breakdown.

Carafaat, what? Casablanca? War hedde all of us are married and we were not looking for foodleey or suxul-baroor laba qaraxday toona. BTW, your friend Asad was supposed to join us, but I couldn't call him because I was busy the whole day. Asad is a good family man, waa nin aan saqajaanka aqoon so we get along! For me it was about some live somali music. The one i got wasn't that great, the atmosphere was foul and I can say I waste few hours today. Don't they have any fun place for elderly men in Nairobi? Loooool, trying to compensate at home. I reckon I am over doing it and may elicit suspicion!

Alpha, who needs a computer in the age of iPhones????? I am not joking. I thought the night will be great but it ended prematurely. Heading home now. On the way. I don't make up stories like your wedding, and when I do I write a disclaimer saying this is a fiction.! I am returning to work on Monday after a long vacation.Now you understand!

Chimera, indeed. :D liked your elderly dance. Thanks to a Pediatrician who said he is he is working tomorrow, we have to leave at 11:30. Anyway, two of the singers should really be charged with treason against music; one was superb. Should get his name, he is going places. Where will I say I was?! Hmmmmmm. Ok, the Italian place is a good place to say I was. I was there.

Ok, I am not enjoying as much as I thought, and am here only as a matter of respect to the friends who brought me here. And Alpha, you got it your description is correct. I consider myself what you said. I hate girlish men and this place of full of them. They seem not to know the cardinal rule that the more you shun attention, the more you get it. Bit I will see night out no matter. Tomorrow is another day. I can't say I am optimistic about it. If I am lucky, huruuf is guaranteed.

To hell with parenthood. Are we going to die giving cough syrup or reading stories to kids? No way! Thanks to the four friends who dragged me out tonight, I feel alive tonight. It is going to be a long night tonight. I will be LIVE ilaa subaxa if I want. Of course I have already talked to the elders who will take me home tomorrow barqinkii. Let the Music start! We don't have spare life that will have fun after we die afterall!

Gosaye was always good but I see he is getting better. His debut Evangadi was his best. Grasshopper chose perhaps the best Teddy Afro song, which has a huge political import subtly admonishing the ruling Tigre's that the day of the real Ethiopians is beckning and even agitating some to take the gun when they hear his 'masinqo' ( a local musical instrument). All are done subtly and he can always say he meant something else, but Amharas cheer this song because it speaks to their political predilictions. The beat is not original; he took it from old Amhara traditional songs. Wyre, ok, I will post my best Amaharic song which will not be this salacious young girls accompanying the songs; but for now I thought of sharing this one because it is an execellent song you may never come across. Ok, the dance is a bit incongrous to the song and the singer is not the prettiest singer, but when Alem Kebede releases this song in mid 1990s, Addis Ababa stood with one feet. The song is a mix of love and a praise of Addis's different parts. Gosaye did a eendition later but this one is still better. Having lived in perhaps all sides of Addis Ababa, I kind of shout for every xaafad she mentiones, but I guess my place would be either the areas around the Uni, which include Piassa and Arada, or where I stayed when I was working in Addis near the Economic Commission for Africa,wjere the Italian named Kaza-Anchis ( the place of girls). :D or even Markato. I kind of laugh when she mentiones Aba-Koran, a sizzling district where I passed through maybe only once or twice. Lots of memories. Here is Alem: http://youtu.be/Ku7yBHSK5s4

In few years time when the hair receeds enough, I walk around and claim I am Hassan Sheikh Mumin and only those who know he is dead will say you are not him! My children saw a picture of him and still say aabo it is you!

Beenta jooji waryaa, where is it? I don't see it. Soo daa hadda. Intii hote script inaan kumoodaa laga yaabaaye. But you, Why do you need a facebook? You have met me and my family?

She doesn't lie and she said she saw my name on the facebook of a mutual friend who sent her a friend request this week. Now, the mutual friend is my namesake. My only worry now is how did he think of her now on the same week I talked about her. Could it be he who is reading SOL???? Horta Wadani or Faafan sound like him; and has at least once given a hint that they are from my village, laakin dee nin aanu isku ogeeyn in wax lakala qarsado ma aheyn. Bal let me call him oo aan ka dul wareego isgana!

Stoic, I did not accuse you; I did not suspect you. I just couldn't understand the coincidence, so was looking for possible explanations. I was informing you of what happened, I was not asking you to answer. After nearly 20 years, someone reappears on my Facebook looking for me - a week or so after I posted the ill-fated story here. Is that not nerve-racking? I am sure we are safe but the coincidence is still fascinating.

Stoic, contrary to the wishes of the Marwoness Juxa and Marwoness Blessed, all is safe. I found out how she got the facebook and it has nothing to do with the story here. Apparently a mutual friend and who is also a namesake of mine sent a friend requests and once that was accepted, my name popped up in this account. So, finally we are over this. Sir maqabe alla u sahan ah. This was a good lesson learnt though. Saw your cousin too. Apparently she was in Hargeisa when I was there but we didnot know about this. I think your cousin is a wadaad or sort lol.

What is this? Blessed and Juxa trying to spook me? Stoic, it will be fine. I think it was late when she sent the message and she slep; hopefully she will see my reply and all will clear in few hours time. Still, wondering about the timing. If she saw the story why hasn't she made contact immediately. No way. Can someone who is not in your friends list send you a private message to you? I am techno peasant. For now, the only think in my mind is that she must have seen my name through other old Addis friends I added recently or a mututal friend I talked to mentioned my name to her. The last thing is Stoic talking talking to someone who betrayed him. Apophis, this is not a laughing matter waryaa. I would have enjoyed the humour in your description if this was not about enti. She is above jokes. Now and before.

Yes,Andinet instead of Abiyot. Tilahun ma maqal. Tilahun is also his brother who I met in Zimbabwe. Former colonel in Ethiopian army. He can still go to Addis and he does that. Funny man. On the speech and Obama, I have never entertained the idea that Obama is a good speaker; but then this was a poor imitation.

Apophis, of course I am. That girl was unlike any. Such a wonderful human being. I believe her breed are rare in this world. Words can't describe the love I have for her. Brotherly love I mean. Stoic - Walaahi I am feeling excited about talking to her. If her Somali hasn't improved after all these years, she has a case to answer.

Gibberish at its best. She is saying nothing! Only copied hyperboles. No, she is not Mengistu's daughter. None of Mengistu's children are called Sara. His were Abiyot (revolution), Timirt (education), Tigist ( parience), if I recall correctly.

Dear Stoic, I know you are an honorable man. Never doubted your integrity, so I am sure you have nothing to do with this but how do we explain it? Do we have your cousins in this forum who might have snitched on me? You remember that story about the Uni girl in one of my stories that turned out to be your dumaashi? This morning, I got this message on my Facebook. "Assalamu alykum, is this the [hebel]i know from addis uni? If yes, I can add u on my FB; if not disregard the message. Thanks." --Heblaayo. I have been thinking of reaching her, but apart from getting her contacts from a mutual friend, I did not call or message. I was thinking I will do that in the new year. Now, we have this and I am finding the coincidence curious. How much does she know? Should I confess and explain, or should I just embrace a long lost friend who reappeared. Happy New Year by the Way.

But she always understood them. Most were men who worked at the townships. To be fair to them, they only visited her during the freezing winter months. The hardworking men at the townships of South Africa are decent men. Top in their to-do-list as soon as they get enough money is to marry a Somali girl. When the brides are “gabdho” (Virgin), they come from home villages in Somalia, Kenya or Ethiopia. Where they are “garoob”, Sweden, with its sundry single mothers, supplied the most brides. I was thinking this will ignite virtual fist-fight from SOL girls in Sweden. Apparently, they did not even notice it.

Xabad, you are right the theme is getting repetitive, but then I can write only what i hear. I swear I did not want to wrote this particular story but a friend if mine in Sudan today said he was a witness to this story. I was shocked, so naturally wanted to shock. This Apophis creature is proving to be something clever. I should make him my spokesman. He got this one right. This story should have been in the Women's section. It is supposed to get them by when they are waiting for an episode of " desperate housewives". Anyway, as you may have observed I have taken a sabbatical from Politics; which means I am not interested in talking to men of SOL. I vowed not to return to the politics section until Oodweeyne returns. Sports are also not interesting these days, Man U is leading by too many points and tuujiye and Bob are not around. I am therefore participating in the women's section even when I post stuff in the General section. Therefore men readers please don't read my stories. Please. It is not like I don't what appeals to you. It is that I am interested in the attention of the womenfolk.

PART II But she always understood them. Most were men who worked at the townships. To be fair to them, they only visited her during the freezing winter months. The hardworking men at the townships of South Africa are decent men. Top in their to-do-list as soon as they get enough money is to marry a Somali girl. When the brides are “gabdho” (Virgin), they come from home villages in Somalia, Kenya or Ethiopia. Where they are “garoob”, Sweden, with its sundry single mothers, supplied the most brides. Sahal and Abib shared Filsan only one night. Sahal was the one who agreed with Filsan for the nocturnal duty. That year was in 2005, two full years before Sahal and Abib finally found the path of God. That night, they were both drunk. As Sahal slept, immersed with the perspiration of appeased lust, Abib found Filsan irresistible and saw no reason to disdain the free prize of a superfluous filly. She did not mind the mount. Sin is not a mathematical function. It has not numbers. One or two or three does not apply for sins. In the following months, both Sahal and Abib visited Filsan several times. Each knew about the other’s nights with the beautiful whore. So, it was a shock to Sahal when Abib proposed to Filsan. Proposed is an overstatement. He merely asked her if she agrees to marry him and she agreed. The thought of a selfless Somali man who would marry her one day did occur to her in some instances, but she never expected that man to be Abib. Abib knew about Sahal, Sahal knew about Abib, so although both were regular visitors, she did not think one of them will be taker. Whenever the sordid thought that she may have preferred Sahal if she had an option creeps into her mind, she curses herself for her ungratefulness. It was Abib who made her a woman. A Marwo in a new Town. And soon a Marwo in a new continent – America. There is more to marital prefixes than mere designation, mere appellations. These prefixes are monuments of dignity; stamps of purity; echoes of exclusivity. They are society’s hoodwinking metaphors even when the holders of the honorary titles are ugly sinners. They are detergents that cleanse past sins; paints that ameliorate clandestine present depravity. Marwo Filsan lives in a two bedroom apartment in Cape Town, far away from Pretoria where she left her sins – in the Asian brothel she worked in. Sahal and Abib live together, as they lived always. The two friends agreed to save money by living together instead of paying two rentals. “Breakfast is ready.” Filsan tell both men every sunrise. She cooks and feeds them. But at night, only one man owns her. Sahal for her is a dumaashi. Sahal for Filsan is a dumaashi. He never transgressed. She never desired Sahal in her real moments. Abib was right about his friend. Sahal keeps promises. The problem isn’t Sahal. Nor is it Filsan’s desire. The problem is Filsan’s dreams and daily mirages that bring bad thoughts; that smuggles bad sketches of a body – she should not know about but she knows about in atomic details – into her mind. The two men are happy. It is she, who is tormented by dreams and filthy thoughts. “Merry Christmas, dear viewers.” The SABC news reader –wearing a white shirt and yellow tie – was on the TV that night. As if to cement the moral supremacy of his faith, the newsreader read a scary report about Somalia – as the trio in Filsan’s house – watched. The report was about Alshabab militants in Somalia who beheaded a young girl and a 42 year old for adultery. Abib reacted to the news first. “Many people in the world say AlShabab are murderous zealots. Many Somalis share the view that they are messing the country. I don’t know.” He continued, “I don’t know what they are doing or if they are messing the country. But one thing I like about them is their stance on adultery and prostitution. They deal with the offenders strictly. They implement God’s judgment to the letter.” Filsan did not speak. Her mind was fuming at an enemy big and pervasive enough to warrant trial. If there were courts that had jurisprudence over the unreal world, I would have sued my dreams, my imaginations. In truth, the enemy she wanted to sue was her vivid recollections. Is thinking about who stayed long and who did not a sin? She ruminated ashamedly. What is better? A soft heart or hard loins? It a question whose answer she knew. She cried in gratitude and love, thanking in her heart the man who made her a human being. Knowing that she loves Abib made her happy.

PART I Did I like Sahal more than Abib because he goes hard and long? Filsan introspected involuntarily, but quickly regained dignity and decorum. It was 25 December 2007. I shouldn’t think about bad memories. Except it is not a memory. It is real. The drip drips of the falling water in the adjacent bathroom were real. The falling water was more fortunate than her. She felt the water stroking the hairless chest of Sahal, sojourning momentarily at the wide pit of his navel, and flowing past the forbidden thighs she used to pinch only two years ago. The water, grateful it was allowed to traverse the contours of such regal physique undisturbed, only started to squawk when it thumps the white sink – the solicitous sink that indefatigably hosts the sins of mankind before it is buried in the cesspool as a waste. The sink – on which Sahal’s tall legs stood as his hands scratched the front and back of his frame to cleanse his skin of dirt. How he wished the sins of his soul are also cleansed! Filsan shut her eyes tight and shook her head vigorously to expel the foul sketch of a nude alien man from her mind. She succeeded thanks to the soft voice of Abib. “Filsan, did you see my notebook?” Abib asked, worried more about losing the outline for the Friday prayer sermon – he will have to deliver in two hours – less about the notebook itself. “Don’t worry. I put in the bedroom”. Filsan’s words reassured Abib; Abib’s query awakened her from a reverie of guilt and discomfiture. She returned back to the muddled reality of the real world. She calls it the perverted world. How can they call this a real world? She muses. Two years ago she married Abib. Two years and six months ago she slept between Sahal and Abib, gazing at the chandeliers of the brothel she worked in, wondering if the two men who were reining on her crimson that cold night were sane. She never blamed herself for the two men’s depraved carnal conflation. “Did I choose this? Did I bring myself into this shame? Can I stop the men from doing this?” She was at peace with herself. “And…and…by the way” she said to herself “is sleeping with two men at the same time more sinful than sleeping with two or three in two alternate nights?” She knew that prostitution is a sin. She also knew that the sin doesn’t get bigger with each act of fornication. Filsan blames her parents who did not take care of her. They did not educate her. As a child she trekked every other day from a village to a nearby town with her mom who earned a livelihood from selling firework. At 13, the parents – with 8 more children – heard that young girls of Filsan’s age are making money in the town. They sent her to work as a maid. She was ignorant. She was confused. But her beauty was also confounding even the most sober of menfolk. To her luck, – Batuulo – the lady she worked for proved to be more than a good master. She became a real mother to Filsan. Batuulo gave the young girl food and remuneration. And more. She gave her guidance. She protected her from the prying eyes of evil men. “O! has Abib already left for the mosque”, Sahal, drying his hair with a blue towel, asked Filsan. “Why didn’t he wait for me?” Sahal and Abib always go to the Mosque together. “You stayed in the shower for a while. Abib said, as the Imam of the Mosque, he should arrive on time”. Filsan said. “He said you and him are going to have lunch outside today. So, I am not preparing food here.” She added. Sahal nodded and went to his room to dress up for the Friday prayers. Mama Batuulo felt insulted when she heard that Filsan has gone. Filsan stayed with Batuulo for two years only. “Women – old or young – are all thankless. A man would at least have told me he is leaving! What did she miss here, people?” The old woman fumed at her neighbours who told her that Filsan has joined other “youth” whose destination was said to be South Africa. Before Abib proposed, she was at the brothel where she met Abib and Sahal for three solid years. The first year was painful; the second was better, the only calamity being the scar on the left cheek which she got from a drunkard Zulu who cut her with a nail-cutter. Unless she felt hungry, or her savings dwindled so low that the next morning meal was at risk, she avoided accepting non-Somali customers. She would oblige their teases, accept drinks but always hid herself at the last minute. She slept with Somalis and Asians; the latter always elderly. These encounters confirmed the validity of the Somali adages to her. A cleric never goes to heaven leaving kin and kith behind. It is true. Most Somali men who visited her were good to her. They treated her like a compatriot sister. Some even gave her money and implored her to leave the place. She took the money not their cynical advices. “If they care about me as a sister, why do they use my body?” She gripes at times.