Tales of Interruped Dreamers

[Paragon]

(First Installment)

 

Interrupted Dreamers

 

Hobbled together, gathered before a television set, a group of men attentively watched the news of what use to be their home-country, a home they fled due to war. Their eyes alertly fixed on the television screen, astonished as the newsreader narrates a story of an unexpected victory that befell a previously unknown movement called Midowga Maxkamadaha Islaamiga (The Union of Islam Courts). The atmosphere in the living resumed an air reminisce as the images old homes and former government office blocks familiarly recognized by the men flickered before them on the television set. As their former home-city’s roads, once glittering and full of life, now reduced to ghost-paths trodden only by the victims of the war’s dead spirits and the wounded, are revealed by the news-reporter, their eyes appeared to be welling with tears laden with grief. Yet, they remained, hands over their lips avoiding sudden break into wailing, thoughtfully fixated at the newsreader’s lips. As the newsreader, emotionlessly and mechanically, continued to tell and neared the end of the story of an unexpected new development in the political condition of their home-city, on all of their faces, a smile seemed to be gradually forcing itself on their grief-laden faces. And by the second the news-story ended, each man, like a collection of powerful fireworks launched in precision, elatedly rocketed off his seat giving way to the fiercest rapture of joy and cheer any human heart is capable to produce. Of some, tears were descending down their cheeks as fast as a hefty rock would drop off the peak of a cloud-crowned mountain. Of others, they joyously jumped up so high that the thunder their landing feet spread, was so heavy and loud, that the neighbours below mistook it for a tremour and congregated on their door-step to inquire.

 

Overwhelmed by raw emotions, they continued with their celebratory mela into the early hours of the night. Their immediate neighbors, unsettled and uneasy, amassed in their front door and requested the police to intervene. Still unmindful of the gathering neighbours, they continued to celebrate, but suddenly a loud bang interrupted their celebration. It sounded like the door. The police arrived at their door-step, but failing in all attempts to get their attention, were now breaking in the door. They looked at each other in shock, and hurried towards the front door, only to realize two police-officers have already catapulted themselves inside the house.. ‘Police!’ they heard next. ‘No body move! Don’t you even try to move a finger!’ threatened one officer while his gun was trained at them. The other officer commanded them to lie on the floor as more armed officers, led by their senior, trickled in. As they dropped hard to the maple floor like soulless bodies, very grave thoughts wiped all joy off their jubilant minds. However big the crime they thought they have committed might have been, such a raid from a mounted police squad was the last thing they could ever expect. They lay there motionless and gob-smacked as the armed officers went from one room of the house to another – turning everything up-side down; even stabbing the sofa-sets and pillows conducting a thorough search.

 

The religious among the men imagined the worst of the situation, and were convinced that they are being raid to face the same fate as previously raided Somali homes suspected to harbour terrorists. ‘We are innocent!’ pleaded one of them. ‘Is that so?’ coldly replied the senior officer but before he could another word, another officer approaching from the direction of the living room interjected, saying ‘Boss. It is all clean and clear, but we found this thing in the living room’ holding a Shisha smoking bottle. ‘Sir, I think they’re pot-heads’. ‘No, no!’ shouted one of the men raising his head slightly. ‘Keep your bloody head down!’ threateningly ordered the senior officer. Following the order, the man continued explaining, ‘It is Shiisha, sir. It is all legal! We use it to smoke dried fruit-flavours, sir!’ ‘How do you spell it then?’ demanded the senior officer. ‘It’s spelt S.h.i.s.h.a sir’. Then the senior officer, while carefully examining the Shiisha-bottle flapped open his mobile phone and dialed it. ‘Hello Vicky, run the name, spelt S.h.i.s.h.a, through the Google and let me know what it is!’ requested the officer and flapped back the hand-set to end the call.

 

Within the minute, Vicky called back to reveal that Shisha is legal to be smoked in the United Kingdom and went into more details that it would be banned to be smoked indoors from July 2007…. ‘Thank you, Vicky. That’s enough information’ interrupted the senior officer turning to the men still lying on the ground. ‘Alright gentleman, you may now rise. We are sorry about this scandal. There seem to have been a mistaken identity. Chaps, the neighbours called the police station to report a loud thunder heard coming from your house and we mistook your house for another residence under police surveillance. We are deeply sorry for all the anxiety we might caused you’ apologized the senior officer. On that point, the squad was soon on its way out. But the men, shaking in their boots and startled, ghostly stood in the hall-way with not a word to utter. The police may have dismissed the raid as a mere coincidence but to them, it was spookily more than a coincidence.

 

Walking gently, like a chameleon, back to the living room and gathering, the oldest man among them humorously spoke ‘guys, it was a close call but boy I am glad we are all ok. Remember, guys, sometimes in life our great raptures of joy may rip the thin membrane that separates it from our great raptures of grief! And we, gentlemen, have lived long enough to have done so! Aren’t we old?’ All the men couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You could be wise sometimes, I tell you!’ responded another man in commendation. The words of their eldest man have reminded them of the earlier good news from their home-country, which gradually restored their celebratory mood. ‘Let us all get some good night sleep, brothers!’ shouted the eldest, adding ‘surely, Insha-Allah, when we all wake up tomorrow morning, the day promises us and all our countrymen, a very good cause to celebrate’. All cheer in agreement and go off to their sleeping places.

 

By Paragon

 

To be continued...

[N.O.R.F]

Do continue,,,,,,

 

ps is there any truth in this story?

[Paragon]

Northerner, very little truth in it. I wouldn't be able to admit it even if it were true sxb .

 

Continued..

 

ON that night as they off in their ways to sleep, one of them, Liban, was sleepless. Glimpses of flashing images from the potential of brighter future for his family and countrymen illuminated the darkest contours of his imagination. Certainly, the changing fortunes in Somali Politics instilled in him the greatest hope in his deprived life as a refugee to an extent that the contemplation of failure now appeared as far away as Timbuktu. Many happy thoughts beguiled him all that night. Never has he known in the last seventeen years when he could almost be sure that each member of his family could be guaranteed a safe night sleeping ‘on’ the bed, rather than underneath it dodging flying-by shells and bullets exchanged by warring Warlords. Like him, he entertained, a night like this, the only that would keep awake would be their happy thoughts of peaceful nights and days.

 

Previously, no day and night has past that was not filled with dread over his family’s well-being. At most times, he lived in a state of guilt over what could have done to facilitate his family’s escape from the war-torn city and to a safer place. This guilt arose from the fact that many of his friends, who were his neighbours in Mogadishu, have been fortunate enough to help their families to escape to Nairobi, the capital city of neighbouring Kenya and every time a neighbour safely escapes, his family would call in to press him to do whatever it takes to get them out too. But unlike all his financial resourceful friends, joblessness resulted by his lack of education and confidence, has subjected him to the most painful guilt. He tried every possible thing to secure a paying job but failed in all attempts. He even traveled to the country to become a vegetable picker in the farms but was nearly killed by a people trafficking gangster. Since then, he has given up the hope of getting a job and shares whatever meager welfare income that state pays him. Although the money he sends back to his family is hardly sustaining, this has been his family’s only source of income.

 

During the weeks the war was most fiercest, the safe remittance of this money has proved a major danger for his family, as the street of Mogadishu were filled with crazed gun-men ransacking remittance offices and hunting down any person spotted coming of them. Many innocent recipients of remittances from abroad were gunned down and everything in their pockets confiscated. As a result, sending back money equated to signing the death warrant of a family. Thus, unable to sustain themselves fled the city in desperation to refugee camps, in which starvation and malnutrition are permanent residents in the hope that basic necessities such as food and water would be found. As if being in a refugee camps were not enough, the ineffective so-called Transitional Federal Government of Somalia (TFG) exacerbated the camps’ dire condition by deciding to block all humanitarian Non-Governmental Organisations from delivering most needed food-stuffs to the starving refugees. When the news of the deadly fate faced by the refugees reached many concerned Somalis in the Diaspora, deep grief swiftly spread to most them like wild fire.

 

Although he related to the state of grief suffered by the affected many, yet he was relieved to know that his family hasn’t fled to the refugee camps. At least in Mogadishu, he always reasoned, they are not likely to suffer the pangs of hunger assaulting many families in the refugee camps. There were surrounded by many caring relatives who would not allow his family to starve. The only danger they faced was sudden death or injury by the gun. It is this that he feared most and in the weeks the war was being fought, sleep has eluded him. Constant worry was his only companion. But all through the war, his family has been fortune enough to escape the deadly consequences of the war. And now that the war has come to an end, he was ecstatic and overjoyed. Already, in his mind, he took a vow that through hook or crook, he must now find the money to help his family to mend the damages the following shells and mortars of the fighting has inflicted on his childhood home. After many hours of contemplation, finally manages to fall asleep.

 

ON the other side of the town, another equally concerned graduate of Politics who has been closely following the changing landscape of Somali Politics, was on the couch marveling, after watching BBC 24, at the impressive speed in which the UIC have been able to take over the control of entire Mogadishu and the effective expelling all myriad American-sponsored Warlords from the city. He was even more impressed was the wide-spread support the UIC has cultivated in the Somali public. ‘Lucky bunch’ he murmured to himself and further adding, ‘with the victory they have gained and the majority support they have now, they will sure go far! Oh, I wish I was one of them now to partake in the noble service they are providing to the Somali Nation.’ Soon after uttering those words, he closed his eyes dreamily and dozed off.

 

Twenty minutes into his sleep the phone rang, abruptly waking him up. Somewhat disorientated, he clumsily picks up the handle and put it on his left ear, ‘what the hell is so important that you must call me 2 am in the morning! Oh, this must be bloody important!’ he shouted down the phone. ‘It is important’ responded the voice on the phone, adding ‘it is also important that you update your CV ASAP!’ ‘And who you be? Do I know you?’ he sleepily questioned. ‘You don’t know us and you don’t need to know who we are, Nurraddin’ came back the answer. ‘How on earth did you know my name if I don’t know you?’ he questionably wondered. ‘We know who you are, Nurraddin. We know your life inside-out’ revealed the voice on the phone. Nurraddin, known by his friends and classmates to be an intelligent and knowledgeable student of International Relations, sources from the UIC got hold of his contact and have decided to communicate with him to deliver the command that he should prepare himself to fill a position in the ranks of the UIC. The voice on the phone has specifically commanded to keep a low profile until he receives further instructions, and, confidentially, never to conceal any information to any source whatsoever, or never to write down anything he has heard during the phone call. On hearing ‘never to write down anything’, Nurraddin stopped writing on the scrap of paper on his desk and concentrates to take in all that was being said in completeness. He repeated the messages given to him so as to confirm the correctness of the orders.

 

Upstairs, his sleeping wife is awoken by his raised phone conversation and comes down the stairs to ask who is calling. As she laboured down the stairs, he hears her steps, immediately hanging up the phone. Strangely enough, soon as he turned around, he couldn’t believe she was already standing in front of him. ‘Who was it?’ she asks. ‘No one special’ he responds with stammer, ‘it is just a friend’ he nervously replied. ‘A friend that calls this hour of the night, I see. What is his emergency then?’ she queried him disbelievingly. Before he could answer her, she continues to ask ‘tell me then, where is THIS friend in need calling from? ‘Just around London, he is one of my workmates’ he responded scratching his head. She walks past him and towards the direction of the phone and says ‘alright then, let me see where around London your friend called from’. ‘Honey please, why don’t you just trust me’ he begged her. Without saying anything else, she picked up the phone and pressed the redial button. On the phone’s screen appeared an African country’s telephone code. She turned around and looked at him angrily.

 

On seeing the expression on his wife’s face, his body language changed completely. ‘Don’t say a word to me! Get out of my house you lying pig!’ his wife screamed. She felt absolutely sure that Nurraddin had something fishy going on here. Her suspicions about him have been ignited by a rumour she had been told. All this started because Nurraddin has recently went to Nairobi, Kenya to visit his mother whom his wife hates bitterly. His wife, Jamaad, has been told that while visiting Nairobi, his mother arranged for him to marry another wife, due to the fact that his mother considers Jamaad barren and unlikely to be the mother of her future grand-children. Thus, since Nurraddin got back to London, Jamaad has been conducting her own private investigation to hunt for evidence that validates the rumour she heard. And now that she caught him lying, she grew convinced that he was calling his new wife in Nairobi. ‘Honey please, calm down. What got into you?’ he said trying to cajole her. ‘What got into me? What got into me?’ she quizzed him. ‘Yes, please tell me what got into you!’ he begged. ‘Your new wife in Nairobi got into me! That is what!’ she yelled furiously. This revelation surprised and at the same time puzzled him making him stagger back few steps. ‘My…come again? My new wife in Nairobi… what on earth are you talking about?’ he shouted out confused. ‘Yes, the one who has just called you from Nairobi!’ she resolutely confirmed. ‘Honey, no one called me from Nairobi! The call wasn’t even from Kenya; it was from Somalia! If you don’t believe me, just check the country code carefully!’

 

Jamaad picks up the phone again, bends closely investigate the telephone code and concentrates eyes on the phone screen only to realize that he is telling the truth time. Relieved, she exhaled and tried to calm herself down but not completely convinced, she comes closer to him and asks ‘why then have you lied about the origin of the call? Why did you say it was London and not Somalia?’ ‘Honey, because the call is a political secret I cannot disclose to anyone. If you will trust me on this one, I will tell you all about it when the time is right, I promise’ he softly explained while trying to kiss her on the forehead. But she leaned back in protest and climbs the stairs to the bedroom. Nurraddin, whispering sweet nothings goes after her and by the time they’ve both reached the top of the stairs, Jamaad’s laughter could be heard.

 

To be continued..

[N.O.R.F]

^^

 

ON the other side of the town, another equally concerned

graduate of Politics

who has been closely following the changing landscape of Somali Politics, was on the couch marveling, after watching BBC 24

Ha!

[Paragon]

^^

 

Adeer, its a coincidence, just a coincidence!

[N.O.R.F]

^^LoL, if you say so saxib. Where is part 3?

[Paragon]

On its way sxb....

[Jamster]

Such is the dreamy aspirations of graduates of politics; all waiting that tap on the shoulder or that fateful call to go back to Somalia and "safe" the country--- the instruments at their disposal is half comprehension of ancient greek works. Somalia is nothing like the ancient Greece nor a developed western country. The deep-seated problems our society suffers, on the superficial level is universal, but dig deep and you will realise they are painfully unique to us.

[Paragon]

^^^Fahiye, you have a valid point there. It is the dream that makes many graduates always remain 'expectant'.

 

 

-- [this postings are not edited and errors might be found. Forgive me if you spot any errors please.]

 

The next morning, Liban jumped off the bed energetically, filled with a great deal of optimism and urgent crave for an update about the political condition of his home-city, Mogadishu. It couldn’t have been a happier morning for him, with fine weather go with it. Never in his life, has he been so impatient to dash out of the house and head for the local Somali restaurant which is the meeting point for exchanges of news about Somali politics. Similarly impatient and hasty, was Nurraddin who couldn’t wait to get to the mosque where his friends regularly meet to discuss both religious and political matters. The glow on both Liban and Nurraddin’s faces, albeit their different political affiliations, was identically symbolic of the renewed hopefulness produced by the UIC’s victory.

 

After a short walk from his house, Liban entered the restaurant, which was as usual, resounding with raised debating and passionate voices. Somali restaurants have been for many decades the battleground for heated debates, scandalous debacles fuelled by distasteful clannishness and, in some rare cases, very informed and enlightened discussions held the handful decent individuals that had the misfortune of being Somali. Often, each restaurant is owned by one particular clan and its members congregate in it for multiple demonic reasons. Somali restaurants are unfailingly decorated and furnished by characters of hideous attributes, whose only inheritance from all the goodness of humanness is deep-seated sickness of the heart pleasured only by the murder and the rapine of the innocents of a rival clan. In colloquial terms, the restaurants are referred to as: ‘Dhoqon-ma-maaye’ (or the gatherer of fools). The characters in these restaurants are more likely to worship tribal Warlords more than God; or strongly beckon to the calls to the clannish wars than the calls of prayers and Muslimness. But, Liban as the loner he is, has never unfamiliar with the nature of these shady characters. As soon as he enters further into the restaurants, he spots a group of men angrily yelling at each other. He pulled a chair and sat near them; eager to hear out what their arguing about. However, after few minutes of listening, Liban found it impossible not to join the animated debate. Unexpectedly, he interrupted them and loudly yelled ‘come on people, I am telling this: anyone who finds a reason to argue against or oppose the blessed change the UIC ushered in, has thrown his lot with the devilish Warlords. The same evil Warlords who have had their breakfasts, lunch and supers feeding on the dead carcass of innocent men, women and children they’ve been systemically been massacring in the last chaotic seventeen years!’ He then stood up and pushed back his chair forcefully with an air of righteousness.

 

Almost within the second, two furious middle-aged men got up from their chairs, screaming all kinds of insults at Liban direction. And in a matter of seconds, every man in the restaurant was standing, some angered by the words Liban uttered; others were in full agreement with him. One of the two middle-aged men, boiling over with resentment, proceeded forth towards where Liban stood and launched punch at him narrowly missing Liban. Liban, in turn acting in reflex jumped forward and manages to head-butt the man attacking him. In the confusion of the situation, a white-bearded elderly man appeared from nowhere to position himself between Liban and the man. The atmosphere in the restaurant becomes intense, seeming as if a brawl will break out between those were angered by Liban and those sympathizing him. All the men arranged themselves into the groups. However, yelling authoritatively was the elderly man in an attempt to defuse the tense situation, ordering Liban and his sympathizers to leave the restaurant at once. Just as Liban and his supporters stepped outside, the waiter ran across the restaurant’s floor and blocks the door, demanding his bills to be paid. Liban reached into his pockets and asked ‘how much?’ ’15 pounds and 70 pence for all of you’ the waiter replies. Liban gave him 20 pounds note, telling the waiter to keep the change. As they exited the restaurant, the man Liban has head-butted shouted a threat, saying ‘You will see and all these people would be my witnesses that you should pay dearly for assaulting me. You wait and see!’ Liban laughed off the man’s threat responding ‘if you are holding the sky with pillars, let it go. Then we’ll see if I am crashed under it!’ He then walked off while thanking and bidding his sympathizers goodbye.

 

-

At the same time is walking away, Nurraddin, is entering the gates of the mosque, but two steps into it, he hears a loud calling out his name. He turns back to look who it is and spots on his friends running from far, who seemed to be repeating ‘they finally did it, they finally did it, they finally did it!’ When the friend reached Nurraddin, he happily stretched his arms and embraced Nurraddin. ‘Yes they finally did it, my dear brother!’ yelled back Nurraddin quickly pulling the friend into the mosque’s compound, from where more friends poured outside to celebrate with Nurraddin. After the jubilation ended, all of them went into the mosque and sat forming in a circle. The oldest among the men, before anyone else uttered a word, drew his hands together, his palms facing up and started to pray. For ten minutes, he continued to pray, begging God to make the UIC’s victory endure forever. He begged God to protect those in Somalia from the scandalous so-called ‘war-on-terror’ Western states have subjected to fellow Muslims in Iraq and Afghanistan. To his heartfelt prayer, the rest of the circle responded with ‘Amiin’ in a chorus until the prayer ended.

 

Nurraddin, unable to resist from breaking the spell of contemplative silence, which the circle has fallen into, impatiently turns to Mohamud sitting to his right and asked him: ‘brother, have you, in your entire life, ever lived days in history as joyous and as promising as these?’ To which Mohamud jubilantly replied ‘oh my dear Muslim brother, never has there been days in the history of my life as victorious as these blessed days!’ followed by a cheerful laughter from the rest of the circle. Although this group of friends form a very close-nit circle, faithful, sincere and hides no secrets from each other, in his heart, guilt and a sense of betrayal took hold of Nurraddin. Hiding the contents of last night’s phone from Somalia, he felt, will make him dishonest and break the golden code of openness a great friendship requires. While the rest of the circle were engaged in a lively and animated discussion, Nurraddin was silently occupied with the dilemma of what he should do. After a while of Nurraddin’s silence, the rest of the circle’s discussions suddenly paused, turning their attention to Nurraddin’s noticeable silence not known to his talkative and sociable character.

 

‘Nurraddin’ called the oldest man in the circle, humorously inquiring ‘my esteemed brother, has the news of Muslim victory been so unimaginable to you that you are now reduced to speechlessness?’ Smiling and feeling slightly embarrassed, Nurraddin scratched head and jokingly replied: ‘no, my respected brother, it is not so much of speechlessness but the thought of righteous opportunities which such a victory creates for us Muslims, has that unique effect of leaving even the most eloquent of men speechless!’ On this, the circle greeted Nurraddin’s clever words with a cheer of ‘Allahu Akbar’ (God is great!). After that, Nurraddin apologetically requested the circle to excuse him for he has an urgent family matter to attend to, and, thus left the circle. As he moved away, the eldest man of the circle reminded him that some members have suggested a fund-raising event to be held in order to send some funds to the victors in Somalia. Nurraddin signaled his approval of the event with a thumps-up.

 

The urgent matter that had made him leave the circle was certainly not a family matter; it was standing order given to him in last night’s call to expect a call at a given time in his home, to be made by a member of the UIC. Already anxious about the secrecy surrounding the information relayed to him, and was slightly starting to worry about the pressure this would put on his family life and his membership in the circle. As he walked home, a lot of thoughts played up in his mind. Dreadfully, he thought, since he can not share any information with anyone, and could not even seek the advice of his elderly mentor, what would be the prospect of getting involved and getting associated with Islamist politics, which he knew is closely observed by the hawkish proponents of ‘war-on-terror’? How would that affect mine and my family’s life? He kept asking himself. The more he thought about it, the more greatly disturbed his conscience became. Hitherto, he has managed to stay clear of such things as Islamist politics, but this time, the support given by the majority of Somalis in of all Somalis to the advances of the UIC, so symbolically positive, had given him a reason that he is making the right choice. The wide-spread support for the UIC commands made him believe that nothing could go wrong. The majority of Somalis could not support a cause destined for failure, he assured himself. He reached home while still entertaining these thoughts.

 

In another part of the city, Liban, was re-entering the house in which he lived, when one of his house-mates coincidently swung the door open, and nearly colliding with him. ‘Whoa!’ shouted his house-mate; but Liban didn’t make any sound, and seemed somewhat absent-minded. Without responding or even halting, he brushed his way through the door and headed for the kitchen to switch on the tea kettle. His house-mate, astonished by Liban’s usual behavior, followed him with ‘hey Liban, what is the matter with you man? Talk to me man, you are not yourself today, what happened to you?’ Liban, resting his back the kitchen sink silently stared back. After a period of persistent inquiries, he faintly replied ‘nothing man, nothing is wrong with me. I am just exhausted, that is all. Now please leave me in peace, will you?’ ‘Alright then, I will leave you in peace but you sure are acting strange!’ commented his house-mate as he headed for the front door.

 

In reality, Liban was far from being alright nor was he at all exhausted. He was heartbreakingly saddened to have met earlier, an opposition to the UIC in the restaurant. What made him even sadder was the fact that supposedly sane Somalis, would in their right mind, unashamedly be supportive of the very brutal Warlords that have for seventeen chaotic years, massacred thousands of innocent Somalis. The words he exchanged with the men in the restaurant still ringing in his ears only enflamed his heart, giving way to the realization that not every Somali is in support of the UIC. Although he completely supports the UIC’s cause, realizing that there could be such an opposition drove him to feel slightly pessimistic about the future.

[N.O.R.F]

The plot thickens,,,,,,,

[Ibtisam]

Paragon mashallah, I did not think you had it in ya! That was the longest few threads I've ever had the patience to read I guess Bob is not the only one who can captivate my attention in their detailed threads!

[Kashafa]

And by the second the news-story ended, each man, like a collection of powerful fireworks launched in precision, elatedly rocketed off his seat giving way to the fiercest rapture of joy and cheer any human heart is capable to produce. Of some, tears were descending down their cheeks as fast as a hefty rock would drop off the peak of a cloud-crowned mountain. Of others, they joyously jumped up so high that the thunder their landing feet spread, was so heavy and loud, that the neighbours below mistook it for a tremour and congregated on their door-step to inquire.

 

Overwhelmed by raw emotions, they continued with their celebratory mela into the early hours of the night. Their immediate neighbors, unsettled and uneasy, amassed in their front door and requested the police to intervene

Wow, this isn't fiction, Paragon-ow, this was reality, our reality, and you accurately captured the reactions of clean-hearted Somalis, world-wide, when they first heard of the amazing triumph of the those thoroughbreds, those true Sons of Somalia, Al-Maxaakim Al-Islaamiyah Al-Soomaliyah. Allahu Akbar wa lilaahil Xamd.

 

Euphoria reigned supreme. I remember walking the streets with a new swagger. Somalia's back on the map. The warlords who rained death & destruction on my country ? Utterly destroyed and kicked out. In a ironic twist, they became the refugees, running to Addis and Nairobi. Last one of them, Fulay Khayr-diid, was high-tailin' it to Galkacyo. Everywhere: work, school, gym, soccer pitch, these new heroes were hailed & saluted. Not by the 'religious crowd' per se, but by the entire mass of Somali-dom. Odayaal, Rag, Dhalinyaro, Dumar. Heck, I bet even the dugaag were celebrating .

 

It would go on to be a historical year with even more successes, laakin adiga sheekada noo see wad. I'd say it would be more relevant if you focused on the overall themes of that time-period(as u did in the 1st post), instead of making it a character-study(Liiban, Nuraddiin). Let the characters serve the story and not the other way around.

 

Great stuff. Let's get the 4th installment.

[Paragon]

Northerner, Lol. Sure it does, sure it does.

 

Ghanima, thanks dear. I am glad you liked it - just few lines written in the 'in-between' times of boredom . Sorry about the details, it is a tendency I've developed over a long time .

 

Kashafa, thank you very much. I can understand how you felt when the UIC became victorious sxb. The same spring in your steps were also making us jump for joy.

 

I appreciate your suggestion and Insha-Allah I will take your suggestion on board. You see, I have started the piece as is clear in the first post but then I thought I should balance it with a personal accounts of how the victory of the UIC affected (for the better) the real lives of Somali individuals across the globe. Marka Insha-Allah I'll try to give more importance to the story and also emphasis how events have changed the characters in the story.

[N.O.R.F]

I was dreaming I was back swimming in the Red Sea of Berbera before being interupted by the alarm :rolleyes:

[Paragon]

Lool, northerner. There certainly are more dreamers around. Didn't realize so many dreams could be interrupted by alarm clocks. You should sue the alarm clock manufacturers

 

PS: 4th installment coming right up (tomorrow Insha-Allah).