Tales of Interruped Dreamers

[Paragon]

^^Lol. Horta thanks dear. I wrote the pieces in Africa Ghanima. I can't do much during the Ramadaan. Insha-Allah would continue after Ramadan on weekends.

 

Lol, Shayma. When in mother's house in nairobi, you are most likely to find laptops, settle dish connections, and until little ago, a broadband connection. My mum's is a little bangaloo . Took a laptop from there.

[N.O.R.F]

^^A good read akhi. Eid Wanaagsan.

[Paragon]

Northerner, here's to you sxb. Hope you enjoy reading what follows .

 

Khadija arrived home late after a night spent on socializing with some close friends, and the night’s commute has exhausted her like never before. Naturally, she was an energetic young lady in her mid-twenties, who is used to traveling on the tube for hours on end without tiring. But that night, she was surprised that a single train’s journey has taken its toll on her. She felt extremely tired. Usually when she is that tired, sleeping becomes a problem and unwind herself, should had the habit of stretching herself out on the couch while she watches the news on the television.

 

As soon as she made herself comfortable on the couch, she reached for the remote control and switch on the television. In the first few minutes, there was nothing that caught her attention. Then, at the bottom of the television set, the marquee began to roll with a line that says: ‘Somalia’s UIC have gained more territory in and around Mogadishu.’ Hmm! She thought, ‘the UIC are surely moving with rapidity it seems.’

 

The more she watched the news, the more her thoughts about the UIC deepened. As she lay there on the couch, she began to drift along a path of mental journey, imagining a future dependent on the UIC. Forming in her mind, were questions such as: what would Somalia ruled by the UIC be like? What would the future be like? She was certain that the UIC would be better the Warlords but she wasn’t sure how different they would be from the Taliban of Afghanistan. She spent most of the night being beguiled by questions and anticipations.

 

The following Monday morning, last night’s thoughts about UIC were no longer in her mind. She went about her usual preparation for work and arrived at work fifteen minutes early. Three of her female colleagues waited in a queue for the clocking machine, chattering about office gossip. Although she always prefers to ignore them, that morning she greeted them as she joined the queue behind them. They all turned around with a sudden astonishment taking over their faces.

 

‘Hey Dija’ said one of her colleagues, ‘what is that on your head?’ pointing her Khadija’s covered head.

 

‘Oh, it’s just a scarf’ Khadija replied politely. ‘I am having a bad hair day’.

 

‘Are you sure it’s just a bad hair day?’ questioned another of her colleagues.

 

‘Oh yeah’ answered Khadija, ‘you know how it is?’

 

‘Yeah right, a bad hair day’ was the comment that followed.

 

The expressions on the faces of her colleagues gave Khadija the impression that was not being believed. She was somewhat puzzled. What is wrong with them? Although she was truthful, she could not understand why her colleagues looked up at her disbelievingly. It was true that they never saw her wearing a headscarf before today.

 

The long hours she spent in bed thinking about the UIC have drained the energy out of her. So she could not be bothered to do her hair in the morning.

 

I am wearing a headscarf, so what? Why are they giving me such dirty looks? She asked herself as she started doing her work. She tried to forget all about it but she only grew more curious.

 

While buying some snacks from the canteen during the lunch hour, she saw one of the girls sitting alone in a table. She decided to join her and ask what the morning’s dirty looks were all about. As she settled into one of the chairs, she asked:

 

‘Hey Amy, is everything OK?’

 

‘Yeah, everything’s cool. Why ask?’

 

‘No reason, I was just wondering what those looks were all about this morning?’

 

‘What look…oh those looks?’

 

‘Yeah right those looks’.

 

‘Because you are wearing the stuff Islamist women wear’ replied Amy bluntly.

 

‘Oh is that right?’

‘Oh yeah, for all I know you may have become an overnight recruit!’

 

The blunt words shocked and shook Khadija.

 

‘A recruit, what the hell is that supposed to mean?’ she exclaimed.

 

Amy didn’t bother to reply. She turned her attention to the half-eaten sandwich on her plate. Amy’s behaviour left Khadija dismayed and when the dismay worn off, Khadija clumsily grabbled with her food and quickly left the table.

 

In a matter of few heart beats, she has already staggered to another nearby table where no one sat. She might have come to the canteen to eat but her food remained on the table untouched.

 

Later that day when jumped on the bus, on her way back home, she thought she sensed a few white pensioners were starring at her suspiciously. Somehow, she was no longer that surprised but she was becoming sensitized to wearing the scarf, and how it seemed to have negatively changed her image in others’ eyes.

 

She wondered how she would fare if she were to decide on wearing the scarf permanently for a religious purpose. How have sisters who wear the scarf daily, coped with all these demeaning stares, she asked herself. She very much wanted to know the answer to her question, and wanting to know as quickly as possible, she made the decision to call Jamila, her friend, who has been wearing it for a very long time.

 

 

‘Hey girl, you finally called me, what’s up?’ said Jamila.

 

‘I am so sorry for not calling sis, forgive me?’

 

‘Oh that is alright babes, so what’s up?’

 

‘Nothing, just wondering if we can meet up?’ asked Dija.

 

‘Yeah sure, sure we can. Tell me when and where’.

 

‘How about around 6 p.m. on Saturday at the star-bucks near my house?’

 

‘Yeah, alright I’ll be there babes’ agreed Jamila, ‘although we could….’

 

‘Although we could what…? Khadija asked.

 

‘We could meet on Friday afternoon. If you could come, there is this fund-raiser event taking place in the local mosque. Could you come?’

 

‘Yeah sure, I am free on Friday afternoon and I have nothing useful to do anyway.’

 

‘Alright then Dija, I’ll e-mail you the address of the place soon as.’

 

‘Thanks dear, see you there.’

 

 

----

11

 

Two weeks passed after Dahir and his friends met in Edgware Road, and no word has come out from any of them. In those two weeks, Dahir constantly log into his e-mail but no message was received from Carsten or any of his friends.

 

‘What is wrong with these guys?’ he muttered to himself, ‘most of all, why has Carsten not fulfilled his promise to initiate a new campaign?’ One thought led to another and before long, he was almost convinced that his friends did not feel as strongly about Somalia’s plight as him.

 

‘Why would they feel obliged about the plight of Somalia anyway? It is not their country after all but mine’, was his whispered conclusion He started entertaining the possibility of forgetting about them, and seeking fellow Somalis who feel the same way he feels about his country.

 

‘Right, let us Google for like-minded Somalis’ he suggested to himself, and typed some keywords into the search engine.

 

Within a heart-beat, varying search results appeared on his computer screen. Many of the results were general comments about Somalia’s political situation. One of them, however, announced a fundraising event to be held in Southall, West London.

 

The announcement invited all those sympathetic to the UIC’s cause to be present in Southall community hall. Also present in the event was going to be religious and traditional who would give motivational speeches, which Dahir felt the need to hear.

 

Looking for the contact details of the event, he saw at the bottom of the announcement: for more information please call Nurraddin on this telephone number . And without hesitation, he dialed the number, which was answered swiftly by Nurraddin.

 

After a short conversation pertaining to directions to the event venue, Nurraddin ended the call with ‘when you arrive at the venue, please be kind enough to introduce yourself to me’. Dahir promised to do so.

 

Attending the fund-raising event, which Nurraddin has helped organize, were not only were not only Dahir, Liban, Mo, Khadija and Jamila, but also a cadre of other UIC recruits and well-wishers who could be seen everywhere in the even hall. On all the recruits’ faces an exuberance and passion was displayed. They stood at the hall’s entrance distributing leaflets and drinks to everyone coming in or out. It seemed as although they believed their assorted tasks were the most important jobs they ever held.

 

Although they shared a common view on the UIC, it seemed at last that all those attending the event - previously unknown to each other – were to be bound together like a thread, by their spirit of Somaliness.