Kooca on the run

[Faynuus]

Kooca on the run

By Yasmeen Maxamuud

Feb 23. 2008

 

 

"Kooca ( ko'a)1 was a rolling stone wherever she laid her head was her home" A variation of The Temptation’s song Papa was a rolling stone

Kooca: Officer me don’t want to die

Officer: what, what does that mean?

Officer: Lady what is your business here?

Kooca: Me refugee from Somalia me hungry, me dagaal, me family dead, no cunto

Officer: They are always hungry and famished how can anyone not have food to eat I will never understand, hey Rudie, get someone to translate for this weirdo, I have no idea what she wants

Rudie: Hey Mohamed is this one of your people

Mohamed: What, oh that lady yes, she looks Somali

Her tattered diric and sandy dacas gave her away,

Mohamed: Adiga ma soomali baa

Kooca: Haa walaal somaliyad baan ahay waxaan rabaa in aan is dhiibo, shan cisho wax ma cunin, eeg calooshayda

Mohamed: You isdhiib, from where you come

 

Mohamed: Sir, she wants to apply for political asylum she says she is hungry and desperate

Officer: What life threatening situation is she running away from?

Mohamed: She is a refugee; she has been through war and she is starving

Officer: Has she been brutalized in anyway, forced to do something against her will, threatened for her beliefs?

Mohamed: No sir she is hungry, without a country and she wants asylum, oh yes, and some food very fast

Officer: No, no no Mohamed hunger alone will not suffice, she must reveal something horrific beyond war, has she gone through FGM, has she been forced to cover her hair with that thing?

Mohamed: No sir, none of these things, she is hungry, walked for days to come here, has not eaten for weeks……

Officer: Rudie call that woman what is her name, Gisela to prep this woman, and get something for her to eat, what have I done to deserve this, hungry refugees, desperate people, and ****** people!

 

Gisela, a middle aged white woman arrives two hours later. She is bulky, with ripe red blemishes on her rather large nose. She wears thick glasses. The flaring white skirt does not flatter her large frame and masculine body. A bulky navy blue sweater hid multiple cross necklaces with Jesus in the middle. Gisela heaved to a lone chair, staring directly at Kooca who on the other corner attacked a plate of hamburgers and fries. She guzzled a drink, eating the food without interruption.

“Another one of them huh” Gisela said winking at the officer behind thick specs. Her voice raspy but quite contradicted her rather large body frame.

She began intoragating Kooca, wiping sweat off her pimpled forehead. Mohamed was at hand to decipher things for Kooca, who would sometimes answer Gisela directly.

 

Gisela: Miss, are you a Muslim?

Yes, Kooca said not looking up from the plate.

Gisela got up from the chair; it seemed like a chore to walk six steps to where Kooca attacked the food. Pointing to the Hijab she said: Are you wearing that willingly or did someone force it on you?

Kooca: I am wearing it willingly, I am good Muslim

She continued eating with haste, spilling some of the drink on her diric.

Gisela: Hmm, did you go through FGM against your will?

Kooca taking a brief break from the food looked at Mohamed confused, with a full mouth she asked: “what is FGM”? Gisela let Mohamed explain to Kooca what FGM stood for.

Kooca: No my mother refused to do that to us, me and my sister we never have that done

Gisela: Look you are making things difficult for yourself; just listen to me and your asylum process will be smooth, ok

Gisela: Look at me, for God’s sake the food will not run away.

Kooca: Ok, but no one force this one me or no GM, whatever you call that, done

Gisela: Just go along as I said, please don’t make things tough for me ok, come with me! Believe me FGM is your ticket out of your desperation.

Gisela: Officer I have the full story for you, this poor woman has been abused through FGM, she has been forced to believe in Islam against her will and she has many scars due to the constant beatings she received when she refused to be a Muslim. If you could only see the way she ambushed that food, poor thing they did not let her eat for months.

Officer: Ok, now we are talking, finish this paper work for her and take her to Paradise Bliss Shelter. Gisela comes back a while later with the finished application. Kooca smiled from ear to ear, holding some leftover food and a drink in a brown paper bag.

Gisela: Look Officer here is the paper work, she says she is twenty years old, but seems at least thirty, who knows these Africans are born under trees without the benefit of a calendar, damn these primitive people!

 

Kooca was taken to Paradise Bliss, which was everything but. While she waited for the asylum process to complete she was entrusted with Alder Frimunt, a social worker who prepared the refugees in his custody for their new life. Kooca prospered under the care of Frimunt. Her belly began to fatten a little; she discarded the hijab for shorts and flimsy shirts. She also surprised Frimunt with her ability to speak Dutch, German, Arabic and English, fluently, after only six months under in his custody.

“You are mature for a twenty year old” he would often say. “You are sharp and well versed in worldly issues, very impressive young lady, very impressive”

Frimunt introduced Kooca to Hans a member of parliament who took Kooca under his/her wing. No one knew whether Hans was a man or a woman, Hans fell somewhere between the two. People addressed Hans as Hans; no one was ever caught referring to him as he or she. With Hans she became politically active. Her main goal in her new found life was to become famous, well known, revered by the host country and for that she would do whatever it took.

 

While in the shelter she perfected the art of peeling. Her daily tasks included peeling off her old self, and replacing it with more acceptable modern aura. Her mentors Gisela, Hans, Frimunt and the Officer, detested certain things about her. They did not like the hijab she wore on her coarse hair, so that was peeled off. They loathed her religious practices it too came to a halt, whatever culture or traditions she claimed in her past life was also shed. They wanted Kooca to be more like them. A black version of them, after all weren’t they responsible for giving her life. Kooca would sit in her room in Paradise Bliss night after night going over the list of no no's.

No Islam,

No Hijab,

No to FGM

Reject the culture which abused me, forcing me into marriage at age seven.

 

She had organized nightly identity peel off slumber parties. She would repeat the do's and don’ts with other refugee women who also had inherited new identities. Some of the do’s included eating food with pork, drinking wine, having a boy friend and exposing body parts. Kooca wanted to emulate white women who were only valued for their naked body parts. She wanted to be like them, exposing herself so she would get favors. Kooca began to believe her new identity. Indeed she was the best pupil Paradise Bliss has ever seen. The fabrications Gisela entrenched into her mind became a reality. She soon repeated the saga of her forced marriage at age seven, the hostility she suffered when her father beat her to wear the hijab, the brutality of FGM which she underwent at age five. Tears would cascade from out of nowhere, emotions she did not posses would emerge.

 

The white people were animated by her story. She intrigued them. Everyone wanted to hug her, help her, and welcome her to their home. She could not believe how easy it was to be famous and loved. It was easy to win white people over with a short invention, she thought. To her surprise it only took a fleeting moment to become famous and internationally known. It was intoxicating, dizzying sometimes surreal. A few add-ons and some subtractions to her persona availed her to go places and meet people she had never thought possible. That is all it took for the president of the United States to personally summon her to the white house. Although she was exotic, his friend the African American woman became a bore, and too stiff. He wanted to meet this bold ex-Muslim who captivated white men alike. It was a little kept secret for men like him. They all wanted a little part of Kooca. It all came crashing down one night as he stood in front of the mirror. He was not pleased with the reflection which stared back at him, he looked bulged, old and she, his African American friend gawked at him with a qumanyo look in the background, swift reflections of gumays hit the mirror. Wow, how did she become so ga-gab, unattractive and grouchy? The good days when she was his ultimate fantasy were long gone. Wouldn’t this Somali girl be something, he thought privately as he lay next to the brand new Mrs. The Mrs. has been busy of late with a face lift, body lift and augmenting something or other, she appeared young. But he was too far gone with the exotic breed such as the renegade ex-Muslim girl. No amount of plastic surgery would deter him of this new gal.

 

Kooca arrived in a private jet some forty eight hours later. Who knew she would reject them all in one command. Hans, Gisela, Frimunt and the Officer became the furthest thing from her mind. International fame assured her scarcity. She was busy lecturing on the mistreatments of Islam, the brutality of her culture and the primitiveness of refugee in the West. She all together dismissed the old crowd. But each wanted to be glorified for enlightening her. They wanted credit for creating her. Arguments and animosity between the original founders of Kooca ended in Hans’s death. Frimunt lost an arm in a shooting with Gisel at the helm and Officer was committed after becoming hostile to other refugee women. He killed a few to avenge Kooca. They mourned for her loss, like a mother mourns a lost child. She could not return to them as their anger would probably ensure a quick death. It was as well, Kooca was now dancing with the super power in supper places. With supper people she had no time or thought for the forgotten few. She enjoyed some glorious moments with supper people until she became humdrum. Like a parrot she repeated the same lines. If his aides were not around, Mr. President could not understand a word the woman uttered, plus she was not as refined as he thought. Why couldn’t she look more like Iman? The jungle girl, yes, he would beckon Iman in her place; the model type would probably suit him better anyway. Ms. Grouch the gumays began threatening him. She said she had unflattering evidence; it will contaminate your legacy she kept repeating. Damn her she was always a few steps ahead of him. She talked about a scandal and not leaving a good legacy. Legacy was something everyone around him talked about, but he did not really understand it. He did not care about legacy; he could hardly understand how he remained in office this long, never mind legacy. But mother would be disappointed if she found out he was with a black woman. He would be the second son to stray to a colored territory, it was totally unacceptable. Better make mom and Ms. Grouch happy.

 

Kooca was suddenly given the boot, kicked out of super house. She fell from grace very quickly. What a shocker, she was ill prepared by the sudden rejection.

She could not return where it all started for death awaited her there. So she went on a pitiful begging spree to look for a new host country which would brace her message of hate for Islam. Russia was futile; her topic was not one of interest. Belgium was busy burying the hatches of the Rwandan genocide; they could care less about Islam, FGM or terrorism for that matter. The Balkans had their own deplorable problems to sort; Canada already had the outlandish Irshad Manji, surely Canada could not handle two of the same kind. France. Yeah, France would welcome her, after all isn’t it the country which had banned the hijab at their schools. For sure they would welcome an expert to ostracize hijab wearing in school. For sure President Sarkozy would find her interesting, maybe even attractive.

When she arrived in France President Sarkozy was busy celebrating yet another marriage bliss with his newest supper model wife.

 

She would recall the exchange between them years later:

President Sarkozy: Well actually you wouldn’t be so bad, but you are a few weeks too late now I am married to Carla…

Kooca: Sir, please consider me in your life, any part of your life will do

President Sarkozy: No madam I don’t think so, my wife the gorgeous….

Carla Bruni: Nicolas what are you doing with that refugee slut

President Sarkozy: No Carla nothing she keeps talking about not wanting to die

Kooca: Please Mrs. Sarkozy I don’t want to die, I love my life, please let me wash your feet, let me be your servant, walk your dogs, carry your stuff, watch your kids, I am willing to do anything for you two, just give me a chance of life.

Carla Bruni: You *****; you were kicked out of America because you did the president and from all these other places for lying and cheating now you think you can bring your rubbish here

President Sarkozy: Carla have mercy on the poor woman, she can become one of the servants no?

Carla Bruni: Really Nicolas, even I can see through your lies, you want this refugee here President Sarkozy: No Carla I was not thinking like that, although she does not look so bad.

President Sarkozy: Carla, stop being so violent, I should have listened to Mick Jagger he warned me against your violence, ouch, ouch!

President Sarkozy: Kooca you don’t know Carla, she is very hostile and….. you better run Kooca

Kooca: I don’t want to die, I love my life, please give me a chance of life

Assistant to President Sarkozy: Run Kooca run

Kooca: I don’t want to die, I love my life, please give me a chance of life

Butler: Run Kooca run

Kooca: I don’t want to die, I love my life, please give me a chance of life

Carla Bruni: Run Kooca run

French Socialist MEP Benoît Hamon: Run Kooca run

Kooca: I don’t want to die, I love my life, please give me a chance of life

Run Kooca run, run Kooca run!

 

And so Kooca was seen running to a mad house in an undisclosed location. She was often heard repeating the words, I don't want to die. I am agnostic, no I am Muslim. I am the reason Vincent van Gogh painted, I am Sunflower, Starry Night, Maybe I am Leonardo Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, or maybe I am…... who am I, who am I!

 

She had unsuccessfully attempted to take her life several times, even death had rejected her. Allah hooyoy ba’ayeey, who am I!

 

BY: Yasmeen Maxamuud

Email: Yasmeen_maxmuud@yahoo.com

Contributing Editor, WardheerNews

[Intuition]

This story reminds me so much of Ayan Hirsi. I'm hoping her life ends in the same way.

[Faynuus]

Lol@intuition, it is about her.

[Ismahaan]

Originally posted by Faynuus:

Kooca: Me refugee from Somalia me hungry, me dagaal, me family dead, no cunto

Funny

[Intuition]

LoL.

[Blessed]

Would make an interesting play...

[Umm_Uthman]

very funny....