The “Intellectuals� of Qudhac Weyn

[NASSIR]

The author paints for us an atmosphere of typical gathering and discourse of an educated Africans in an environment where the majority of the population are hardly literate: lots of humor.

 

 

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The “Intellectuals†of Qudhac Weyn

Mohamoud Ali Gaildon

June 19,2005

 

Editor's Note: Somalia's upcoming finest fiction writer, Mohammed Gaildon, treats us with a powerful parable, yet penetrating parody about Somali intellectuals.

 

Almost every night, “The Men from America,†as they were called, met at the most popular café in the town of Qudhac Weyn. They chatted and discussed various matters, which they deemed too complicated for folks without college degrees. English was their main language of discourse. To others, the seeming ease with which the "intellectuals" spoke English was awesome. Particularly fascinated were the younger members of the audience, who dreamed of one day becoming like “those men from America.â€

 

There was Guutaale, who arrived always neatly dressed, wearing a tie even in the middle of summer. On most days, he would walk in early in the evening with firm and deliberate strides, pull a chair and sit at a table under a tree. Then he would slowly turn around in the direction of the waiter who would by now be ready for the call, "Coffee, please!"

 

Looking as if he had the burden of the entire world on his shoulders, Guutaale seldom spoke to anyone outside the "intellectuals." When approached by anyone outside the Group, he would turn slowly and take a quizzical look at the intruder. A condescending word or two would effectively end the brief interaction. Invariably, Guutaale's reticence would be broken by the arrival of other members of the Group.

 

Guutaale was the most notorious when it came to favoring English over Somali. Unquestionably articulate, he spoke with pomp and flair. But frequent references to obscure historical occurrences in Europe or North America, quotations from great Western thinkers, and a proclivity for archaic and literary words denuded his narratives and arguments of much needed lucidity and focus.

 

There was Dr. Mohamed, the most competent physician in town. Short, bald and very humble, he approached his work in a professional and methodical manner. An excellent student in college and before, he was a graduate of one of the most prestigious schools of medicine in America. But he never flaunted his excellent training. In discussions, he tended to talk only about practical matters that affected people's lives like health, hygiene, education, jobs, and the daily worries of the average man and the average woman. Never venturing into high-sounding complicated philosophical, political, or economic discourses, he spoke softly and unassumingly and presented his views succinctly. He preferred Somali to English. His views, however, did not seem to carry much weight among members of the Group, most likely because his presentation was not pedantic enough. Whether he sensed this slight or not, he didn't seem to care. At any rate, he didn't frequent the café as much as other members of the Group.

 

Qawdhan, on the other hand, was an engineer who liked to be seen as a political scientist. He, like Dr. Mohamed, was known to have done well at school. He could speak both Somali and English quite eloquently. To his credit, though, he used Somali as much as he used English to express his views. On the surface, he was the most genial member of the Group; but upon close scrutiny a troubled character emerged.

 

Like Guutaale, he genuinely believed that he was of a rare intellectual breed. But, whereas Guutaale showed great erudition, Qawdhan claimed originality. He took obvious pains to convince others of the validity of his points. Those opposed to his viewpoints he either dismissed as intellectual inferiors or blacklisted as enemies. A little sound argument against his position on a political subject was enough to turn his geniality into alarm and, then, a hard cold stare. His prolix discourses, ultimately lacking focus and cohesion, were punctuated by allusions to or outright claims of realized predictions he had made and vindicated positions he had taken. In the end, he was a truly wasted talent, hampered by a delusion of greatness.

 

The Group was quite an attraction. Often joined by government officials, businessmen, and teachers, they thrived as the center of attention. Every night, ordinary customers of the café looked forward to the arrival of members of the Group and the interesting discussions that followed. Sitting a few yards from them and ready to take their orders, the waiters too enjoyed the Group's conversations.

 

The discussions typically started with a reference to something heard or seen that day. Then, even though the issue might be deeply rooted in Somali life, culture and society, it would invariably lead to a topic barely related to the one at hand. Most non-members of the Group would nod their heads in submission. And the few intellectually curious and courageous enough to put their own ideas forth would find their voices drowned by torrents of English vocabulary. Quoting a Somali sage or reciting a Somali poem to buttress arguments elicited only cursory notices and deprecatory tosses of the head which seemed to be saying, "This is not what we came here for."

 

Most college graduates from Italy, the Soviet Union and Arab countries felt intimidated by the flamboyant display of English. They too had to be docile, or else cease to participate in the discussions. Expressions like "ABSOLUTELY", "IT IS QUITE SIMPLE", "IT IS MORE COMPLICATAED THAN THAT" and "HAVE YOU EVER READ…" dominated the discussions and variously entertained, intimidated, and irritated the audience.

 

Then one night, Dr. Mohamed showed up in an agitated state of mind. He sat down and ordered coffee. After a single sip he started to talk. The doctor explained how tuberculosis was ravaging the population and how the hospital had great difficulty coping with it. The x-ray machine was rather unreliable. There were few films left. The TB ward was too small. There was a need for new mattresses and new utensils. Still, a more urgent problem loomed large: the hospital had only a two weeks' supply of TB medicine. By his most optimistic estimation, he explained, it would take the government at least four months to deliver new supplies of medicine.

 

"I cannot face my TB patients knowing that I will soon have no medicine to give to them," lamented the doctor. He paused and looked around him with pleading eyes. Then he continued.

 

"Can we collect money from the business community and government workers? We need a minimum of $3,000, and the sooner the better. With the help of charity organizations and, hopefully, the approval of our government, we can obtain a good supply of medicine at discount prices from Italy. But we really need to act fast." Again, he looked around anxiously.

 

Everyone gasped at the looming horror recounted by the doctor. Everyone that is, except Guutaale and Engineer Qawdhan. "We must do something," "good idea," and "count me in" reverberated among the small crowd. Guutaale and Engineer Qawdhan, though, as if by prior agreement, waited for emotions to ebb.

 

Then, "Gentlemen," said Qawdhan in an assertive manner, "Had my paper of two years ago been followed, we would not have found ourselves in this mess. We need to have vision and look at the big picture. If we widen our scope, scientifically identify the main problems, draw a plan to tackle them and, then, systematically and assiduously implement the plan, we will not need to worry about the minor problems because, naturally, they will be taken care of. Stopgap measures will not work."

 

The engineer paused for effect before he added, "Read my paper. It is all there.†To drive the point home, he finished by raising his chin, looking sharply straight ahead, clasping his lips tightly, and then nodding in agreement with himself.

 

Attention shifted to Guutaale. All turned to him for his opinion. Engineer Qawdhan's position was clear: he was not going to help the doctor go around hat in hand for the soon-to-be-stranded TB patients. Guutaale's opinion on the matter could tip the scales in favor of the good doctor. But, savoring the moment, Guutaale took his time.

 

Then finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, Guutaale took a few puffs on his pipe and spoke.

 

"Education, education, education,†He said, gesturing with his pipe. “Education is the key. We have to give priority to education, for it is the only thing that can take us out of the benighted age we are in. We need to build more schools, train more teachers and send our best high school graduates to Britain and America for college. We need to motivate our people to read and understand how the developed world has come to be. If we take care of education, sooner or later the rest will take care of itself."

 

Clearly, no less amused with his delivery than Engineer Qawdhan was with his, Guutaale reached for his coffee and took what must have been a particularly tasteful sip.

 

There were murmurs and whispers. Stunned, Dr. Mohamed turned toward the audience. Uncertainty had displaced the initial enthusiasm among the audience. Sensing the tide had turned against him, the good doctor smiled sheepishly and rose, grabbing his loose pants by the waist and hiking them up. He never returned to the café.

 

Mohamoud Ali Gaildon

 

 

Source: Wardheernews