I confess! The title is an over-exaggeration. each and every decision and experience would alter our trajectory in life and that of others, that is of course if the butterfly effect is a thing. however, The summer of 1998 was the formative one of my identity as a Somali. All thanks to my Grandmother Xabiiba Aadan Maxamuud Eebaha Sarreeye oo korreeye ha u naxariistee.
That year, now 23 years ago, my family relocated from the Middle-East back to their ancestral homeland. at this point, as a year 4 primary school student, I spoke Arabic fluently and my Somali was limited to the basic interactions required for routine physiological (food, bathroom) and psychological needs. in a curt way, I was "Ciyaal casiir".
For reasons that remain unclear to me thus far (not that I ever asked anyone about it, like if by some magical revelation I would find out) I was sent to a village across the Ethiopian borders where my paternal grandmother and uncle were residing, they were displaced from their ancestral grazelands and farms because of the civil war, one that was painfully fresh in the minds of many.
The next morning after my arrival, woken up by the fumes emanating from the kitchen hut -that was next to my mine-where the traditional wood fire (xaabo) was used for daily cooking, my eyes watered more than the first rain of spring and my throat swell up like an engorged palate of male camel (doobta). I was genuinely flabbergasted by how rudimentary everything was. There was no electricity, running water, entertainment gadgets, or anything in resemblance to the modern world. to the young boy I was, it felt like stepping backward in time, an adventure. that morning I had a fresh Canjeero sprayed with truly fresh ghee (Subag), a meal I remember to this day, or I was just been famished!.
Soon after, I was asked to look after the sheep - as expected of a boy my age-, my cousin would accompany me, I was reassured. he was only a couple of years my senior and being a boy, he was delighted by the notion that he finally has someone to leave the sheep with so he can disappear and play, which he did immediately as we reached the grazing grounds.
at first, I curiously touched everything, experienced the feel of the countryside, the trees, I even played with different colored rocks. gave the sheep names in reference to cartoons I watched.
about midday, I noticed a grey-ish creature moving behind a Sogsog bush (acacia ethbaica), shortly it emerged and the sheep panicked, Alas! it was a fox, or how I knew it back then "ثعلب". I was horrified, I started to flee, it was every man and sheep for themselves. fortunately, my cousin turned up at that exact moment and the fox would spare the sheep. I was made fun of for that incident many years to come, rightfully so.
Sheekooy Sheeko , Story time.
Evenings turned out to be my favorite time of the day, My grandmother would recite stories to us and truly was a prolific raconteur. However, it was not her formidable skill in weaving the tales that remains with me as an adult but the stories themselves. you see, my grandmother was a nomadic woman through and through. She was born and raised in the wilderness of the Somali countryside. She has spent most of her life in the countryside, she was the last generation of true nomadic Somalis. The bizarre thing was that many of the stories she entertained us with were urban, if one ever writes them into a book, it would easily be categorized as fantasy, science fiction, etc. Here I recount a few;
Sheekooy Sheeko, Sheeko Xariiro, Shilin baa Dhuustay, Sheekh baa naag leh, Shibbanaa Sheegay;
The Flying Serpent - (Mas-duulaagii)
The tale was about a man who was lost in the sea and waves brought him ashore to a deserted Island. on the brink of demise because of starvation, he stumbles upon the nest of a giant flying serpent, He hides among the many remains and skeletons in the nest and starts feeding on the leftovers discarded by the serpent. once he regained his strength he jumps on top of this unwitting giant serpent holding into his horns, mid-flight the serpent becomes aware of his presence and tries to shake him off, the man stabs him with a bone, the serpent drops from the skies with a heavy thud into the middle of a city. the man is hailed a hero for killing the terrorizing monster and was awarded aplenty.
Now the older me knows about the tale of "The Shipwrecked sailor" which is an ancient Egyptian myth about a shipwrecked sailor that was rescued by a flying serpent from the land of Punt. The fascinating story I would like to know is how my nomadic grandmother would come across to know a tale similar to that one that famously recited by ancient Egyptians.
The Defective army - la'aa layaashii
a hapless man left his village in search of better fortunes. during his travels he met a man who keeps one leg tied all the time, lest if he lets go of it he would run involuntarily at phenomenal speed until he ties his leg in the knee bent position again . he offers to accompany him to the city and find him work that suits his misused talent. They come across many other men of such talents, one that covers an eye that could see things miles away, another that covers a nostril otherwise would blow out gales of devastative proportions. Finally when he assembled an army of many talented superheroes (Avengers! ^_^). they arrived at the city where their trials and tribulations start and every time they are saved by their superpowers.....the hapless man (now fortunate) being their leader, who suggests which superpower to use to get them out of trouble, Nick Fury!.
This was my grandmother's favorite, she would tell us this story each week, it was long as the band of undesirables would overcome many challenges. it was a true fantasy/science fiction story. I am yet to find a contemporary story similar to this one.
The Cursed one (Habaar-qabe).
on a clear night, in the distant Somali inhabited horn, where light pollution was not a thing, you can see thousands of bright stars twinkling away as they ornate the heavens. my grandmother would point and tell us stories about a few of them. my favorite was Habaar-qabe (the cursed one), he disobeyed his mother and subjected her to physical abuse. she would point at the milky-way that is brightly evident and tell us; Do you see that? that is where Habaar-qabe dragged his mother? (Halkii habaar qabe hooyadii jiiday). She then would point out a constellation to tell us that is where he still lives today, crucified (gigane) as a punishment for his transgression. I believe this what we call the southern cross.
Faarax Jiir
this is a story I think is abound with exaggeration. Faarax Jiir (Sarreeye oo Korreeye ha u naxariistee) was a man of our clan, a man of god (wadaad). He is credited to have formulated the adage "Beeni maxay qaban, Booraamaan ka imi" in reference to his painful honesty. He was asked to lie in order to be granted entry into Awbare (across the Ethiopian borders) and to state that he is originally from Awbare and not coming from anywhere else, he initially agreed after persuasion, but when push came to shove, and was asked by the customs officer, he uttered "what benefit would lie do for me, I come from Borama!" , the officer was taken back by his honesty and allowed him to cross the border.
Faarax Jiir had divinely bestowed abilities, he would turn into the wind and would immediately traverse hundreds of kilometers in matters of minutes. She tells me that Faarax jiir once offered my grandfather to travel with him but he declined, Faarax reached the town hours before my grandfather and informed them of his impending arrival in the afternoon. it was reported that people who traveled with him when he turned out to the wind were inflicted with insanity. good thing my grandfather refused the offer then.
I would never really know the nature of Faarax Jiir and I hope I find out a bit more about him in the future. was simply a pious man of God (wadaad) whose stories were exaggerated to entertain the vivid imagination of the masses or there is something more to it.
Poetry
She was a living library for poetry, songs, and literature of her age. Most Somali nomads would hear a poem once or twice and be able to recite it completely from memory afterward. it was nothing special, even poets would always "wing-it" making poetry on the spot (gole-ka-fuul). after all, only a handful knew how to read and write. She introduced me to poetry, small lines with stories corresponding to each of them. explains the words and what they meant. it was a class in "Somali literature" one that I enjoyed and grateful for.
Many years later I asked her for Hees-hawleed (work songs) for homework from school. I remember that she told me the following one about making Kabad (traditional mats) :
Saaxil laga keenyeey ,
wada sujuriyeey,
si yaab aqalka loo saaryee.
Awdal laga keenyeey,
alaalag dheereey,
il bari looga soo oriyayeey.
I would wake up every morning to the sound of the milk vessel she was churning (Lulida dhiisha) , I first hand seen the process of making ghee, cleaning the traditional milk vessel (culida dhiisha) , rearing livestock including the many activities we urban folk are blissfully unaware (milking, slaughtering etc). She would weave ropes,
This immersive experience was one that cemented "Soomaalinimo" into the young boy from the middle-east that I was. it turned out to become a crash course in Somali language and literature, one that I needed at that exact point in my life. dhaqan-celis on steroids. The stories, through spaced repetition, enriched my Somali vernacular. Exposure to cultural practices also reinforced everything.
This experience is one that I wonder if my 5-year-old son would ever experience. the older and more cynical me would never allow it. I worry about his physical well being in a country with limited healthcare, being a doctor also doesn't help. yet I dwell on the psychological aspect of it, the identity crisis he might face growing here in the west. I am ashamed to admit that for him, Af-Soomaali has become a second language, Yet I would want him to be Somali?. Alla Waa Xujooy oo waa Xujooy!
My paternal grandmother Xabiiba was a living testament to the rich imagination of the nomadic Somali. I am sad that I was not able to record the wealth of Somali tradition she harbored. My ayeeyo passed in 2013. Allaha u naxariiste.
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