IDIOSYNCRASIES OF A CONFORMIST ‘SIYAASI’ IN JIGJIGA

Abdullahi Dahir Mooge
(moogedahas2008@yahoo.com)
Jan 30, 2008

There he sat, clad in a dark-blue shirt - a makeshift Fitishari - on the top, with a classy Sarando macawis. The sheer number of pillows he reclined on was telling. This is not an ordinary man. The ubiquitous Coca-cola, Sprite, and mineral water; flanked by two flasks full of tea; were ostentatiously strewed a yard or so away from his wide chest. As I walked in, he stood and extended his big hand; in a courteous reception-to me- his new seedi (brother-in-law). Although, I sensed he was keen for exchange of pleasantries, he was compelled to put business before pleasure first, I gathered.

He continued the conversation interrupted by my entry into the room. Looking wearily at the elderly woman, who sat timorously, close to the entrance door; he said ‘Eedo’, with a deep coarse voice; ‘You can go now. You can see I am with guests. I will try to do my best.’ he went on: ‘you only need 5000 Birr (550 USD) to secure his release. As you know, that is the new regulation for releasing suspects.’ Of course’, he added reassuringly, ‘waa inuu isna is-fashiliyaa (the boy must admit)’. The old women held a long face all along. But her face lit up with a flicker of sanguinity when the charge against her sixteen-years-old boy was finally revealed. The man said that Asad yare is not accused of being a member (xubin) or even a supporter (taageere) of the anti-peace elements. He faced the lesser charge of Maagane-Itixaad (aspirant of Itihaad).

When she tried to question the basis for such a flimsy thing as Maagane, a bespectacled man in the far corner of the room- a sort of archetypal Karaani, useful for xissabxidh- interjected with a weighty alibi. ‘isagoo surwaalkii gaabsaday oo gadh labaxay’ - he saw the boy with his own eyes- he said. In fact, if his words count to anything, the boy even had the audacity to admonish him. He continued and quoted the boy as saying to him, ‘qayrkaa B.H.D (Ph.D) iyo Mustareet (Masters) buu wada qaatay adiguna halkanaad Boodhinaysaa’. ‘To You? He said that to you? Oh, not me! Maad indhaha ku dhufatid; imisa waxaa uu sheegi haysta ayaa ii jeebaysan…ahey ah.’ The big boss roared with rage. Eedo Waris left the room at that, with a bizarre mix of melancholy and hope. Little did she know that, most often, forced confessions are just the start of the long ordeal that is to follow!

In the beautifully decorated room, the assortment of drinks, the aroma of the uunsi, and the glut of ‘Royal cadde’ packets  on exhibit; convinced me the men were in for a big time-big Barje- on that Friday afternoon. The parade of Dhabanacas pistols on the floor was a bit out of place, making the room look a lot like an office in ‘CIA HQ in Langley’ than an ordinary place to beguile time. From the pompous looks in the eyes of the men, I guessed they must like it this way- the James Bond 007 way!

Spontaneously, the big man would use one Coca-Cola bottle to open any of the drinks, and with an obvious munificence pass to the folks, sitting in a rectangular shape around the fadhi-carbeed. Of whom, at least two kept saying war naga kala daa de’; accompanied by an obsequious chuckle and wale nin kula fadhiistay baan sharaab ka caban.

You guys- I mean-the reer-nogbeed, who were flashing my mobile ten times; while I was with ’senior Masuuliyiin’, eat your stupid stereotypes against those you call nacamlayaal. Philosophically, they are just a human being-blood and flesh-; maybe a bit too impatient to wait for the fruits of their work, and maybe too prone to the enticement of the glitters of an easy life. Regardless, don’t treat them like cheap-they way you treat my friend Ali Hadi.

And don’t call me at the wrong time to ask me what is wrong with these guys you gave bad adjectives. Who, you said, are writing articles -with questions and answers in one titles: like ‘What is the colour of a white horse? How the hell I am supposed to know their disease? Am I a witch, a Doctor, or a prophet? Actually I tried to ask an Indian Doctor- friend of mine-and he said it is common in his kandry (country); Lord Kirishna is his witness;- It is called Idiopathy.

That is as far as I can tell you. And if you think, inaad wiilashaas isku kaaya dirteen- bayuur, bal maxaa idin maydha- I am on talking terms with Ali! You guys, iminkaan idin fahmay, you are jealous of their af-ingiriisi. The other day, while I was having a cappuccino with you, you were insisting ina-macalin Ileys iyo Faarax baa dadkii dhibay. Stop the hypocrisy. Ma af-somaaliga ay wax ku qoraan bada ku cafideen iyaga?

My distractions- I apologize. I don’t know why I was thinking about this.  Bal badduu nagaliyay day miss call kiinaa xuni.

Back from the reverie, I almost gave them my bottle opener, I was carrying as keys-holder; but quickly avoided doing that, as my drifting eyes spotted a similar one lying there. It occurred to me that newcomers to ‘big’ towns- the Xariif-tuulo’s- actually marvel in displaying newly-acquired dexterities. It attests to their pretense of being ‘rag go’go’ay (the burnt out) who are reer-magaal lafahooda soo dubtay. But, my grueling past encounters with others from the same ‘alma-mater’, taught me not to take their pledges of subscribing to the cliché reer-magaale gaboobay rag haday is qabtaan, budhka soo rogon maaye waluhuu ku raftaa, seriously. One misplaced kaftan and, it is not budh-but Bastoolad- baa la soo rogan. That is the rule you must be forewarned about. Always remember it is all about pretense!!

For once, loud rattle of nabiga-ku-saliya (PBUH) brought the chatter in the room to a shuddering stop. Here he was again; exploiting the sacrosanct edict to get access to our sovereign ears; more like a judge in a courtroom would use the ‘order! order!’ mantra to quell a commotion. And the lecture went on with the topic: sida haweenka la isaga celiyo. But this time we were lucky, the sound of the music coming from the tape recorder- a Sony double Decker-, which I think he liked, saved us the torrent of his manly braggadocio. The man started screeching loudly in tune with the melodious song playing. His voice wasn’t bad either. The absence of Somali-Idol competition must have denied this guy an alternative to ‘Siyaasad’ life, I thought.

I am talking about Yusuf Jabane: the head of Danan district whom everyone else in the room addressed as Gudoomiye- even when asking for permission to use the balance in his Nokia N95 cell phone. To the music now: It was vintage Siciid Mire Xaydar- playing the cool guy caught off-guard by the outburst of love from Kinsi- as her enigmatic voice pleaded for a waiver of his ‘let us get to know each other’ formalities. The song engrossed me as I hummed with the lyrics:

‘Walow Dhaylo aad tahay ee hee ee oo hadana

 ladhaqankiyo dhunkashada ku wacan tahay….’

I have to say I enjoyed the song- a Somali oldie which evokes romantic images of memories to raagii hore. Not the rap and R&B generation of Knanites’ (KAINAN aficionados).

But something trivial kept on bothering me. Only few minutes later, Fuad Omer’s contemporary hit Indhahayga was cheered on with a whistle and chants of Waayo-waayo. Gudoomiye Yusuf, was all along oscillating his head, starring at the roof, his right-hand held high up, his fingers snapping to the rhythm- and intermittently adding his voice to the now familiar Waayo-waayo - to almost every track played. When the tracks were released seemed of no essence to the ‘Siyaasi’s here. By the look of it; I extrapolated, the chants of Barisamaadkii would accompany anything from Xaredo Ismael Duniyo’s ‘Sheekhayga Caashaqa’ to Maki Xaaji Banadir’s ‘Bacdaa Dhuuqso ’ in this Majlis.

Maybe, I was rather a cynic. I was wondering if these men are not mistaking the nostalgic cadence of the Dhaanto, they heard in those youthful days- in all the horizons of Burqayar and Danbarweyne; to what they are listening now. I wondered- I hated my cynicism- if ‘…hilaaaaaac aan dhaweyn baaaaa Halka geelu Daaqiyoooo, Beeeesha Haradigeediyo Hawd iiga muuqdaaaaa….’ would have resonated better with this flocks’ experiences. Well, to be fair to them, Waayo-waayo is a relative concept- in consonance with Einstein’s general theory of relatively. What if they had heard that music; say a year ago.  

Suddenly, amidst all this fun and indulgence, his phone rang. It was a call from Minneapolis-at least that is what Gudoomiye told us- while he insisted on silence. And the conversation went on. I heard him saying, ‘…we are done with that. I just talked to kornayl (Colonel) Mesfin. I gave him all the details of who the senders and recipients of the money are. I gave them the name and address of the Xawaaladda. So don’t you worry.’ He munched two more leaves from the Awday ‘khat’, and managed to sip from the tea, as he briefly listened to the man on the other end. Then he nodded vigorously in assent and replied, ‘you are right, Farah Dhuub. I fully concur with you on that. I know what you are doing with the embassies there. I know that the main financier’s of the anti-peace and terrorists are there in London and America.’ He continued, ‘by the way, Mulugeta told me Ato Towelde is really pleased with what you have accomplished so far in exposing those who are wrecking havoc in our region.’

Abruptly, he stopped the conversation, asked the man on the line to hold on; and pulled another cell phone, which must have been on vibration mode, from the left lower pocket of his Fitishaari. The man on the other side, speaking in Amharic, could be heard. The loudspeaker was on- for whatever reason. Gudoomiye must have wanted the Man in Minneapolis to follow the conversation he is about to have. Or, perhaps he wished to impress his Barja-mates. After all, talking to big army commander is a big deal here!

The bottom-line of the discussion was about how Guddomiye is liaising with good people in Dibada (abroad), and if I heard it correctly- I thought he mentioned few names of some in high places in the region who are conspiring to kick him out of his position. The Amharic speaking man snorted and said ‘jigir yalam’ (no problem); only to follow it up with ‘when are you coming with that thing?’ At that the point, Guddomiye stood up and hurriedly walked into his bedroom.

I didn’t hear how his conversation on the earlier line ended; as he took two of-as I came to know later- his three cell phones inside. I asked a chatty man next to me, not a ‘masuul’, but on qaraaba-salaan just like me, ‘why all this mobiles?’ He slyly muttered: ‘Waa Siyaasi WEYN’.

A bit of a boring talk; subjects ranging-  from bahjad (budget), dawlada dhexe, horumar, wuu nagu kacsan yahay, to waa la eryey, waan ku tuuray, and buufis baan ku riday - followed. Whenever debates on recent reshuffle in the regional government raged, one man- the bespectacled man- who I learned was a khabiirka Xisaabaadka kept on repeating ‘…orod ka akhriya, waxaa lagu soo qoray imika.net’. Apparently, as grade eight complete, he was the most educated and hence; occasionally boasted on the others.

Yusuf Jabane, has recently married a distant relative of mine; and as an integral element of Somali etiquette, I wanted to pay a visit to the bride. That is why I was there. Yusuf joked that he got the lady- my habarwadaag Ruqiya-while on hawlgal-nabadgalyo (security campaign) to Hadhawe village. Everybody laughed. So did I. Heartily laughs are rare commodities here and when it happened, I was pleasantly grateful.

The music also continued, cassettes after cassettes entered and ejected at a mesmerizing speed. As if to lend credence to the ungentlemanly sneer inside me; the room erupted with the biggest cheer and hand-waving, when Mohamed Adan Dacar’s song on the vicissitudes of life ‘Gablan Talo Adduunyooy’ was played. The setting and the circumstances Dacar mentioned must have stroked a chord with the fellows, I mused.

But the laughter was short-lived as the shock of my life transpired. A teenager threw himself into the room-upset about the shovels and pushes he claimed the security men outside, subjected him to. When I was coming in, myself, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Young and emaciated gunmen, some with police outfits and others plain-clothed, starred from every direction, with their guns. I wondered if I was coming to a family house or into the office of the ‘head of homeland security’. To the boy, that anger was nothing, given the sadness that gripped his heart. The young boy, a relative of Gudoomiyaha, summoned all the energy left in him as he broke the horrific news. He told his uncle that his elder sister Hibaaq- has been arrested; then raped and is now in Gode Hospital. Shocking it was, to everybody in the room. Some initially murmured whether this is the anti-peace ‘propaganda’ but the boy spoiled it for them; when he stated that his sister will be on her way to Jigjiga for medication, tomorrow.

A long silence descended. None of the Geljire/lo’ley ‘cabinet’ (no offence to Geljirenimo/Lo’ley-I might explain) dared to utter a word. In a manner reminiscent of the Forty Thieves, they waited patiently for ‘AliBaba’ to take the lead.

The poor man was visibly shaken. Yes, he has thrown many ‘ONLF girls’ into the jails. Yes, he has shared the food aid with ‘shalaqaa’ (captain) Nigusse; in Xerada Ciidanka. Yes, he has stolen a lot of money and led a profligate life by his standards. And true, come Monday-he will collect the next allotment of Lacagtii nabadgalyadda-from the finance Bureau and pay some of his personal debts-including the satellite dish, TV, and Generator he took on loan from ‘Tolka Electronics Shop’.

Nonetheless, this was too much for him. He never imagined his brother’s daughter is next in line. He thought he can always protect her by virtue of his position. He thought he is trusted and respected by the army; who would clear with him whatever action they intend to take. A look of incredulity was all over him. He bowed his head in ignominy and grief. He wanted to scream. He, really, liked the young lady. He wanted to weep. But the devil of egotism that sat heavily on his back, whispered to him: You will lose everything in so doing. 

His quick mind raced quickly for a way out. None were on the horizon. But the relief came from an unlikely quarter. A so far reticent short man-Yusuf’s deputy- Haajir, on my right side supplied the ‘anti-pain’ in abundance. ‘Waxanoo dhan waxaa ka danbeeya gudoomiyaha gobolka’ he growled in fake anger. That took the hook off everybody; who now found someone to blame. Not that they think he was the culprit but that by far it was safer to vent their anger against their ‘equals’: not Colonel Hagos, whose lust, led to the rape of the young lady. Gudoomiye, a survivor ‘Siyaasi’ as he is, quickly capitalized on this. Bal meeshaan kala dhaco hala arko, he solemnly vowed.

On second thought, he realized the danger of pursuing that line. It would prove to be too late. For now, he jumped with vitriol and lamented dhibaatada ONLF ay shacabka ugaysatay. Aha! He sensed; he could even turn the loss into a gain. He rumbled to the rest of the ‘cabinet’ why it is imperative to expedite the ‘Ololaha Dabargoynta Nabdiidka’. Later in the evening, when Ruqiya insists who exactly raped the young lady; he knew he had to be specific. And he knew his man: Ina Omar Osman. The ‘cabinet’ had to know and he spelled out the name of the man he reviles. But something in his eyes puzzled me: there was no bitterness. No, it was more of a sigh of relief. Relief; that he finally had an excuse to look the other way. 

After about eight months, I run into one of those men-I met in Jigjiga-while visiting Gode. Inquisitive, as I am as ever, I asked where Yusuf is and whether the lady has got any child yet, matter-of-factly. He took deep breath, looked at me pensively, and said the words that have become very familiar these days: waa la xidhay (he was arrested). And before I asked any more details, he went on.  ‘Gimgamahii ayuu ku qiraty inuu xidhiidh la lahaa nabadiidka.’ (He admitted to have had relationship with the anti-peace elements).  

On what evidence, had he been suspected in the first place? I queried further. The man told me that his deputy had accused him of ‘inuu ka naxay ONLF talaabo laga qaaday’. Rewind your memory, please. That moment of total loss and oblivion after the news of the rape was broken to him by the young boy, ‘exposed his inner self’. And the man, who suggested the wrongdoer was the zonal head- the silent Hajir - I heard, was the man who started the afuuf during the qiimeyn (evaluations). Instinctively, the man I just met pre-empted my next question, and said ‘they transferred him to Jijiga- he is in Jeel-Ogaden.’

He then apologized for not taking time with me; as he had to rush to yet another ‘Qiimeyn’. According to him, the man on the ‘kawaan’ (slaughter-board) is the current district Gudoomiye. Guess who? Haajir: who landed his former boss in jail, and has been a Gudoomiye himself, for the last four solid months.

Damn me! I forgot to ask about the condition of the raped girl, and Yusuf’s wife; as I stood motionless; pondering if exit is ever possible for ‘our Siyaasis’ from the spiral of maelstrom in the string of Tadaaqi-office-Jail-office-Jail. I concluded that entry is certainly easier; and perhaps one can choose his fate at that point only.