“Our house it has a crowd
There's always something happening
And it's usually quite loud
Our mum, she's so house-proud
Nothing ever slows her down
And a mess is not allowed
Our house, in the middle of our street
Our house, in the middle of our
Something tells you that you've got to move away from it.”
“Our House” by Madness.
***
In late 1960s and early 1970, my family shared a living space with a collage of characters that would make any psychologist have a field day. We lived in a big brick house that had several large rooms, a large space for cooking and one bathroom which was shared by all the housemates. The area the house was located at El Gab neighborhood was generally inhabited by working class people but our house was big enough to accommodate middle class characters and high school students.
Farah ‘Ileey’ (Farah the one-eyed), a shrewd Marehan elderly businessman, owned the house but he was mostly an absentee landlord. My mother ran the show by collecting rent and maintaining order in the house. After several years of running the affairs of the house, some naysayers started telling the landlord that my mother was acting like the owner of his property. My mother, whose leadership skills enabled the place to function properly, was asked to move out of the house. Being a vigorous fighter, my mother refused to budge. After a few months of tug of war, the landlord talked to some Darod elders in order to intervene, and finally my family moved out. However, two years later, the landlord came to my mother regretting about his decision. Apparently, the property had fallen into disrepute.
Three young Northerners (Isaak clan members), who were civil servants, occupied a room in the big house. As a lad, I loved these young men because they were very generous to me. In fact, they gave me the first job I ever had which was to wake them up early in the morning so they could go to work. I was paid 2 Somali shillings per week! I remember one particular Ramadan when I went with these young men to a restaurant at 4 in the morning and ate spaghetti. Until today, I have such a vivid memory of that meal and the experience of going to a restaurant in the wee hours. My mother was not pleased with the fact that I was being paid for doing a neighborly act. She told the Northerners not to give me money and she demanded that I continue waking them up as usual. Being spoiled by the cash flow that I was getting, I became somewhat disappointed with the new arrangement and I did something out of sorts; I changed the method of payment. I started going outside of the house and collected my payments through the back window. Somehow, my mother found out about my secret scheme and, interestingly, chose not to reprimand me or accuse the Northerners of undermining her authority. She knew when to pick a fight and when to let certain things slide by.
A young Reer Hamar artist occupied one of the rooms and he talked to no one when he was around, but he was gone most of the time. I remember his room not being neat but, on the walls of his room, he had fascinating paintings by different Somali artists. I was more impressed with the paintings by his colleagues than his. Also, he had a habit of drinking and alcohol consumption was something frowned upon by Somali people.
For a while, a couple, for confidentiality reasons, I would call “Salad” and “Anbara” occupied the room adjacent to ours. Salad belonged to ‘Carabta Maxmoud Saalax’ clan and his wife was Harti who originally came from the rural areas of Western Ethiopia. Anbara was also a cousin of a famous Somali singer. Salad had an unerring gift and he used to bring old and run-down refrigerators and fix them like new. This rare talented technician was a man loaded with contradictions because he had a volatile temper and would, at times, beat up his wife. That was the first time that I was exposed to domestic violence. Every time Salad beat his wife- which was the case for the first few years of their nascent marriage- the house would be flooded with educated, attractive, and progressive women who happened to be Anbara’s cousins. These ladies would console Anbara while at the same time giving the silent treatment to the wife-beater. I did not see these women visit our house when things were calmer. Anbara was novice to city life and, understandably, was missing her family back in Ethiopia. It appeared that Salad’s father, a diminutive man, was nonchalant about his son’s violence. The only thing, as a child, I could do for Anbara in 1973 was teaching her literacy and basic arithmetic. Later, she moved to Madina District in Mogadishu and became rich. Many years later, I was told that Anbara sneaked back to Ethiopia and was involved in a bizarre espionage case n behalf of the Somali government. Of course, it is difficult to verify the veracity of the story.
Several young students from the Northeastern part of Somalia occupied one of the rooms. Most were distant relatives of my mother, but one of them was my cousin; Omar Abdullahi Haji Osman (Omar Saddiq). These young students were mostly attending high school in Mogadishu and were all supported by their parents back in Qardho and Bossasso. My mother acted as a surrogate parent for these youngsters and some of these students excelled in school and were given scholarships to study in Western Europe and, later, to the Soviet Union.
A young handsome army officer named Tahlil (Hawadle), his mother, and his sister occupied two of the rooms. At the time, army officers and doctors were the two highest respected professionals in Somalia. This army officer was charismatic and a sociable person. His mother was the old school and was protective of him, especially against Darod girls.
Abbas and his roommate occupied one of the rooms. Abbas and my mother, though not related, belonged to the same sub-clan. He was single for a long time but he had a steady girl friend that cared a great deal about him. The young woman gave Abbas ample opportunity to marry her but, unfortunately, he was not the marrying kind and eventually she left him. Abbas’ roommate was an intriguing character. This tall man was a heavy smoker, and he had a peculiar habit of waking up early in the morning, breaking up several eggshells, and gulping the yolks of the eggs. Someone told this poor chap that the egg yolks were good in preventing lung cancer.
There was also the room of a bachelor teacher in his forties who rarely socialized with other housemates. One day, this teacher tried to rape a young and beautiful Habar Gidir woman who worked for the Northeasterners as a cook, but she screamed and he let her go. Afterwards, there was a hush-hush talk about the incident that a young boy like me was not privy to its unsavory details. With the pure curiosity of a child, I started digging for information until I find about the attempted rape. Apparently, the maid did not want to press charges against the teacher, and the whole matter regretfully was swept under the rug.
There were two young Darod men and their younger sister attending high school and occupying one of the rooms. The girl was an average-looking and had the social skills of a cougar. But she became the center of attention in the house and, for me, a source of problem. The girl was mostly interested in the army officer and would try to flirt with him. The young people in the house were not happy with the fact that the army officer was overshadowing them. The girl did whatever she could to get the officer’s attention but the romance was one-way because the officer did not reciprocate the feeling, not to mention his family was displeased with the girl’s bold overtures. But, interestingly, I became infatuated with this girl. I was only eight or nine years old at the time and she was at least seventeen. I started daydreaming about this girl and was consumed by her thoughts. One day, I went to a classmate of mine named Isgow Abdullahi (Shiikhaal Jazira)) who was good in Arabic and I asked him to draft a love letter for me so I could give it to the girl. He dutifully agreed and gave me a short letter saying, in essence, that I loved the girl. I wrapped the note and gave it to the older brother of the girl who in turn gave it to his sister without looking the note. Immediately, I disappeared because I was too embarrassed to stick around and face the music. I started avoiding the girl for at least two days. On the other hand, the girl was appalled and she squarely put the blame on the Northeastern housemates. She accused them of orchestrating the whole matter because they were presumably jealous of her flirtation with the army officer. The Northeastern youngsters vehemently denied that they had anything to do with the love letter. The girl’s older brother singled out my cousin, Omar Saddiq, for allegedly writing the letter. Oddly, Omar was a studious student and was not interested in girls. Curiously, I was never asked what my role was in the whole affair. Why bother! I was only an innocent child! The clamor and the hubbub about the letter put an end to my brief and infantile infatuation. It was only many years later did I confess to my cousin that I was the perpetrator of that nefarious deed.
For a while, one basketball referee lived in one of the rooms. This housemate had interesting collection of books about the history of Somalia and especially that of the Somali Youth League. Apparently, he did something illegal and ended up getting arrested. Two secret service agents came to the house and started searching his room, and among some of the items they discovered were porn magazines. I saw one of the agents flipping through the magazines and then slapping the housemate in the face. The housemate, a tall corpulent fellow, was meek and he gave no response as his eyes welled with tears. He was taken away and was sentenced to prison for several months. For a short period, Khalif Issa Mudane (a young Norteastern) lived in the house until he won a scholarship to the Soviet Union and eventually became an air force pilot. In the 1990s, Khalif became a co-owner of now defunct Damal Airlines. Another young man, Mohamed Rashid (Shiikhaal) also lived in the house and became an air force pilot. Sadly, Mohamed Rashid perished in 1975 when his MIG plane crashed in the outskirts of Mogadishu few days after Siad Barre sent 10 Ulema (scholars) to the gallows.
Uncle ‘Abdi Gurey’
Though not a resident of our house, my beloved uncle Abdirahman Yusuf Musse ‘Abdi Gurey’ was a regular visitor, and there were times that he came for lunch every day. He was handsome and soft-spoken man with Indian features. When my uncle went to Saudi Arabia in mid 1970s for work, he told me that he was always mistaken as an Indian.
My uncle was a civil servant in early and mid 1960s until Prime Minister Abdirizak Haji Hussein laid off many government employees for either efficiency reasons or for political expediency. The layoff was a blessing for my uncle because he opened his own company and named it “Auto Noleggio Wajer” (Wajer Car Rental). He became semi-rich and led an upper-middle class life style. In 1969, he even ran for an office and came close to being elected to the country’s parliament.
My uncle led a bachelor life but in 1969 he married a tall half-Arab and half Harti beauty named Layla Yaslam. I still remember the wedding night and seeing my uncle and Layla coming to the house holding hands. I was very close to my uncle and he used to call me “Hassan Sharaf” because he said that I was always a clean child. The next day after the wedding, I went to my uncle’s house in Hodan (Dabka) District while he was still in honeymoon. We played Somali chess or ‘dubnad’, ate pastries, and listened Sudanese music. Layla bore him a son, Yusuf, but he died in infancy. It was very unfortunate that my uncle’s marriage to Layla abruptly came to an end. My uncle, within a year, married a Majertein woman from Garowe (Issa Mahamoud) who bore him several children. He died in 1990 after several years of illness, not broke but naturally without the wealth that he had amassed in 1960s and early 1970s. Before his death, he became embroiled with Somali politics and got arrested numerous times for suspicion of backing the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF), an opposition group based in Ethiopia.
My uncle was the most generous person that I have ever met. As a child, he was always there for me when I needed him. Many Northeasterners in Mogadishu used his postal box, 702, for getting their mail and he was well liked by his people. We used to go to places, on some Fridays, like Jowhar, Bal’ad, and Afgoi for day trips filled with fun and food. I remember sitting in the shaded acacia trees and eating exquisite meals like rice and lamb meat. Somehow, those sumptuous meals were always well cooked and tasted deliciously.
From time to time, I used to help my uncle in running his car rental business. Mostly, I did the paperwork. I remember one time when my uncle treated poorly two Hawiye bankers who wanted to rent a car. I did not know if the customers had prior dealings with my uncle but nevertheless I was embarrassed by his ornery and cantankerous behavior. Although my uncle owned a good business, he enjoyed hanging with his friends and was not fond of doing the day-to-day grunt work. He was different than my other uncle (and his cousin) Abdullahi Omar Ismail ‘Casaro’ who, though a self-made wealthy man, worked harder and shunned social gatherings. At any rate, one day I rented a car to a customer and my uncle came later that evening to check the sales and receipts. He calculated the numbers and saw what seemed to be an error. My uncle, being a man of sanguine tempers, became agitated and verbally abusive. I remained resolutely silent wondering what I had missed but, after a while, my uncle re-checked the numbers and realized that he was wrong. He immediately apologized to me and gave me 40 Somali Shillings. He was a knightly man.
There's always something happening
And it's usually quite loud
Our mum, she's so house-proud
Nothing ever slows her down
And a mess is not allowed
Our house, in the middle of our street
Our house, in the middle of our
Something tells you that you've got to move away from it.”
“Our House” by Madness.
***
In late 1960s and early 1970, my family shared a living space with a collage of characters that would make any psychologist have a field day. We lived in a big brick house that had several large rooms, a large space for cooking and one bathroom which was shared by all the housemates. The area the house was located at El Gab neighborhood was generally inhabited by working class people but our house was big enough to accommodate middle class characters and high school students.
Farah ‘Ileey’ (Farah the one-eyed), a shrewd Marehan elderly businessman, owned the house but he was mostly an absentee landlord. My mother ran the show by collecting rent and maintaining order in the house. After several years of running the affairs of the house, some naysayers started telling the landlord that my mother was acting like the owner of his property. My mother, whose leadership skills enabled the place to function properly, was asked to move out of the house. Being a vigorous fighter, my mother refused to budge. After a few months of tug of war, the landlord talked to some Darod elders in order to intervene, and finally my family moved out. However, two years later, the landlord came to my mother regretting about his decision. Apparently, the property had fallen into disrepute.
Three young Northerners (Isaak clan members), who were civil servants, occupied a room in the big house. As a lad, I loved these young men because they were very generous to me. In fact, they gave me the first job I ever had which was to wake them up early in the morning so they could go to work. I was paid 2 Somali shillings per week! I remember one particular Ramadan when I went with these young men to a restaurant at 4 in the morning and ate spaghetti. Until today, I have such a vivid memory of that meal and the experience of going to a restaurant in the wee hours. My mother was not pleased with the fact that I was being paid for doing a neighborly act. She told the Northerners not to give me money and she demanded that I continue waking them up as usual. Being spoiled by the cash flow that I was getting, I became somewhat disappointed with the new arrangement and I did something out of sorts; I changed the method of payment. I started going outside of the house and collected my payments through the back window. Somehow, my mother found out about my secret scheme and, interestingly, chose not to reprimand me or accuse the Northerners of undermining her authority. She knew when to pick a fight and when to let certain things slide by.
A young Reer Hamar artist occupied one of the rooms and he talked to no one when he was around, but he was gone most of the time. I remember his room not being neat but, on the walls of his room, he had fascinating paintings by different Somali artists. I was more impressed with the paintings by his colleagues than his. Also, he had a habit of drinking and alcohol consumption was something frowned upon by Somali people.
For a while, a couple, for confidentiality reasons, I would call “Salad” and “Anbara” occupied the room adjacent to ours. Salad belonged to ‘Carabta Maxmoud Saalax’ clan and his wife was Harti who originally came from the rural areas of Western Ethiopia. Anbara was also a cousin of a famous Somali singer. Salad had an unerring gift and he used to bring old and run-down refrigerators and fix them like new. This rare talented technician was a man loaded with contradictions because he had a volatile temper and would, at times, beat up his wife. That was the first time that I was exposed to domestic violence. Every time Salad beat his wife- which was the case for the first few years of their nascent marriage- the house would be flooded with educated, attractive, and progressive women who happened to be Anbara’s cousins. These ladies would console Anbara while at the same time giving the silent treatment to the wife-beater. I did not see these women visit our house when things were calmer. Anbara was novice to city life and, understandably, was missing her family back in Ethiopia. It appeared that Salad’s father, a diminutive man, was nonchalant about his son’s violence. The only thing, as a child, I could do for Anbara in 1973 was teaching her literacy and basic arithmetic. Later, she moved to Madina District in Mogadishu and became rich. Many years later, I was told that Anbara sneaked back to Ethiopia and was involved in a bizarre espionage case n behalf of the Somali government. Of course, it is difficult to verify the veracity of the story.
Several young students from the Northeastern part of Somalia occupied one of the rooms. Most were distant relatives of my mother, but one of them was my cousin; Omar Abdullahi Haji Osman (Omar Saddiq). These young students were mostly attending high school in Mogadishu and were all supported by their parents back in Qardho and Bossasso. My mother acted as a surrogate parent for these youngsters and some of these students excelled in school and were given scholarships to study in Western Europe and, later, to the Soviet Union.
A young handsome army officer named Tahlil (Hawadle), his mother, and his sister occupied two of the rooms. At the time, army officers and doctors were the two highest respected professionals in Somalia. This army officer was charismatic and a sociable person. His mother was the old school and was protective of him, especially against Darod girls.
Abbas and his roommate occupied one of the rooms. Abbas and my mother, though not related, belonged to the same sub-clan. He was single for a long time but he had a steady girl friend that cared a great deal about him. The young woman gave Abbas ample opportunity to marry her but, unfortunately, he was not the marrying kind and eventually she left him. Abbas’ roommate was an intriguing character. This tall man was a heavy smoker, and he had a peculiar habit of waking up early in the morning, breaking up several eggshells, and gulping the yolks of the eggs. Someone told this poor chap that the egg yolks were good in preventing lung cancer.
There was also the room of a bachelor teacher in his forties who rarely socialized with other housemates. One day, this teacher tried to rape a young and beautiful Habar Gidir woman who worked for the Northeasterners as a cook, but she screamed and he let her go. Afterwards, there was a hush-hush talk about the incident that a young boy like me was not privy to its unsavory details. With the pure curiosity of a child, I started digging for information until I find about the attempted rape. Apparently, the maid did not want to press charges against the teacher, and the whole matter regretfully was swept under the rug.
There were two young Darod men and their younger sister attending high school and occupying one of the rooms. The girl was an average-looking and had the social skills of a cougar. But she became the center of attention in the house and, for me, a source of problem. The girl was mostly interested in the army officer and would try to flirt with him. The young people in the house were not happy with the fact that the army officer was overshadowing them. The girl did whatever she could to get the officer’s attention but the romance was one-way because the officer did not reciprocate the feeling, not to mention his family was displeased with the girl’s bold overtures. But, interestingly, I became infatuated with this girl. I was only eight or nine years old at the time and she was at least seventeen. I started daydreaming about this girl and was consumed by her thoughts. One day, I went to a classmate of mine named Isgow Abdullahi (Shiikhaal Jazira)) who was good in Arabic and I asked him to draft a love letter for me so I could give it to the girl. He dutifully agreed and gave me a short letter saying, in essence, that I loved the girl. I wrapped the note and gave it to the older brother of the girl who in turn gave it to his sister without looking the note. Immediately, I disappeared because I was too embarrassed to stick around and face the music. I started avoiding the girl for at least two days. On the other hand, the girl was appalled and she squarely put the blame on the Northeastern housemates. She accused them of orchestrating the whole matter because they were presumably jealous of her flirtation with the army officer. The Northeastern youngsters vehemently denied that they had anything to do with the love letter. The girl’s older brother singled out my cousin, Omar Saddiq, for allegedly writing the letter. Oddly, Omar was a studious student and was not interested in girls. Curiously, I was never asked what my role was in the whole affair. Why bother! I was only an innocent child! The clamor and the hubbub about the letter put an end to my brief and infantile infatuation. It was only many years later did I confess to my cousin that I was the perpetrator of that nefarious deed.
For a while, one basketball referee lived in one of the rooms. This housemate had interesting collection of books about the history of Somalia and especially that of the Somali Youth League. Apparently, he did something illegal and ended up getting arrested. Two secret service agents came to the house and started searching his room, and among some of the items they discovered were porn magazines. I saw one of the agents flipping through the magazines and then slapping the housemate in the face. The housemate, a tall corpulent fellow, was meek and he gave no response as his eyes welled with tears. He was taken away and was sentenced to prison for several months. For a short period, Khalif Issa Mudane (a young Norteastern) lived in the house until he won a scholarship to the Soviet Union and eventually became an air force pilot. In the 1990s, Khalif became a co-owner of now defunct Damal Airlines. Another young man, Mohamed Rashid (Shiikhaal) also lived in the house and became an air force pilot. Sadly, Mohamed Rashid perished in 1975 when his MIG plane crashed in the outskirts of Mogadishu few days after Siad Barre sent 10 Ulema (scholars) to the gallows.
Uncle ‘Abdi Gurey’
Though not a resident of our house, my beloved uncle Abdirahman Yusuf Musse ‘Abdi Gurey’ was a regular visitor, and there were times that he came for lunch every day. He was handsome and soft-spoken man with Indian features. When my uncle went to Saudi Arabia in mid 1970s for work, he told me that he was always mistaken as an Indian.
My uncle was a civil servant in early and mid 1960s until Prime Minister Abdirizak Haji Hussein laid off many government employees for either efficiency reasons or for political expediency. The layoff was a blessing for my uncle because he opened his own company and named it “Auto Noleggio Wajer” (Wajer Car Rental). He became semi-rich and led an upper-middle class life style. In 1969, he even ran for an office and came close to being elected to the country’s parliament.
My uncle led a bachelor life but in 1969 he married a tall half-Arab and half Harti beauty named Layla Yaslam. I still remember the wedding night and seeing my uncle and Layla coming to the house holding hands. I was very close to my uncle and he used to call me “Hassan Sharaf” because he said that I was always a clean child. The next day after the wedding, I went to my uncle’s house in Hodan (Dabka) District while he was still in honeymoon. We played Somali chess or ‘dubnad’, ate pastries, and listened Sudanese music. Layla bore him a son, Yusuf, but he died in infancy. It was very unfortunate that my uncle’s marriage to Layla abruptly came to an end. My uncle, within a year, married a Majertein woman from Garowe (Issa Mahamoud) who bore him several children. He died in 1990 after several years of illness, not broke but naturally without the wealth that he had amassed in 1960s and early 1970s. Before his death, he became embroiled with Somali politics and got arrested numerous times for suspicion of backing the Somali Salvation Democratic Front (SSDF), an opposition group based in Ethiopia.
My uncle was the most generous person that I have ever met. As a child, he was always there for me when I needed him. Many Northeasterners in Mogadishu used his postal box, 702, for getting their mail and he was well liked by his people. We used to go to places, on some Fridays, like Jowhar, Bal’ad, and Afgoi for day trips filled with fun and food. I remember sitting in the shaded acacia trees and eating exquisite meals like rice and lamb meat. Somehow, those sumptuous meals were always well cooked and tasted deliciously.
From time to time, I used to help my uncle in running his car rental business. Mostly, I did the paperwork. I remember one time when my uncle treated poorly two Hawiye bankers who wanted to rent a car. I did not know if the customers had prior dealings with my uncle but nevertheless I was embarrassed by his ornery and cantankerous behavior. Although my uncle owned a good business, he enjoyed hanging with his friends and was not fond of doing the day-to-day grunt work. He was different than my other uncle (and his cousin) Abdullahi Omar Ismail ‘Casaro’ who, though a self-made wealthy man, worked harder and shunned social gatherings. At any rate, one day I rented a car to a customer and my uncle came later that evening to check the sales and receipts. He calculated the numbers and saw what seemed to be an error. My uncle, being a man of sanguine tempers, became agitated and verbally abusive. I remained resolutely silent wondering what I had missed but, after a while, my uncle re-checked the numbers and realized that he was wrong. He immediately apologized to me and gave me 40 Somali Shillings. He was a knightly man.
