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Acerbic Tongue
Let me say at the outset that I
have been accused of being “a typical Somali man.” Of course, the accuser was
none other than a Somali woman. Admittedly, there is a lot of evidence to back
up that statement. I will tell you why.
The first time I heard her voice
over the phone, I was smitten. We both worked for a major corporation that
serves all kinds of customers, citizens and immigrants. I was in Memphis and
she was in Maine. I was new to the company, and she had three years of
experience under her belt. I was shy and she was funny, bubbly, and full of
confidence. While I kept quiet the whole hour of the telephone conference, she
dominated the discussion. Her English was perfect, her voice mellifluous. She
adroitly took over the meeting with her brilliant ideas, her wit, and her
advocacy for fellow employees. She was fearless and talked to our manager as
though he were another employee. Americans say that Somali women are assertive,
but Asha—that is her name—was the mother of all assertiveness.
Initially, I thought she was a
young lady, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties, and dismissed her as
being what the Somalis call “dhoocil”
(an immature young lady). If true, it meant she was a woman out of my reach. I
was in my late thirties.
The participants of the meeting
(seven Somalis and three Americans in management) agreed to exchange emails and
phone numbers. I was over the moon. I wanted to call Asha and talk to her about
my work schedule. In the meeting, she had mentioned that she wanted to change
her work schedule to the second shift, my shift.
That same day, I called her on
the pretext of swapping our schedules, but my intention was anything but that.
I wanted to know her and I was not disappointed. Asha spoke Somali like someone
who had just arrived from Mudug, a region in central Somalia, where the
standard Somali script is based. She was born and raised in Mogadishu and never
lived anywhere else in the country. I was impressed with her command of Somali.
She also peppered her conversation with flawless English and idiomatic
expressions. In addition, she was not shy about using colorful language.
That first time, we spoke for an
hour. However, in that hour, she told me everything one needs to know about
another person. She was the same age as I was (yea!), a single mother with a
teenaged son, and was once married. She also told me about her prior
relationships with men, a discussion that made me cringe with goose bumps. Here
I was—a bashful man, a new colleague of hers who stayed silent in our work
meeting—but now I was listening to her salacious story. She was too open and
too progressive for me. However, I loved talking to her because I found her
intriguing. She asked me personal questions and I gave her short and concise
answers. Unsatisfied with my lukewarm responses, she called me, for the first
time, “a typical Somali man.”
Then, the next day, she called me
and we talked about two hours. We found ourselves inching closer to each other.
As time went by, we acted like two teenagers in love; only we never met in
person. We made plans to meet. I also
talked to her son, who liked me. I was being groomed to be his stepfather and
the father figure he never had. Things were going so well until one fateful
incident put a wedge between Asha and me. It happened on day 20 of our
acquaintance.
One day, a friend of mine came to
my house while Asha was on the phone with me. I told her I would call her back
in 20 minutes after my guest had left. She was upset. “Are you going to end our
talk just because a friend of yours came to your house?” she blurted out in
anger. “Honey, it is rude to ignore my guest. I will call you back right away,”
I pleaded. “Okay, now I get it,” she continued, “Go ahead. You are nothing but
“qaniis” (homosexual). Then, she hung
up the phone.
I knew Asha was high-tempered and
easily angered, but I was so shocked that she had called me a homosexual.
Initially, I pretended I didn’t hear it and remained unnerved and calm. Maybe
she was exhausted, I thought. Then, Asha
called me an hour later. This time, she was even angrier and issued a fusillade
of accusations. She kept throwing around the word ‘gay’ with such promiscuity. To
her, I was gay and masquerading as a heterosexual. In other words, I was a
fake. I was angry. After another twenty five minutes, the threats came in
batches. She told me that she would call an old friend of hers in my city and
expose me. I thought she was bluffing until her friend actually called me later
that night. How did he get my number? Please, use your imagination. I barely
knew the guy. He was upset that Asha had called him with her false accusation.
In a way, her friend was giving me assurances that he was not buying her
outrageous claim. The phone calls from Asha were so numerous that night that I
stopped answering the phone. I went to bed at 2 a.m.
The next day, Asha called me
again,
but, interestingly, she was not cursing at me. In fact, she was crying and
asking for forgiveness. She apologized to me for calling me names. I was angry
but I kept a cool demeanor and listened to her. Her justification for her
outburst and abusive language was even more revealing: “I was not sober last
night when I was calling you.” She continued and said she had a problem with
chemical dependency. That was the first time that she informed me of her
drinking problem. This is the same woman who was forthcoming about her past
relationships, yet she withheld from me a simple but significant detail of her
life—her drinking problem.
Yes, I am a typical Somali conservative
man. Moreover, I don’t drink, use drugs, or even smoke cigarettes. Her
admission of drinking shook my world. I asked myself how I had failed to
inquire about her vices. She came to the United States as a teen. I had made a
mistake mixing with a woman who was the antithesis of me. Our relationship
ended immediately.
Something strange happened several months later. Asha called
me and we talked like nothing had happened. We became friends. Can you believe
that? We each knew that we were done as a couple, but friendship is another
matter. Asha is married to an American man whom she loves a great deal. “I am
done with you Somali men,” she said, laughing like a mob boss, “You guys are
hopeless.” I always liked her unique laugh. I am also married. I am still
conservative. Remember, I am a typical Somali man. I guess she was right.
Not My Type
I am a 23-year-old woman. I will
never marry a Somali man. Do you understand that?
I am tired of Somali men and
their quirks. They are inconsiderate, immature, unromantic, and vengeful. At
least the ones I have met.
What is wrong with our men? If I
talk to one of them, he thinks I am a loose woman and a flirt. I can’t even be
myself with them. I have to act and behave according to what our inflexible
culture dictates.
I once invited a former high
school classmate, who had moved to Minnesota but was in town for a family
visit, to dinner. I took him to a nice Thai restaurant, and we had a sumptuous
dinner. Afterward, I dropped him at his family’s house. End of story. Or so I
thought.
The following day, I went to a
Somali grocery shop, and I saw three men staring at me. Somalis do stare at
people they do not know, but these were long and invasive gazes. I felt
uncomfortable and left shortly after. A week later, I returned to the store and
asked the shop owner why the men were looking at me strangely. “Because the guy
you invited last week for dinner was saying that you two had a great romantic
outing,” he said bashfully. Romantic evening! Give me a break. “That is a
boldfaced lie,” I told the shopkeeper. He smiled and kept doing what he was
doing. I knew he did not believe me. I am tired of being defined by these
myopic wackos and idiots.
Stop this insane Somali world, I
want to get off.
I know what I will do: I will
marry a foreigner. End of story.
The Khat Maven
My wife is addicted to khat, a mild stimulant plant popular in
East Africa and Yemen and exported to the United States. She chews khat regularly and spends a great deal
of money feeding her habit. The plant is legal in some countries in Africa and
Europe but not in America, where the possession, sale, and transportation of khat are federal crimes. Despite the
ban, the drug is easily accessible in Somali and Yemeni communities in this
country.
My wife became addicted to khat while she was pregnant with our
first child. “Can you buy me a bundle of khat?”
she asked me. I was shocked by her request because I had never tasted khat in my life. Besides, I was afraid
of being caught with the illegal substance. I am your average, strait-laced
guy. I panicked and asked a friend of mine, a khat user, to get the drug.
After my wife had the baby, I
thought she would quit khat.
Unfortunately, she did not. Seven years later, she is still a regular user. In
my entire life, I have known no more than five Somali women who used khat, and they either were elderly or had
unsavory pasts. I am embarrassed by my wife’s addiction to the drug. Somalis
have a negative opinion of women who chew khat.
I am afraid that my wife will be arrested, and the whole family will be
embarrassed and humiliated by the scandal. I have talked to her about this
problem but she has waved off any suggestion that she seek help. Recently, both
local and federal enforcement agencies have been cracking down on khat importation and use in the United States.
I have a dilemma. As a law-abiding
citizen, I cannot condone my wife’s abuse of the drug, nor can I tolerate its
use in my house. Yet, I am powerless. My wife has threatened to ask for a
divorce if I do not get off her back. I am directly paying for her drug abuse
because she is not gainfully employed. I give her money that she fritters away
on the drug. Moreover, all of my four children are aware that she uses khat. I am afraid that they will grow up
thinking it is okay to chew khat.
When I talk to a few members of
my community about the issue of my wife’s addiction, they scoff at me. “Relax,
man, and stop whining,” a friend chastised me, “it is nothing to worry about.”
My community, unfortunately, does not see the use of khat as a problem. I guess we have a long way to go in
understanding the deleterious effects of the drug on our people.
