Back to Mogadishu (Part III): Thirty-One Years Later

It was the phone call of a lifetime—one that would take me back to the land of my birth with a job offer that would catapult me into a rarefied position of serving the country’s top leadership.

On February 6, 2018, while I was driving outside Phoenix, Arizona, on my way to Southern California, I received a phone call from Ahmed I. Awad, the Foreign Minister of Somalia. Until a few months previously, Awad had been Somalia’s Ambassador to the U.S. After exchanging pleasantries, Awad asked me:

“If offered a position as a speech writer for President Mohamed Farmajo, would you accept it?

Honestly, I was shocked. Awad, after all, was a serious man not given to making asinine jokes. After a few seconds of silence, I said I would accept such a position if it was fine with the people of Villa Somalia—the seat of the presidency.

“Good, then stay tuned,” he said and ended the call.

Two days later, Awad called and asked if I could send him my resume. I did immediately.

This was not the first time I was approached about being a speech writer for a Somali president.

In 2012, Abdi Hosh, now the Minister of Constitution and then a legislator, introduced me—via email—to Kamaal F. Gutaale, then Chief of Staff of President Hassan Sheikh. He recommended me as a speech writer for the new president. Neither Gutaale nor I followed up on the matter.

On February 13, 2018, I received a missed call from Abdirizak Shoole, Deputy Chief of Staff of the Office of the Presidency. He left me a message in which he requested my presence in Mogadishu. Soon after that, I received a text message from him reiterating the request:

“Greetings, Hassan. I request that you come to Mogadishu at your earliest convenience and meet with the [officials] in the Office of the Presidency.”

“Ok, I will let you know before I arrive in Mogadishu,” I replied.

I thought things were going fast and that my speech writing services were badly needed in Villa Somalia. My understanding was I would be interviewed first, followed by a background check, and then a decision would be made whether to hire me or not.  

I was wrong.

On February 20, I let Villa Somalia know that I would be arriving in Mogadishu in the early morning of March 16. I estimated that the interviewing process would take a week. I checked with the Deputy Chief of Staff to give me a date detailing when the process might finish so I could buy my return ticket early.

The response I got was firm and unequivocal: “Get only a one-way ticket because you will start working from day one.” There was nothing to worry about, I was told, because everything would be taken care of.

When I hemmed and hawed about getting the return ticket, I was told in no uncertain terms that the job was for me to have and I should avail myself to work, “at least for one year.” Again, I was told “everything will be taken care of.”

The new directive changed everything for me. Now, I had less than three weeks to prepare myself for a big move to Mogadishu after decades of absence. In short, I had to get rid of the stuff I had accumulated over the years—from furniture to stacks of books. It was a sudden and drastic downsizing. As an independent contractor, I told my clients I would be gone for a year. They were not pleased.

Friends and family members assured me I was doing the right thing by taking the job and serving my country in my capacity as a speech writer.

“You write a lot anyway,” one friend said jokingly, “you might as well start writing some meaningful speeches for the president.”

On March 16 at 10 a.m., I landed in Mogadishu ready to start my work in Villa Somalia. I was received well at the airport, and a young man was told to drop me at a hotel on Makka al-Mukarrama Road, and then take me to Villa Somalia. Things were going smoothly, I thought, but that was wishful thinking.

When we arrived at the heavily guarded hotel, no one would let me in because I had no reservation. After waiting about 20 minutes in front of the hotel, the hotel clerk finally came outside and said he had received a call from Villa Somalia to let me in. While I was checking in at the hotel, the young man who had dropped me off, left quietly without informing me. There went my ride to Villa Somalia, a heavily protected government compound into which only authorized cars are allowed.  

My first day in Mogadishu was a time to rest and sleep. I had endured a 13-hour flight from Los Angeles to Istanbul, followed by five hours in transit, and then an eight-hour flight from Istanbul to Mogadishu. I showered and fell asleep. When I woke up, it was dark.

The next day, I dressed and waited for someone from Villa Somalia to come and fetch me, but no one showed up. I called and sent text messages to the official designated to coordinate with me, but to no avail.

On the fifth day, at dusk, the Deputy Chief of Staff came to my room in the hotel and asked me to get ready to start working on a speech. While he was in my room waiting for me, Foreign Minister Awad, who was in Rwanda for a conference, called him. After a few minutes, he asked for me and I talked to him briefly.

The Deputy Chief of Staff said he would wait for me downstairs. But then, in a split second, he changed his mind and said his driver would take me to Villa Somalia. That was the first and last time I rode in a bulletproof vehicle.

At Villa Somalia, two officials received me: a senior presidential advisor on policy nicknamed “Balal,” and Abdinur M. Ahmed, the Director of Communications of the Office of the Presidency. The two seemed curious and inquisitive:

“So, tell us about the circumstances that led to your presence in Mogadishu in general and in Villa Somalia in particular,” was the first question Balal asked.

I was surprised by the elementary nature of his comment. Hadn’t these two been briefed by the Foreign Minister and the Deputy Chief of Staff, I wondered?

I told them I was not a job seeker and that a Somali government official from Villa Somalia had called me and offered me a job as the president’s speech-writer.

“But, we do not need a full-time speech writer,” said Balal. “The president gives speeches once every three weeks at the most. What would you do in the meantime? You would be sitting in your hotel bored.”

The Director of Communications nodded in agreement.

I explained to them that speech writing involves team work, and that no single person can do the job without input from senior officials, including the president. It is a huge task because it involves explaining and messaging.

“We have an occasional speech writer who is a lawyer,” added Balal. “I don’t believe we need a full-time speech writer. Maybe the Foreign Ministry needs one because Awad travels a lot and gives many speeches.” Balal was insinuating that the whole job offer was the work of Awad, who needed my speech writing, but was using Villa Somalia as a cover.

It was obvious these two officials were anything but eager to see me employed in the position promised to me. I was rudely intruding into the cocoon they had made for themselves inside Villa Somalia.

“I wish I had known about your concerns before I left the U.S.” I said ruefully.

“We will consult with Awad and other officials here in Villa Somalia and I will get back to you in two days,” said Balal.

The short meeting was over and we exchanged contact information. Before I left the presidential compound, I was told to stop at a trailer that served as an office for making IDs and permits. I was photographed.

Back in my hotel room, I wondered if I were in a bad dream. What was this all about? The whole episode of my visit to Villa Somalia seemed bizarre. I immediately wrote an email to Awad, the official who had initially recommended me for the job. I explained to him what had transpired in Villa Somalia. Unfortunately, I never heard from him. Neither did I hear from the two officials who had met me in Villa Somalia.

As I stayed in the city for two more weeks, waiting to hear any news from Villa Somalia, I decided to put my time in good use. My phone calls and text messages to the Deputy Chief of Staff fell on deaf ears. I made myself busy, walked a lot in the city, and sometimes took the three-wheeled vehicle known as Bajaj, dined with friends and new acquaintances, and interviewed people, especially young people. I wanted to understand the new Mogadishu and write about my impressions. I am glad I collected enough materials to write a five-part series about my trip.

While I was in Mogadishu, the whole city was buzzing with chatter about a motion in parliament to impeach then speaker Mohamed Osman Jawari. President Farmajo was staying in the Defense Ministry instead of his usual residence in Villa Somalia.  The Chief of Staff, according to sources, had vowed not to come back to Villa Somalia until Jawari’s matter had been settled. I had a tough time making sense of why Jawari’s political ordeal was crippling the functioning of the entire federal government. There were days the city was under curfew for fear of armed clashes between warring factions.

After getting no responses from Villa Somalia, I became concerned about the piling up of the bills from my hotel accommodation and meals. I decided to leave Mogadishu. I bought a return ticket from Mogadishu to Los Angeles and paid off my hotel and meal costs—expenses, I was told, Villa Somalia would pay for.

At Mogadishu Airport, I was spotted by the same airport official who had received me during my arrival.

“Are you leaving us already?” he asked, smiling.

“I have a few things to take care of in the U.S.,” I said, embarrassed. I felt like a small child that had been caught sneaking. “Hopefully, I will be back during Ramadan.”

In truth, I wanted to go back to Mogadishu after the political storm surrounding speaker Jawari had subsided.

Twenty minutes before boarding, the same airport official came running to me and handed me his cell phone:

“Talk to the Deputy Chief of Staff,” he said.

I was not surprised Villa Somalia had gotten a whiff of my imminent departure from Mogadishu.

“I hear you are returning to the States,” the Deputy Chief of Staff said.

“Oh, yes. You guys have no time for me. What am I going to do—sit, wait, and worry?”

“I am really sorry for what has happened. As you know, the timing of your arrival was hectic. I did not sleep last night because I was consumed by the issue of the speaker.”

“I understand there is political tension in the city, but hopefully I will be back by Ramadan.”

“We will pay all your expenses. Make sure you have all the receipts and send them to me as soon as possible.”

“I will.”

“Ok, good luck then.”

I left Mogadishu in a heartbeat. It was a long flight from Somalia to Turkey and then to California. I am glad I came back safely—that was priceless. My trip to Mogadishu was financially draining, emotionally exhausting, but personally enriching with insights and a new appreciation for my beloved city. Overall, it was not a lost cause. In fact, I learned a lot.

A friend, a former presidential advisor from a previous administration, was flabbergasted I had not consulted with him before my departure to Mogadishu.

“You don’t know these people,” he said. “No one will ever contact you or even pay the expenses you have accrued.”

“I can live with that,” I told him.

In the end, there is one truth: Somalia does not belong to a few figures—it’s a country for all of us. As my esteemed colleague, Faisal Roble, once wrote, “At times, I feel that Somalia is hopeless; but again, giving up is worse. May God help us.”

Back to Mogadishu (Part II): Thirty-One Years Later

During my Turkish Airlines flight from Istanbul to Mogadishu, a jovial, smiling woman with beautiful henna wear dye on her hands sat on the opposite aisle. She said she was a resident in the UK and asked if I visited Mogadishu often. I said no, so she then described the city and told me what to expect. She lamented that Mogadishu was not the same city I had known as a child because the old residents were either dead or in the diaspora.

“There are new people,” she said. “Very dark people.”

I smiled and jokingly said, “Darker than you and I?”

Somehow, she got the message that the two of us were in no position to discriminate against anyone on the basis of their color.

The streets of Mogadishu are a spectacle to behold: people, animals, and vehicles noisily converge in scenes of organized chaos compounded by security checkpoints placed awkwardly in the heart of the city.

Streets without laws

Can you envision a city of two million people with no discernible traffic laws?

Only in Mogadishu is that possible.

The city has no government entity that regulates traffic. Anyone can operate a vehicle (car, bus, motorcycle, or truck) without a driver’s license. There are no lanes marked on the streets and no traffic signs. The interaction between vehicles and pedestrians is chaotic, and accidents are common.

Because traffic is not regulated, there are no records for any prior traffic violations, and no administrative courts to hear traffic cases and mete out penalties or convictions. The old Mogadishu where I grew up had strict traffic regulations. I remember driver’s license tests were so rigorous that sometimes examiners resorted to tricks to test the knowledge of potential drivers.

One can understand that the country has only recently ended a civil war in which many existing institutions were destroyed. However, the enactment and enforcement of traffic laws is so important it should have been prioritized by the new government.

Getting from one place to another in the city can be challenging. The checkpoints are necessary to limit suicide car bombings by Al-Shabaab, but they rarely deter terrorist attacks. At best, these checkpoints serve as delay tactics and sometimes blunt the carnage caused by car bombs.  

On the way from my hotel to a major government center — usually involving a seven minute drive — I was stopped several times at army checkpoints. The driver and I were asked the same question: “Who are we going to see inside the government compound?” It did not matter that I was riding in the bullet-proof car of a high ranking government official.

“Don’t they know you?” I asked the driver.

He said, “I don’t know,” while playfully scrunching his face. “They always have new soldiers.”

In one checkpoint, a soldier asked me bluntly if I had a gun.

“Of course, not,” I answered.

Not for once was I asked to get out of the car to be frisked and at no time was the car inspected — a confusing and unpredictable security arrangement.  

Bajaj pandemonium

A Bajaj is an inexpensive three-wheeled motorized vehicle small enough to navigate through Mogadishu’s narrow roads and alleys. It gets its name from the company, Bajaj Auto, which makes these three-wheelers. It is very common in Mogadishu and serves as a major means of transportation.

When I was growing up in Mogadishu, taxis were everywhere and there weren’t many of these small three-wheelers on the streets. In fact, the nickname “Bajaj” is a relatively new term for these vehicles.

A Bajaj may be the best means of transportation for many of the capital’s residents, but its dominant presence in the streets can be annoying and frustrating. These vehicles are driven fast and with almost reckless abandon, a fact that contributes significantly to the chaotic traffic conditions. Nevertheless, in view of the lack of traffic enforcement, the drivers of these “artful dodgers” cannot shoulder all the blame for the chaos they cause.

A young reporter from the Somali Cable Channel told me there are 21,113 Bajaj-style vehicles in Mogadishu alone, and each operator pays $8 per month in taxes. Some of the Bajaj owners said the reporter’s number was inaccurate at best and misleading. They said there were several thousand Bajaj bikes in Mogadishu. They added that the claim the drivers pay only $8 tax a month was a gross misrepresentation; it was more like one dollar a day, whether the vehicle was active or inactive.

I don’t know whether Mogadishu’s municipality has official statistics on the number of Bajaj in the city and how much tax revenue is collected from them every month.

When my friend asked a Bajaj operator why he avoided driving on major streets, the driver was quick to say, “Because I did not pay my taxes.” Mogadishu’s municipality does not send tax bills in the mail because there are no street addresses nor mail services. Therefore, tax collectors have to hunt down tax evaders on the streets. It is a cumbersome task and, at times, involves extortion. I heard a Bajaaj operator once complain about occasionally paying money to tax collectors without getting any receipts.

Riding in a Bajaj is the best way to explore the new Mogadishu because these vehicles can go to places where cars cannot. But be prepared; riding in a Bajaj is like being on a rollercoaster. The speeding vehicle is so shaky it seems it could overturn at any moment. Pleas to Bajaj drivers to slow down regularly fall on deaf ears. Time is of the essence for these operators, who follow one cardinal rule: pick up new clients, drop them off as quickly as possible, and then look for new customers.

One Bajaj driver aptly summarized the business:

“When the market is good, it is as good as gold.” Then he added, “We have an unusual talent for making money.”

In spite of the prevalence of the Bajaj and its low cost, it is a tinder box waiting for a match. In almost every suicide car bombing in Mogadishu there are Bajaj drivers and passengers who perish. In the bombing near the Wehliye Hotel in March 2018, one Bajaaj driver miraculously survived, while his passenger and vehicle did not.

Who let the animals out?

New Mogadishu is teeming with wandering animals, mostly goats, cows and, on rare occasions, camels. It is a new experience for a major cosmopolitan city such as Mogadishu.

I asked many people, “Who owns these wandering animals?” I was always met with amusing stares and riotous laughter.

Every wandering animal in Mogadishu has an owner. In fact, every goat or cow in the city is registered in a modern fashion.

There is no agency for animal control, but every animal has a cell phone number written on it.

“Waa taargo” an elderly man told me, laughing, which literally translates into “the plates” in English because the markings are similar to license plates.

If an animal strays, which is rare, people know the cell phone number to call, which is the best way to track down owners and identify the animals. Of course, the “cell phone license plate system” begs the question: If the cell phone number is disconnected, who does one call?

Outside Mogadishu Airport, I saw two young camels crossing the street. For a second, I thought they were flying out of the country. As I looked closely, I saw cell phone numbers on them.  

At the KM-4 intersection, a cow blocked the traffic as a young soldier with a machine gun sat on the pavement chewing khat, which is a mild stimulant plant. Someone told me that the owner of this particular cow was a thug and no one dared touch the animal.

“It is not like India where cows are revered,” a pedestrian said, sarcastically. “Here, we are simply afraid of the owners of the cows.”

I learned that goat owners let their animals out in the morning so the animals can fend for themselves. Then, interestingly, they return home at dusk and are kept inside. No one dares to ask what these animals eat as they roam the grassless streets of Mogadishu hour after hour. I am at a loss to understand why people would keep livestock in the city and wonder if these goats produce milk for their owners.

In a trip to Mogadishu in 2012, Mary Harper, the BBC Africa reporter,  remarked that Mogadishu’s goats were the only living creatures that looked “relaxed and well-fed,” in contrast to Mogadishu residents who seemed edgy and tense because of the frequent bombings in the capital.

However, Peter Bridges, the former American Ambassador to Somalia, was not enamored with these wandering animals when he was posted in Somalia in the mid-1980s. In his memoir, Safirka—An Envoy, he lamented, “No one had told me to expect all the animals wandering the streets—handsome goats, ugly fat-tailed sheep, small thin brown cows.”

It is remarkable to see a major African capital bustling with throngs of people, Bajaj, and wandering animals co-existing in a rather chaotic manner. Such is today’s Mogadishu.