Courtship and Marriage: The Somali Experience in America (Part 10)

This is the last installment in a 10-part series of true stories about Somali men and women and their blunt assessments of their marriage and courtship experiences.  The names and locations of the individuals have been changed to ensure their privacy.

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Online Courtship

I know a lot about online dating because I have married two Somali ladies through that medium. Yes, I know that is weird. The first marriage lasted three months and the other two years, two months, and 17 days.

I was so much into online dating that I lost touch with reality. An astute American comedian once said that he was into online dating. “Before, I used to get dumped a lot,” he lamented, “but now, I simply get deleted.” I share that sentiment: I have been deleted a lot.

It was the summer of 2010 when I got hooked up with a Somali online singles website. Unlike with other dating websites, Somali men and women rarely display pictures. This, of course, is frustrating. At that time, I met Zainab. I was 31 and she was 27. For the first few months, we exchanged emails and pictures. Then, I flew to her state and personally met her. She was a lot bigger and shorter than her pictures revealed. Despite her misrepresentations, I was not disappointed. Initially, she was shy and kept giggling out of nervousness. However, after an hour, she relaxed.  What a great personality she had. She was a fun person to be with, always smiling and cracking jokes. She introduced me to her relatives and made an elaborate lunch for me.

It was in my first meeting with Zainab that I learned two important things: her real name and her clan. The latter did not matter much to me, but the first did. I was furious that she had also lied to me about her real name.  I forgave her, though, and instead focused on the positive—her infectious personality, traditional values, work ethic, and sense of humor.

After several months of a long-distance relationship, we finally got married. In the beginning, my married life was good. However, after 90 days, our honeymoon was over. I guess we both were presenting false fronts to each other. I realized we were sensitive, stubborn, and uncompromising. Neither of us admitted our mistakes. We viewed ourselves as always being right. Have you noticed I am using “we” instead of putting all the blame on her? I was equally to blame for the debacle of our marriage. Unfortunately, my wife believed neither in couple’s therapy nor intervention from her family or the local mosque. We had no choice but to divorce. By that time, I was already shopping for another mate. That is one of the problems of internet dating: Even if you find your “soul mate,” you still go shopping for another.  Sadly, there is this perception that there is always someone else out there better than your mate. 

Several months later, I started dipping my toe back into the dating pool.  I met Deeqa online and got married, again, shortly after.

My relationship with Deeqa was very good. We were married for two happy years. Our biggest problem was our work schedules.  Aside from working full time, my wife was attending university. Although I wanted her to succeed in her pursuit of education, her hectic schedule was taking a toll on our marriage.

Okay, I will be more honest with you: She had lost interest in sex. She was fine before enrolling in school, I was deprived of love and became frustrated. Sometimes, several weeks would pass without anything happening between us. We talked about the issue regarding intimacy but to no avail.  When I consulted with one of my friends about what to do, he advised me to start fasting. I was upset with him because fasting is a solution religiously prescribed for single men in order to reduce sexual urges. However, I was married and couldn’t see fasting as a solution.  I was a healthy man and I had a tough time understanding why we weren’t having a normal married life. Every time I got close to my wife, alarm bells were triggered. I was told all kinds of excuses, from being exhausted to doing school projects. Adultery was out of the question and so was sainthood. To make a long story short, we got divorced. Oddly, four months after our split, my wife married another Somali man whom she had met online.

I am no longer active in online dating. I like to meet people the old-fashioned way: in person or by referral. Do you know any woman in her thirties who is interested in meeting an honest, hardworking, motivated, family-oriented Somali man?

Oops!

Did I give you my profile? I am sorry.

Black Like Him: Annals of Self-Hate

I am a 36-year-old woman who holds an unconventional perspective toward race, the black race. It is ironic that, as a black woman, I have such a negative perception of my own race. On the surface, I appear well educated, well traveled, and well read. However, I have deeply entrenched views about color. I am a light-skinned woman who grew up in a coastal town in Somalia where being dark was perceived as a liability and being light-skinned was regarded as an asset. Women in my town flaunted the color of their husbands. The lighter husbands were always getting a nod of approval, and the darker ones received nothing but contempt. Then, I came to the U.S. and married a white man.

My decision to marry a white man did not surprise me, and I spent little time thinking about the consequences of such a marriage. Initially, I was flattered that a white man had fallen in love with me and wanted to marry me. Secretly, I always fantasized about having children from a mixed marriage, imagining they would possess exotic and dazzling beauty. I would be lying if I said that my future children’s looks were not a significant factor in my decision to marry a white man. They were. Interestingly, my people rarely marry outside their race. However, my husband was one of those whites who find black women very exotic and intriguing.

At any rate, we married and had two beautiful daughters in the next four years. However, the marriage was anything but stable. My husband tried to mold me into what he thought a “good” wife ought to be, namely, obedient, meek, and servile. He was patriarchal, overbearing, and controlling. In his eyes, I was nothing more than a newly arrived African immigrant woman who ‘needed’ guidance and close supervision. Although he was only a year older than me, he still insisted on acting as my mentor and even as a father figure. In a nutshell, we had irreconcilable differences, and so we parted ways. 

Oddly, while I was married, some Somalis who had heard about me—but had never met me—referred to me as “that lady [who is] married to the white guy.”  I was not offended by that comment; in fact, it pleased me. Two years after the divorce, I married a Somali man who was so dark the description “brown” became meaningless. Even today, I have no idea how or why I ended up marrying a dark man. His strong personality and affability made his appearance irrelevant to me. In a way, I went from one extreme of marrying a white blonde guy of Scandinavian heritage to marrying a dark East African man. I guess I was making a point to myself that race did not matter to me. My ex-husband, interestingly, had a darker opinion. He believed I married a black fellow to infuriate him and get back at him.  

My marriage to the Somali man produced three children who, not surprisingly, look just like their father. Suddenly, I started avoiding family events. When I took my children to the park, strangers would ask if I were babysitting the three youngest children. “They are different than the other two,” was the usual comment they would make. My extended family indirectly favored the older two by showering extra attention on them. Upset at this unfair behavior and to avoid any unwanted comparison of our children, I stopped accompanying my husband to certain family events. I also stopped going out with my husband. He was furious, and accused me of having low self-esteem. “Are you ashamed of me?” he would bark. In a way, he was right.  Yes, I loved him, but sometimes people are cruel in their judgments. I did not want to hurt my family by exposing any of them to cruel stares and hurtful comments.

My husband walked out of our marriage and took three of his children with him. He said he he’d had enough of me ill-treating him and my deliberate favoritism toward the oldest children upset him. Oddly, I did not file for custody of these children. Several months later, I realized I was miserable. I missed my husband and my children. When we were together, my husband was kind and caring, qualities that had initially attracted me and led me to marry him, but I was merely interested in superficial matters, such as looks.

During those miserable months of separation, my life was empty and unhappy. I am now in therapy dealing with my issues of low self-esteem. I am not a racist, but I am an individual who is ignorant about what matters in life and the nature of prejudice. I have learned prejudice can be present in all races and that I should judge others by who they are, not what they are or how they look. 

Conclusion

Somali women are no different than Somali men in coping with the challenges of courtship and family life in the United States. Somali family life is evolving as spouses juggle traditional roles and the requirements of modern life.  A lot of opportunities exist for women to seek careers and education here in America. However, these opportunities can create problems for some men who have difficulty accepting these changes. Some men resist change because it undermines their traditional roles as the sole providers.

Aside from the difficulty in reconciling tradition and modernity, there is also human nature, which can be double-edged. It can be a boon or a bust to a marriage. Human nature does not change regardless of race, time, religion, or national origin. There are—and will always be—men and women who are insecure, jealous, addicted, kind, secretive, altruistic, and generous.

Most of the Somali immigrants in the United States marry within their community. However, is American culture slowly, but surely, creeping into the Somali approach of courtship and marriage? Gone are the arranged marriages that were once common among segments of the Somali society. Young Somalis meet at weddings, popular events where they get together. They also meet at Somali concerts, high school, college, and through social networking. In fact, several websites are specifically geared to Somali singles.  Young Somalis prefer the term ‘courtship’ to the term ‘dating.’ Dating has a negative connotation for many because the relationship automatically assumes pre-marital sex. Generally, the community frowns upon premarital sex.

For older singles, courtships happen by referral and or chance meeting. This segment of the population is more flexible about meeting someone and, after a very short period, tying the knot. Such marriages are necessitated mostly by the search for companionship and fear of committing adultery. The standard for marriage among the middle-aged is less stringent. The prevalence of single life among the population is a reflection of the high rise in divorce in the community. It is also due to the civil war in Somalia, which led to hundreds of thousands of Somalis fleeing their country and others were scattered across the five continents. Many men died in the war, families lost loved ones, others were separated through immigration, and the collision between tradition and modernity became more acute. In a way, Somali courtships mirror the social engineering that is taking place in the diaspora: Young people born or raised in America are grappling with the need for love while at the same time trying not to deviate from the conservative culture in which they were raised. 

Courtship and Marriage: The Somali Experience in America (Part 9)

This is the ninth article in a 10-part series about true stories of Somali men and women and their very blunt assessment of their relationships. The names and locations of the individuals have been changed to ensure their privacy.

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Cold As Ice

Apathy.

That is indeed the number one killer of marriage, both silent and deadly. Moreover, apathy is really a two-way street and also contagious.

My five-year-old marriage is now suffering from apathy after years of happiness and contentment. I want to save it but my wife apparently has no interest in salvaging it. She is, to put it mildly, uninterested and indifferent. I am utterly puzzled because when I first met her I was immediately entranced with her grace and charm. She was attentive and witty. Everything about her exuded sophistication.  She used to spend hours talking to me and laughing at my silly jokes. 

In the beginning of our marriage, our love for each other was on display for all to see. My wife was everything I had dreamed of: passionate, caring, engaging, and altruistic. Then, several months ago, my wife became withdrawn. She is a person who openly projects strength and confidence while underneath she is wracked by doubts.  Her mood swings, frequent tantrums, and occasional outbursts conceal her vulnerability and insecurity. Suddenly, she appeared depressed and changed her attitude toward everybody in the family. She does not sleep enough now, has become cantankerous and critical, cagey and secretive, preoccupied, always defensive, and indeed fixated on perfection and control. Furthermore, she is now unaffectionate. She constantly dwells on little things and I have to walk on eggshells when I am around her.  She has a habit on putting on an annoyingly righteous front. She spends hours toying with her laptop and ignores all those around her. Intimacy has become scarce and displays of affection nonexistent. Once in a while, she will engage in love-making, but only as a “favor” for me. “I am doing this for you,” she will say. Her body language is loud and clear: “Get on with it, the sooner the better.” No hugging and no kissing, just plain mechanical movements that last a few minutes. Then, instead of snuggling like we used to afterward, she will turn her back to me and go to sleep. Several minutes later, I hear her snoring.

I am at a loss for what to do. I care a lot about my wife, but I am losing patience. I have implored her to seek help but to no avail.  She definitely has past issues: Her father abandoned her as a child and she had a first marriage that was a love-hate and compulsive-obsessive relationship. She also gives the impression that she is too smart to seek counseling. “I am fine,” she will dismissively say, giggling. Silence has become her main form of expression. 

I have asked myself whether someone who was once passionate can eventually become cold. One trait that attracted me to my wife was our ability to talk freely and share things. We were best friends, compassionate, affectionate, and romantic with each other. These days, my wife does not care about my comings and goings. She never calls me when I am away, nor does she answer my texts until several hours have elapsed. She has even encouraged me to stay away from home as long as possible. I am a roving salesman and constantly on the move, and yet I make sure I am home two weeks a month. When I come home from a trip, she acts as cold as ice. She rarely greets me warmly, nor does she acknowledge my arrival. Simply put, she does not care. There is no small talk about work or family. When I ask her about her work, she gives me short answers.

I am a 45-year-old man and I have no intention of spending the rest of my life in an unfulfilling marriage. For me, marriage is about companionship, friendship, communication, kindness, and affection. How long am I willing to wait for my wife to seek help and get better? I am seriously contemplating leaving her because I am becoming like her, indifferent to our marriage. I no longer look forward to coming home and, yes, I am extending my days away from home to avoid having to see her in her current state.

I have come to realize that when one partner becomes apathetic for any one of several reasons (mental, physical, or change of heart), the other partner will then do so as well because no response comes from his/her attempts to rescue the marriage or learn what is wrong. In essence, apathy in a marriage is truly insidious because all caring and communication stops. There is even no longer any anger.

At the Bottom of the Abyss

Life was good, then.

I was married, happy, and the head of a loving household. Then, things started falling apart.

After two disastrous marriages in which I was the major contributor to their demise, I met Muna, a petite woman in her thirties. Her husband—also the father of her children—was in Africa. She asked me to help her file for divorce from her husband whom she had not seen in more than five years. Her grounds for the marital dissolution were based on abandonment. What started with lending a helping hand to Muna with her legal paperwork mushroomed into a full-blown romance. A few months after her divorce became final, Muna and I were married according to our religion but not legally.

Muna and I got off to a good start. She was a hard working woman, a devoted and loving mother, and very loyal. As my anchor, she stabilized my life. The beginning was a period when I genuinely felt loved and cared for. Moreover, I became a father figure for her children.

After six years of marriage, surprisingly, Muna’s former husband arrived in the United States as a refugee. Handsome, short, and stocky, he waged an all-out campaign to win back Muna. He failed miserably, and he tried to do the same with his children, but that too failed. I was impressed with Muna’s resolve and her dogged commitment to protect our marriage.

Then, I left for Kenya. It was a simple plan to visit my parents but it had dire consequences. I met a young lady who was a distant relative and was smitten from the very first moment.  I had a lapse of memory: I forgot I was indeed married.  To make a long story short, I married the young lady in Kenya. That was the beginning of the unraveling of my marriage to Muna. Somehow, she heard the news and was furious. She vowed not to have anything to do with me. I thought she was bluffing.

When I returned to America, Muna was still insane with jealousy. I had no home and no wife. Muna’s anger toward me did not abate but it got worse when she shoved me out of our home. She was adamant I not contact her or her children. If I wanted to reconcile with her, she had a sinister request: “Get rid of your new wife in Africa.” I assured her that my new wife would never set foot in the U.S. and she had nothing to worry about, but to no avail. Muna and I split.

I moved on and was blessed with two children from my wife in Kenya. I also became a successful businessman. I thrived in my new life and started traveling to Africa, the Far East, and the United Arab Emirates for my import/export business. I rarely visited the States during those five years. I also forgot about Muna.

True to my nature and past history, my marriage collapsed. I am one of those men who love courting women, showering them with gifts, and giving them utmost attention. In other words, I love the excitement of meeting a new woman, chasing her, and winning her over. Once I succeed, the thrill of the chase subsides. I start looking to conquer new targets. Needless to say, I found another young lady here in the U.S. who was 14 years my junior, married her, and had two more children. Subsequently, the marriage collapsed. Now, I have a court case to try to win custody of my youngest children. Meanwhile, I am the father of nine children and the grandfather of four. When people call me a “lady’s man,” I take it as a compliment. An elderly Somali woman once asked me why I only marry young women and then “discard them.” In truth, the problem is me: I am not good at maintaining a marriage or staying focused.

I have become nostalgic for Muna. I heard that she moved away from the Somali community. I sought out her parents to find out about Muna and her children. Unfortunately, I learned that her life had taken a bizarre turn and my reaction shifted from puzzlement to shock. Through the years, Muna had become involved with a series of shady men and—in the process—picked up a few bad habits, such as drugs. One relative characterized her as “boozy and bawdy.” Her oldest son, 21, is in jail for robbery. Strangely, Muna only talks in English to the few Somalis she occasionally encounters. Sometimes I ask myself if I contributed to Muna’s meltdown and spiral downward. Her pitiful state has gone so far beyond what is rationally conceivable. This woman was once very religious and traditional, and I am having difficulty understanding her current situation of depravity. I am having difficulty letting go of the past. The memories flood back to remind me of the good times we had as a couple. Although I still have strong feelings for her, I am unable to help her extricate herself from her deleterious environment and condition.

Courtship and Marriage: The Somali Experience (Part 8)

This is the eighth article in a 10-part series about true stories of Somali men and women and their very blunt assessment of their relationships. The names and locations of the individuals have been changed to ensure their privacy.

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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.  

 

Courtship and Marriage: The Somali Experience in America (Part 7)

This is the seventh article in a 10-part series about true stories of Somali men and women and their very blunt assessment of their relationships. The names and locations of the individuals have been changed to ensure their privacy.

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A Neat, Well-furnished Apartment

I have been single for a few years. I was once married with children. My marriage became stale and I decided to leave my wife of 14 years. Okay, I was actually dumped by my ex-wife after I stopped being a provider. I stopped working and became depressed. My father had died in Somalia, and I was too broke to go there and visit my relatives after such a tragic loss.

My wife got tired of me because I stopped communicating with her and paying the household bills. I did not go out and look for employment. One fateful day, she asked me to pack and leave our house. By then, I was ready to move on and embark on single life. My family had become a financial burden, and I couldn’t wait to be relieved from such an onerous weight. I gingerly carried my luggage to my car and left our compound without anyone noticing my departure. There were no cameras to capture the humiliating experience of being kicked out of my home.

In a way, I was happy because I became single. I wanted to see what the world had to offer to a 38-year-old single Somali man. I met several Somali ladies in a span of three years. I was appalled by the abundance of single mothers in our community. What happened to the men? The news of my divorce spread very fast in the community. Everybody knew that I was a lousy husband and an irresponsible father. Oddly, my flawed marital record did not deter some women. I was not seen as a liability but rather an asset—a single man, medium height, athletic, articulate, fluent in English, and fun to be with. Moreover, I once worked as a disk jockey at several Somali weddings. In a nutshell, I was a good catch, at least to some women.

The best offer for living arrangement I got was from an attractive, sexy, single lady who simply told me to bring my luggage and move in with her. No need to pay rent. Her house was neat and well-furnished. “Let us get married and all you have to do is bring your luggage,” she said. Her home was decorated with beautiful Italian furniture and exotic rugs. I had never been to a house that smelled so good. She had been married before, three times in fact. “My former husbands all wanted children,” she said smiling, “but I can’t conceive.” Great, I thought; this way I wouldn’t appear selfish. Honestly, I couldn’t see myself being a father again.

I started seeing Ambara and I thought I was lucky. She was caring, attentive, and bubbly. We decided to get married in six months, but slowly I became disenchanted. I was used to a wife who did not give me any attention. Then, there was Ambara showering me with too much. I was hungry for a woman’s attention, but not this much. She called me constantly, gave me gifts, and started laying the foundation for our future wedding. She wanted to have a big wedding that would be a source of conversation in the community. Things were moving a little too fast. I told you, I was employment-challenged. How was I supposed to pay such an astronomical cost? I couldn’t feed a soul, let alone 200 people at a wedding. Furthermore, I felt suffocated. I am the type of man who wants to have his space.

Once upon a time, I knew a sorcerer in Oregon who used to ask Somali men to pay him $200 in return for making their wives love them more and focused on them. He naively pitched the idea to one man, a certified womanizer. The playboy rejected the bizarre idea and told the sorcerer: “Adiga ma waalan tahay? Xaaskeyga inay iga sii jeedo ayaan doonayaa.” (Are you crazy? I want my wife to [be focused] away from me). I felt the same way about Ambara. I wanted her to give me space and focus on something else.

Fortunately, my problem with Ambara got solved itself. I noticed something odd about her. Even though she gave me so much attention, she would receive many calls from other men. A stream of men always visited her apartment coming at different times, and sometimes at odd hours. I have never seen a woman who had more than 40 men—single and married—in her cell phone contact list. Yes, she was single, but 40 men! When I raised my concern to her, she would tell me that they were all her brothers. Give me a break. I knew her brothers, I had met them personally; these men were not her brothers. Of course, I was concerned because I wanted to stake out my territory.

I felt sick with apprehension. I kept thinking of our impending marriage and the concern of our house being bombarded by visits from wayward men and loafers. I know myself very well: I am the jealous type who can’t stand his woman socializing with other men. Call me possessive and a control freak if you want. There is no such thing as a platonic relationship between unrelated men and women.

After Ambara and I split, she once called me. “I want you back,” she pleaded. Somehow, I was not in a generous mood and my answer was lame: “It wasn’t meant to be.” Translation: I am glad Ambara you are out of my life. I assume you think I am cruel. Yes, indeed.  I am guilty of being a heartbreaker.                   

The One that Got Away

Canada.

Every time I hear someone mention that country I cringe. The name brings back memories of sadness, disappointment, and regret.

I am a single mother with a son. A decade ago, I moved from Asia and settled in Seattle. I applied for and was granted political asylum. I did not know anybody in my new city. Shortly after my arrival in America, I met a young religious man who lived a block away from my apartment. I am a Somali woman who can’t stand religious men or, as the Somalis call them, “wadaado” (I find them self-righteous, intolerant, and controlling). I can’t fathom being ordered around by a man who acts as though he has the keys to paradise. But this young man—Guled is his name—was different. He was broad-minded, well-read, polite, courteous, and extremely kind. He would greet me warmly when we met outside my complex, he played with my son, and he even gave me rides to the grocer and doctor’s clinic (he had a car and I did not).  He had applied for asylum in the U.S. and was waiting for a decision from immigration services.

After several months of acquaintance, Guled asked me to marry him. I was a bit taken aback by his request and politely ignored his overture. Our relationship was purely platonic. I saw him as a Good Samaritan, but never did I develop any romantic interest in him. I told him I was not ready for marriage at that particular juncture in my life. My first marriage had been difficult and uninteresting. My first husband showed me how marriage can be not a source of joy and happiness but one of anxiety and even depression. He was intransigent, bossy, and unwilling to let me go to school or work. To him, a woman’s place was in the home—cooking, cleaning, and procreating. Before I married him he had assured me I could finish college. After the marriage, he became Mr. No—no school, no work, and no leaving the house without his stamp of approval. Isn’t that the classic Somali aphorism: You win over a woman by lying to her but once married you reveal your true nature.

After I refused him, Guled continued to help me. My son became attached to him. Then, one day, I realized that it had been days since I had seen him—that was weird. I became concerned for his safety. Was he sick? Was he involved in a car accident? I went to his apartment to check on him but was met by a Mexican family. They did not know anything about Guled; they had just moved into the unit. I panicked. I had no choice but to go to the mosque in our neighborhood that Guled frequented. I talked to the imam there, asking about Guled’s whereabouts. The imam inquired, “Are you related to him?” I told him bashfully, “No, he helped my son and me from time to time.” “Well, he is gone,” the imam informed me as a matter-of-factly. Gone! “Where did he go? I wanted to know. “Canada,” was the cleric’s terse answer. I asked if Guled was coming back, but the imam reiterated that he was gone for good. “He originally came from Canada, but he was unable to get immigration papers in the United States,” added the imam.

I was shocked and did something unexpected: I started crying profusely. The imam became intrigued and gently asked me why I was weeping. “My son and I are going to miss him tremendously,” I said, “he had asked me to marry him but I told him no.” The imam looked at me in sympathy and stated, “We all are going to miss Guled because he was a good and selfless man.” That was when I realized I had lost a man whom I had simply taken for granted. I was devastated. I kept asking myself why I had let him go. Why hadn’t I accepted his proposal? I felt bad for my son, who had lost a role model. The loss was so painful that I decided to move to a new state and hoped I would meet someone like Guled. I have yet to find one.

Mr. Truthful

I am a young Somali woman who has never been married. Through the years, I have been courted by a dozen men. In my limited experience, one of the salient characteristics of Somali men is their tendency to ration the truth. They rarely tell you about their marital status, how many times they have been married and whether they have children. I knew one man who told me he was single, but he did not take into account that my uncle managed a money transfer company that many Somalis use to send money back home. According to my uncle, this man sent $400 every month to a woman in Somalia. She turned out to be his wife.

It was by pure chance that I met a man at a wedding. He approached me and asked me my name, and we engaged in idle talk. He seemed to be a well-grounded man, intelligent and witty. When he had to leave, he asked me for my phone number. I never expected him to call because he appeared to be laid back, but he did, although I have to admit I put no premium on his call. I was wrong. Within 20 minutes of the start of our conversation, the man surprised me with his candor. He told me what Somalis refer to as his “411” (basic information such as his full name, his home number, details of his first marriage and its duration, the name of the son he fathered, where he worked, what he did for a living, and with whom he was living). That was the first time a Somali man had been so forthcoming with me. Normally, questioning Somali men about their background is like going to the dentist: It is slow and painful. I became intrigued with this individual.

As the weeks went by, I witnessed something strange about my new friend. One day, we were talking about the civil war in Somalia. He told me that his younger sister had died of starvation as his family was fleeing to a neighboring country. Then, he began to cry. I was touched by his display of emotion. Now, ladies, how many times have you seen a Somali man cry? Our men simply view showing emotions as a sign of weakness, right? What a sensitive man, I mused. This man was unique, and I gradually fell in love with him. I am going to marry this guy.

 

Courtship and Marriage: The Somali Experience in America (Part 6)

This article is the sixth in a 10-part series about true stories about Somali women and men and their blunt assessments of their relationships. The first six parts deal with Somali marriages in America and the last four with issues of courtship. The names and locations of the individuals have been changed to ensure their privacy.

The Spy

My wife spies on me constantly. She checks my cell phone, my emails, my mail, and even my pockets. I am, by nature, an open book. She knows my email password because I willingly told her. My mantra has always been: “Go ahead, because I have nothing to hide.” She checks my text messages when I go to the bathroom or to bed. Sometimes, when I wake up in the morning and check my cell phone, it does not indicate any missed calls. However, when I check my call history, I notice several missed calls. I’ve talked to my wife on numerous occasions about her lack of trust in me. She is never satisfied with my constant assurances that I do not cheat on her.

I know why she is suspicious of me. She is afraid that the past will come roaring back. Once upon a time, I was an indomitable flirt. Moreover, I met my wife while I was engaged to another woman. I left that woman in a heartbeat and fully committed myself to my wife.

It bothers me that after eight years of marriage and not even a single act of indiscretion, I am being subjected to an elaborate system of spousal surveillance and spying. My wife is computer savvy and has a habit of checking my activities online.

Today, I have to be cryptic when I talk with friends. I watch carefully what I say when I am home. I have asked all my female friends and female co-workers not to call me. I deleted all their contacts from my cell phone. I am scared my wife will misinterpret things if I talk to women. 

The Isolator

I was once the most outgoing man on earth. I was sociable, gregarious, and funny. Most of all, I was very close to my large family. These days, I rarely leave my home. I have become, suddenly, homebound. My wife is a homemaker, and my adult children run our family business. I do not even remember the last time I went to the store my family owns. My relationship with my parents and siblings has become progressively worse.

My wife is the cause of my isolation from family and friends. Since I married her, she has done a marvelous job of alienating everyone in my big family. My wife is a sociable woman. When she addresses people you would think she is the nicest person in the world. She has a sweet tongue and is a natural charmer. After you leave her, she will call you bad names and say terrible things about you behind your back. Interestingly, she has a nickname for everybody in my family, including myself.

Do you know what she calls me behind my back?

“Xaarle,” (dung beetle).

I have no idea why. All I know is that she views my family as dirt. I used to get upset about the way she treated my relatives and pulled me away from them.  Not anymore. A series of poor judgments by members of my family toward me gave my wife the ammunition to hate them. I was fired from my job several years ago and no one in my big family came to my assistance. It was a bitter disappointment. To this day, I have no idea why my family was indifferent to my plight. “Who needs a family like this?” my wife said.

Honestly, I miss talking to and visiting my parents, my siblings, and my cousins. Every time I saw my parents, they badmouthed my wife and raised the issue of my “indifference” to the rest of the family. I got tired of their constant complaints. Then, they asked me never to set foot in their house again. My own parents in essence disowned me because of my wife. That was—and still is—painful.

In the beginning, I was very defensive of my wife and blamed my family for their unbridled enmity toward her. Now, I am having second thoughts about my wife’s innocence. Something is amiss. It does not make sense that all my family members are wrong and only my wife is right. I am a middle-aged man, and life is short. I miss my family, the family weddings of my nephews and nieces and their high school and college graduation ceremonies. No one invites me to these important occasions because of my estrangement from the family. I am treated like I have the plague. This estrangement is taking a toll on my marriage.

I think my wife has performed black magic on me. Perhaps I am possessed. I know my wife believes in sorcery. She definitely has put a spell on me. I am developing resentment toward her. Am I paranoid? Surely I am. I have to seek some help.

On the Brink of the Precipice

I am a 25-year-old woman who was once married to an American Muslim. He was a white, handsome character of medium height, confident and always fun to be around. Our courtship was truly memorable. We met at college, hit it off, fell in love and cared about each other a lot. Why I decided to marry a man from a different race and culture is a question I still cannot answer. It was likely a combination of youthful exuberance, deep love, and exoticness. I was only 19 when I met Adam and the thought of marrying before the age of 25 had never entered my mind. There was something adventurous in forging such a relationship—an attempt, on my part, to break with Somali tradition, which I found restrictive and uncreative. I longed for a different life than the one in which I was raised.

Inevitably, Adam and I got married and our happiness was complete. However, married life turned out to be very different to our courtship. He ran into a gauntlet of obstacles. My family was cool to him, even though he went out of his way to be good to them. Adam started learning Somali; he wore traditional Somali dress for men such as the Macawis, and he called my parents “aabbo” (father) and “hooyo” (mother) respectively. Sadly, they were anything but cordial. The Somali community wasn’t kind either. People would stare at us as if we came from a different planet. Somali men looked at me contemptuously; they viewed me as a traitor marrying out of my race and people. One man was so rude to me he called me a whore and then swore to his friends that I was not even Somali. “She must be an Ethiopian,” he muttered derisively. Adam and I would go to a Somali restaurant, and the waiter would talk only to me, ignoring my husband as if he were non-existent. This treatment hurt Adam and disgusted me so much I considered it immoral.

At home, Adam was very helpful—cooking, cleaning, and taking care of our child. The first three years of our married life were wonderful. Then, our ‘honeymoon’ ended abruptly. Some relationships snap for no good reason; others falter because of complicated outside influences. Ours was a perfect example of the latter. Adam suddenly became distant and aloof, and openly hostile to my family. He freely spewed contempt on my people. Then his outbursts became violent. He slapped me a few times, punched my back, shook me, screamed at me on any pretext, and once squeezed my wrist so hard it was sore for weeks. Within a span of nine months, he was arrested twice for domestic violence, but that didn’t stop his abuse. He threatened to kill me if I ever left him.

Once, I overheard him tell an American Muslim man never to marry a Somali woman.  Then, one day, Adam’s deepest feelings finally exploded when he made a terrible confession: “I can’t stand Somalis because they are damn racists.” I was stunned. This was not the man I knew. He was angry, difficult, and constantly disagreed with my suggestions for improving our relationship. Such disagreements became reflex actions for him. He saw in me the embodiment of everything he believed was wrong with Somalis, and he did little to disguise the loathing he felt for them. They, in turn, also harbored strong resentment against him. Frankly, apart from the domestic violence, I was sympathetic toward him until he started regarding me as his personal enemy.  True, he was a victim of reverse discrimination, but I was at the end of my own emotional tether. I was paralyzed by fear and became concerned for the safety of our baby. I was too embarrassed to discuss my dilemma with my parents, three brothers and three sisters. However, when the news of Adam’s arrests became known, a chorus of voices in my family demanded that I leave him. 

Finally, I filed for divorce. I thought my nightmare was over and that I had removed an irritating thorn deeply embedded in my flesh. I was wrong. A new battle with Adam had only just begun — the battle for the custody of our child. The fight for custody of my baby highlighted a significant difference between Somali men and foreigners: a Somali man will never contest a mother’s claim to custody of her child, no matter how bad he has been as a husband. Somalis believe children should always be raised by their mothers.

Today, I am engaged to a nice, compassionate Somali man. We are planning to marry soon. However, my biggest concern is my ex-husband remains part of my life because he has partial custody of our child. Adam is very capable of manipulation and revenge and I am afraid he will use my son to ruin my new relationship. He is single and I am sure has free time to concoct plots against me. For the record, just to spite me, he has told me that he will marry someone of his own race and go back to his roots.

My parents are excited about my new man because he is Somali. My community is elated, too. This is indeed a welcome but very bizarre change.  A few years ago, I was scorned by my community for choosing to marry outside my race; now I am bathed in adoration and approval. Just yesterday, some of the ignorant members in our community were calling Adam “Gaal” (Infidel), even though he was a Muslim and me “Gaalo-Jecel” (Infidel Lover). Suddenly, I am no longer a traitor. I am happy with my fiancé but I have become cynical. I am disgusted at the way my family and community treated Adam, a man who did nothing to them except be different. If he had been treated well, I wonder whether he would have imploded as he did and whether we would still be together. He is not a man who forgets and forgives. My community pushed him to the brink. It may sound as if I am sympathizing with my abuser—a typical response from a victim of a domestic violence—but that is not the issue. I am simply against injustice because injustice not only leads to social and community tragedy but also to personal tragedy and devastation. . 

Courtship and Marriage: The Somali Experience in America (Part 5)

This article is the fifth in a 10-part series of true stories of Somali women and men and their blunt assessments of their relationships. The first six parts deal with Somali marriages in America and the last four with issues of courtship. The names and locations of the individuals have been changed to ensure their privacy.

Where is my Dough?

My wife is secretive and, hence, does not share anything with me. She is involved—depending on what region you hail from—in what is called, “ayuuto” or “shalongo” or “hagbad” (an informal money pool in which a small number of participants put in the same amount of money every month and, by turn, one individual takes all the proceeds every month).  My wife used to put in $500 every month from “her own money,” as she said, and, once a year, she collected about $6,000. She never shared that money with me nor did she contribute financially to our household expenses. I paid all the household bills.

I found out about my wife’s involvement with the money pool activity through her best friend’s husband. Apparently, it had been going on for three years without my knowledge. I confronted her and she did not even deny it. “Certainly, it is my money,” was her assured response. “I thought it was our money,” I said. I was flabbergasted. My wife had access to all my bank accounts. In fact, we had joint accounts. A marriage is a team and it should be based on honesty and trust.

After that discovery, I set up a new account on my own and asked my employer to deposit into it. I also began giving a set amount of money to my wife every month for food and other miscellaneous expenses. The housing, utility, cable, and telephone expenses were paid directly through my new account.

My wife became angry. She accused me of “controlling” her financially.  “It is all about power and control,” she said.

Sometime later, I heard my wife was no longer a member of the money pool. Apparently, she used to siphon $500 every month from our household expenses, but I am not sure. When it comes to money management, we no longer trust each other. As sad as that sounds, we are still married and care about each other, but in reality, we are having a tough time forging a new bond of trust. My wife has been talking a lot lately about getting a part-time job. I would bet my bottom dollar that I will never see a penny of that money. But, it is okay. I also have earnings by doing consulting work.

Do you know any good investment agents?

You, Imbecile

Before our marriage, my wife Duniyo would teasingly and laughingly tell me, “Shut up, idiot.”  At the time, I took no offense and considered it part of the banter of a close relationship. After we married, however, I observed disturbing behavior that suddenly appeared in her communication. She would call my stepchildren, ages 11 and 13, names such as “doqon” (idiot), “saqajaan” (jerk), and — even the English phrase —“mother…….” I was appalled and told my wife that such name-calling was tantamount to child abuse. She dismissed my concerns out of hand and portrayed me as being overly dramatic. You do not understand, she would say, “I am very close to my children.” Then, she reminded me that our Somali parents had done the same when we were children and occasionally called us “dabbaal” (stupid) to motivate us. Not my parents. They were strict but respectful, demanding but loving, and always kind and caring.

My wife was respectful of me at the beginning of our marriage. However, after eight months, she began to show her true colors. First, she told me, “War naga aamus, doqonyahow” (Keep quiet, you idiot). I was flummoxed. “Please, do not insult me,” I protested. “Oh, you are sensitive, aren’t you?” she retorted.

I thought my marriage to Duniyo will be an upgrade of my first. My first marriage was unstable, contentious, and a source of constant pain. I did not want to have another relationship that was similar in any way.  Unfortunately, my current marriage is now showing the same permutations as my first. My wife simply became verbally abusive over time. She initiates our arguments and then ends them with very hurtful words. Worst of all, she is not one to apologize.

I have concluded that my relationship with my wife is a mere replay of each of our prior marriages. We both still have unresolved issues that mar this relationship. I am a very sensitive man, that is true, but I do not deserve to be verbally abused, especially in front of the children.

A year ago, my wife was so enraged with me that she called me a “naag” (woman). In front of our children, she told me that I should start wearing female attire. She had asked me to do something for her and I told her I wasn’t going to do it. Her insult was stinging. I was angry and the children were outraged. This time, my wife, for the first time, apologized for calling me a woman. I have nothing against women—please, do not misunderstand me—but a wife should never call her husband a woman. Perhaps the reason my wife apologized was that the children were disturbed by her unjustified verbal attack on me. At any rate, terrible damage was done. I now ask myself how long I can endure this abusive behavior. I have already contacted Child Protective Services to report my wife’s treatment of our children. Unfortunately, the social worker assigned to investigate the case closed the file because the children were afraid and non-cooperative.

My father has asked me to stay in the relationship, but I can’t. On the one hand, I want to be like the pious man in ancient times who was married to a difficult woman, but very tolerant of her outbursts. When people asked him why he did not divorce her, this man answered:  “I am afraid if I divorce her she would end up marrying another man who will not be patient with her and may harm her.” On the other hand, I do not want to suffer anymore.

The Would-be President

Politics and Somali men mix all the time.

As a rule, Somali men are obsessed with politics and political chatter in particular. My husband Omar is no exception but he has taken this endemic obsession to a higher level. He wants to be the next president of Somalia.  There is a tiny problem with that: He has no extensive education, no government experience, and no history of stable employment. Needless to say, he is only 28 and, per the provisional constitution of Somalia, he has to wait more than a decade before he can qualify for such a coveted position. Omar is the first to arrive at political events and the last to leave. He likes to be acknowledged in these gatherings and thanked for doing this thing or that thing. Unfortunately, he is too inexperienced, too shallow, and too clannish to become a leader of an entire nation. That is not my opinion but surprisingly his, too. He is perfectly aware of his own limitations but, alas, the man has boundless ambition. Ambition does not require any reasoning. I have pleaded with him to give priority to his family. Unfortunately, he never listens to me and, at times, accuses me of being jealous of him. Jealous of what, I wonder. My husband needs clinical help because he has this exaggerated view of his own importance.

My husband does not know the name of the school our children attend, their doctor’s name, or what each child likes. He has not taken the children for an outing for a long time (five months to be exact), nor has he asked me to join him for an outing for coffee or dinner. However, I can tell you all the little things about his uneventful life: The last political event he attended, the names of the guest speakers, and even where my husband was seated. I can also tell you what his latest posts are on Facebook and Instagram, and his last tweets. Sometimes, I ask myself if this narcissist married me to be his trophy wife; the kind of woman who will appear next to her politician husband smiling and clapping.

My husband is married to his political ambition. I am saddened that my children will one day find out their father — the “would-be president” — was nothing but a bust.

Cloud Nine

My husband wants a new drug.

Prescription medication, that is.

Actually, my once-model husband has turned into a druggie. After many years of what seemed to be a stable family life, my husband developed a habit, a bad habit. He became addicted to prescription medication. He would take an amalgam of this kind of medication and get high.

The problem started when his cousin came from Europe to live with us. The two started experimenting with different types of drugs. My husband first graduated to hard liquor and then finally drugs. All these problems unfolded while he stayed home.

It was painful to watch the man I loved descend into such a deep abyss. He became a totally different person, growing physically and verbally abusive. Then, he ruined my almost perfect credit rating because he stole cash from me for drugs and used my credit cards illegally. I became like the Somali woman who lamented about her former husband: “He stole my heart and my money.”

Finally, I kicked him out and got a divorce.

He turned the children against me. I was portrayed by his family as the ungrateful woman who kicked her husband out of his home. Even my own parents cut their ties with me for a while because of him.

To make a long story short, my ex-husband returned to Somalia. He does not get access there to the types of drugs he used in the United States. However, he has become addicted to khat, a mild stimulant plant.

Do you want to know something odd?

I am currently supporting him. Yes, I send him money regularly.

Why?

I do it because he is the father of my children, and the rate of unemployment in Somalia is very high.

Do you want to know something even weirder?

All of our children are now adults.

Okay, in truth, his presence in Somalia is better for the children and me. No more headaches! 

The Somali Ambassador to Rwanda: "I Love Kagame."

Recently, Somalia’s ambassador to Rwanda, Abdullahi Sheikh Mohamed, made a public confession.

The envoy, in an interview with the Great Lakes Voice, http://greatlakesvoice.com/i-love-kagame-more-than-my-president-somalia-ambassador/, said he loves Rwanda’s President Paul Kagame more than he does his own boss, Somali President Hassan Sheikh Mohamoud.  Abdullahi wishes Kagame were Somalia’s president.

Why does the ambassador love Kagame?

Simple.

Kagame, according to Abdullahi, is a role model for the entire continent of Africa. He is a man of vision and a dynamic leader.

 

It is fine for an ambassador to show admiration and affection for the president at host country. What is unethical—and perhaps beyond the norm of diplomacy—is for an ambassador to disrespect his own president and country.

Why did the ambassador come out publicly in support of Kagame?

There are rumors that President Mohamoud wants to replace the envoy. Abdullahi, however, dismissed such talk as baseless. He is very confident that he will stay in his job to the point of presumption. “These are rumors; nobody can dare fire me,” he boasted.

Abdullahi likes what he sees in Rwanda under the leadership of Kagame. It is a stable country with a good infrastructure; all the Somalis who live there are content, and, most of all, Somali-owned businesses such as Hass energy and Olympic energy, supply 70 percent of Rwanda’s oil needs.

Ambassador Abdullahi wants to do something special for Rwanda: He wants Somalia to supply fish to Rwanda, a land-locked country.

There is another reason why Abdullahi is flaunting his unbridled love for Kagame. The envoy has been having problems with the man he replaced, a former honorary consul. The discord between the two men is about business transactions. In other words, it is all about money.

President Kagame has been successful in transforming Rwanda. The economy there is strong; peace prevails, and there is no endemic corruption. The streets of Kigali, the capital, are immaculate--no garbage, no homeless people sleeping on the streets, and no sign of the pesky plastic bags that normally float around in many African cities. Kagame, though, has been accused of being a dictator who does not tolerate dissent. Some prominent opposition figures have been assassinated abroad by allegedly Rwanda’s secretive and formidable intelligence services. Kagame himself did not admit to these crimes, but he made it clear, in so many words, that Rwanda’s “enemies” deserve to die.

However, there is one thing the honorable Somali Ambassador should know about the man he admires most. According to Jeffrey Gettleman, east Africa bureau chief for the New York Times, Kagame has a habit of actually spanking his underlings when they do not live up to his expectations. When Gettleman asked Kagame about these beatings, the president did not directly admit to them, instead, he mentioned that he once got so angry with a subordinate that he shoved him so hard that the subordinate fell on the floor.

“It is my nature,” Kagame sheepishly said. “I can be tough. I make mistakes.”

The Somali president may be weak and indecisive, but, he is allegedly not given to spanking or shoving his own subordinates.

While Ambassador Abdullahi is a sad story of the state of Somalia’s incompetent Foreign Service, it is an opportune time for President Mohamoud to take decisive action in recalling him. This envoy is an embarrassment to Somalia and to himself.  After his termination, Abdullahi can retire happily in Rwanda, where his beloved leader is at the helm.