Today is the second Sunday since the escape, and maybe, just maybe they'll make it past the lake. The three figures huddled down low by the edge of the thick woodland look like a part of the landscape as much as the pebbles scattered about the waterline of the dark imposing lake. The country of the fortunate, the revolutionary folk. They only have themselves to thank for the predicament they found themselves in. Their ideological thoughts on the brink of destruction. The old man can hear the young comrade slowly wiping his sweaty palms on the thighs of his jeans, just hearing the doubt in these actions makes him break out in a cold sweat.
"How much longer would they have to run?"
"Would they stop only when confronted with the barrel of a gun?"
"Would they have to kill again?"
The involuntary act for survival was to repeat itself sooner than he had hoped for. Hours from then, though none but one of the men had even the slightest inclination for it. The planner did, he planned on murder the day his father abandoned his mother to fend for herself and her children, with no roof over their heads and nothing to eat, his affinity for murder only increased further when the weaker siblings passed away in the winter famine, when all they had to survive on were the remnants of whatever he managed to snatch away from the mouths of wild dogs, carcasses. His hate kept him alive as his mother grew weaker by the day. His bleak outlook on life changed for the better when he made the acquaintance of the kind grey haired old man, but his thirst for murder did not. He needed to punish someone for the cold hardness of his life.
The bivouac across the lake, the only remaining obstacle in the way of their escape is illuminated by the light of the campfire, voices carry across, they sound jubilant and sing drunkenly of the past. Shortly before their escape news had reached them of an increase in rations, the first in years. It seemed to the old man that the increase was being put to use tonight. Several voices have now began to shout, the singing has stopped, shadows move in the light of the fire. Seemingly a fight has broken out, and the harsh voices grow louder.
Suddenly a shot rings out across the darkened lake. The young comrade jumps up and runs, merely a child, only along for the ride, wanting to get away from the wastage, death and decay of the old city. As the next bullet flies past his shoulder, the young boy looks up to the sky as if in prayer. He doesn't hear the last shot before the bullet makes it's destructive path through the back of his head.
"Victory!" Shouts the runninng gunman as he lifts the rifle high above his head. When he reaches the edge of the lake starts to walk over slowly, one eye on the woodlands, each step made with careful precision, his shoulders tensed. When he reaches the boy, he relaxes, realising that no one else is around. His thick moustache quivers as be bends down over the boy. His nose red with the cold and his breath visible in the night sky reeking of booze sweeps over the child's body. Turning the body over he seacrches the pockets of the overcoat, then the pockets of the jeans, looking visibly disappointed. Taking one last look he spits over his shoulder and mutters the word "filth" under his breath.
As he gets up he uses the butt of his rifle to steady himself, he winces when he transfers the weight from the rifle back to his left foot. This is enough for the planner, the shooter's fate has been decided, betrayed by his weakness.
The planner looks to the old man and sees him shaking with his face buried in his hands, he wants to say something comforting, something like "he is better off now" but with his mind too preoccupied with his new found advantage his face hardens and he suddenly finds his last remaining friend nothing but a burden.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
The Partisan's Helper
Friday, July 03, 2009
The latecomer
Like a bat from hell I fly down the stairs, my hijab, looking unusually winged this morning feverishly flaps behind me as if to give me that much needed boost. Needless to say, I am uncharacteristically late, running forty-five minutes behind schedule. When I run out of the front door, narrowly avoiding the Mothership with a steaming plate of laxoox inclusive of subag Soomali, tonnes of sonkor, unheeded, unsolicited and unwanted criticism on my choice of garb, I realise the thing sticking in the middle of my oesophagus is the multivitamin pill I tried to swallow waterlessly as I changed my jacket for a cardigan for the 4th time that morning. My wrap around skirt nearly reaches its preferred choice of destination (the neighbours' pavement) before I have the chance to get my key in the ignition. I drive at a breakneck speed down to what I call the crazy roundabout (which in reality is three roundabouts arranged in a lopsided triangle in the middle of a ginormous juntion) nearly drive into the side of a Chelsea tractor, whilst apologising in sign language to the dumbstruck driver I realise that if I hadn't slammed on the breaks I may have actually gotten to my place of work (hospital) on time.
That was me this morning trying to get to work on time.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
How the Garcia girls spent their summer
After several unsuccessful attempts I have effectively forced myself to complete one entry before I lay my head to rest tonight.... I say rest, but for the past couple of nights my sleep has been disturbed and fretful.
I can safely say it is due to my lack of concentration, my inability to find peace and be with myself at ease. Silence is deafening and the thoughts I fill my head up with are even more unsettling.
I have been yet again forcibly enrolled in another hagbad for my postgraduate studies not knowing what I wish to study for fear of choosing something I loathe (history will not repeat itself).
I ran into a former classmate of mine the other day (I hadn't seen her in nearly five years). She announced she was getting married next Thursday, she'd known her fiance for a month and her parents arranged for them to get married after they'd shown her his Curriculum Vitae (marriage CV that is). I have to add that they are Bengalis.
The Somali haphazard way of arranging marriages seems laughable compared to the expertly executed, choreographed, well researched premarriage programme she had to work through. Impressive but not my cup of tea. As much as I love my vader en moeder their ideal partner would be just that, THEIR ideal partner not mine.
Not too long ago we were discussing the prospect of me or my other siblings marrying an ajanabi (foreigner) with my mother. Her response after systematically insulting men from every nationality I can think of was "Hooyo! Qof aan af garanayo ii keen" I reminded her that she is more multilingual that I am. Nonetheless she still upholds the false belief that no man will be a better husband than Isaaq spawn/descendant. I know that she wants the best for us, but for someone who has lived outside of her country for most of her life she should be a little bit more open minded. Ma3aleesh.
I'm a troubled woman at work, having to spend this entire week working in Nuclear Medicine. Where I am more or less made despondent within five minutes of a one sided conversation with the most eccentric and ancient consultant I have ever met. It has nothing to do with the innuendos, the handshake or the tap on the back that lasts a little longer than it should do, the inappropriate comments always made when not in the company of others. There is just something about him that just makes me feel sorry for him. The stooped composure, the stained white coat he wears when doing clinical work, the age spot riddled hands clutching the impossible small syringe. He has atrial fibrillation (AF) and for some strange reason the entire hospital knows about it, even the med students. One of them walking tentatively into the department recognised me from a previous life (pre-med) and after a short conversation asked if the 'horrible old doctor with AF' was in that day. He has a reputation that precedes him. His peculiar way of conversing with patients makes me want to take off my theatre issued clog and clobber him with it. I fell out with him a while ago when he shouted at me, I don't like confrontation but for some reason decided to tell him that him least of all people should not tell me what my job is, hinting at his archaic approach to nurses. Alas you can't teach an old dog new tricks.
At the beginning of may having bought entry to Pharaoh's old kingdom, I found myself in Cairo, Madinatul Nasr, with 3 other girls, a beautiful apartment we had been calling home for 3 weeks.
The streets were dusty and crowded, a non existed traffic system navigated by us with the aid of our colourful cab drivers. (I had to verbally assault several of them)
Running an errand for my dad had taken me to Muhammad Ali Street just off Ataba Square Market. I had to locate an Oud (Middeleastern Lute) for him. He has been playing this instrument for as long as I can remember and the one he currently has, has been like a sibling for mine for 20 years.
At one of the shops we had an oud maker play the instrument for us.
For no less than 21 day, the toilet had become our closet ally, Cairo belly..... Need I say more!
We saw the Giza Plateau, its 9 pyramids guarded by the Sphinx,
We went to the beautiful Al Azhar park, and stayed there for the panoramic view at sunset and to hear the acapella of the Muezzins calling in the Maghrib prayers across the city.
One night we went to a fun fair, I stupidly went on this ride called the Flying Carpet. I said my Shahada non-stop from start to finish, I really thought I would fly off my seat and die a cruel death, My sister on the other hand sat behind me and kept laughing hear head off in between screams of enjoyment. And my mate Fowsia started of with her Shahada as well, then said "fuck it" and screamed so loud I heard ringing in my ears for ages afterwards *shakes head in disgust*
We took a 6.5hr bus ride to Hurgadah tourist seaside city on the Red Sea, where I saw so much naked flesh I thought my eyes would rot out of their sockets, had a pleasant stay at the hotel, went quadbiking and watched my comrades splash about in the sea, took a 6.5hr bus ride back with multilingual proudly uneducated Ahmad the toothless chain smoking, ex-Giza tourist worker, who now owns a shop in Khan El Khalili, his "kids are naughty and wife (the third one) is crazy" unfortunately the second wife reminded him of his first when they slept together, his two and a half year old daughter is scared of black people but immediately warmed to my sibling Nimo who in turn became frightened of the insect bite marks indiscriminately covering the poor girls' body. we eventually returned to the hustle and bustle of Cairo and it was as if we never left.
The airplane ride back on the BA offered us some in flight entertainment in the form of Clint Eastwood's latest directorial offering: Gran Torino. I cried a little.
I've written too bloody much and need to get some fretful sleep, for tomorrow is another day.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Frosty precipitation
I know, I know. I'm late with the "Yay! It snowed like it has never snowed before for 18 years in London!" To make up for it I have included some badly taken shots of the winter wonderland....
Cue numero uno:
To be honest, the initial excitement was a bit too much to bear. After the obligatory snowball fights on our balcony at about 1 am that first night and the snow angel/demon construction at various sites around south east London, I felt a bit deflated to say the least, snow was turning into more of a foe rather than a friend, causing me to postpone meeting a certain someone because I was too scared to drive.
All that was quickly forgotten the next day as I marveled at the whiteness of it all whilst enjoying a bowl of Jordan's tropical muesli at breakfast. By lunchtime I realised that rations were running dangerously low, and action had to be taken promptly. I tried rounding the troops but my logic fell on deaf ears, my comrades were more concerned with warming their empty bellies by the fire. After several failed attempts one involving a pair of fingerless gloves, another a pair of plimsolls a sibling and I ventured out.
The next day I finally managed to muster some energy to rally the troops for an exploratory expedition on foot beyond the filthy grey sludge that had accumulated locally, the three of us trundled, slipped and slid our way to Greenwich Park. Here we were greeted by die hard snowboarding freaks who had already amassed a 15,000 strong posse.
Frightening speeds were achieved by European tourists on bits of plastic, bin bags, and to my surprised even corduroy jackets! Not so surprising were the specks of what suspiciously looked like blood in the snow by the foot of a blackened, gnarly, menacing tree. Ah the joys of reckless fun in the snow.
A poor lonesome nudist tree hugger
Another snowfight ensued, this one not so diplomatic, it started with the "don't drop the snowball" game, predictably we got bored and decided to viciously attack our comrade. She admitted defeat and sat down in the snow, a pathetic, sad, helpless, lump, crying out for justice. All her pleas ingnored... During the attack the contents of her pockets got scattered in the snow, we were obliged to help but if you look carefully at the image you'll see the other comrade loyally held on to her snowball always ready to attack.
When you need to take a break you need to take a goddamn break! Ya hear!
THE END
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
ook al draagt een aap een gouden ring het is en blijft een lelijk ding!!!!
It's that time again folks!
'Kweet niet wat ik er van kan doen! Geen idee hoe ik mezelf kan helpen... Alles is veels te lastig!
Nowadays I feel like my title!
I went to this wedding the other day out in West London. It had been little over 9 months since I last cut the rug on a Somali dancefloor. I felt out of place as soon as I arrived not quite being able to put my finger on why. After about half an hour there I looked around perplexed and commented to my comrade. "Is it me or does everyone look very skinny here?" The lollypop look seemed to be rife that night, skin and bones literally. Some knobbly knees on show too....
She shrugged and said disinterestedly said that it seems to have become all the rage since last summer.
Going to the loo, overheard a girl how fat the thought she looked in her bacweyne!
It didn't bother me that much, still danced the night away, avoiding the searchlight of the videocam like a plague.
Came home the next day to my mother cooking bariis, hilib, mulukhiya, maraq and commenting how no Somali girl will ever find herself a worthy man if she keeps watching what she eats as carefully as we do. This comment particularly aimed at my elder sister who has become a vegetarian. Two hours after dinner found the mothership back in the kitchen making laxoox (anjeero)
My self esteem in midst of all of this still hasn't improved all that much.
A veggie pizza is calling me now....
Sunday, January 04, 2009
From Disney to Hollywood
After careful thinking the autor has decided to give this post a special warning rating of WG, women and only men accompanied by women are able to view the post, as some material might not be suited for them. Some of the material may be seen as offensive to a particular gender and careful explanation of the finer points are needed. The autor has decided in this case, she is not able to delve further into these points for the specifc reason in wanting to retain her sanity.
This post is nothing more than a rant, not a mindless rant mind you. A rant, not specifically aimed at men, or Hollywood, but more pertinent to the importance of outside influences and the way in which they have shaped my current mindset in relation to this topic.
Plus it is early sunday morning and I can't sleep.
I have been an embittered woman for a while now. It didn't happen overnight, I can now tell that the signs were there for a while but it took some time for me to figure it out with the help of some excellent uncredited script writers, a mighty good casting agent, and mostly thanks to Mr. Smith himself. The character Hitch to my detriment managed to raise my expectations of men from here *gestures a point near to her feet* to up here *indicates a point to just above her doorway*.
Disney used to dictate what I looked for in my fella; a young handsome man of few words, fair amount of dough, a good ride, does what he has to do without any prompting from me (glass slipper and all that). That ideal worked for me just fine the past decade just fine, no complex mind games, inner dilemma's and wishful thinking to deal with. Now in my old age, Hollywood has me thinking that somewhere gathered in secluded schools/flocks/herds whatever you want to call it, there are these men. These men dress sharp, are great conversationalists, intellectually engaging, posses superhuman wit, know when to back off, and are mad hot!
Its all very strange how it turned out to be this way. I am a self confessed movie freak, will watch almost anything as long as it isn't a period drama (seriously what is the point of watching the latest Hollywood starlet/ temptress acting coy, wearing stupendous wigs at a less than adequate attempt in being credible all the while engaging in illicit affairs with her male counterpart in between costume changes.)
I am more averse to watching films with substance, that are engaging and force you to think from beginning to end rather than switch off and scoff an entire McD's super sized meal in the first ten minutes. Nevertheless I WANTED to see this film, Will Smith was in it, need I say more.
I wanted to explain how Hitch got his first date with Sarah. For some reason I just couldn't do it. I don't know whether it was due to the sheer emotion experienced when faced with the prospect of having to recount those two magical scenes. Lets just say it involved some good conversation, couple of probing questions, great observation, a courier, and a couple of walkie talkies...
Why don't guys do that in real life?!?!?!? Well maybe they do, maybe I just don't know about this, maybe I attract the lazy sort, or maybe Somali ones just don't like to go through all of that trouble. I will bet my left foot that it definitely is not for lack inventiveness. We know that Somaalida waxa loo yaqaana in ee cayda and bassaboorka u qaataan by the most remarkably dubious and inventive means known to man! So what could it be? I was discussing this with a good friend of mine the other day, just ruminating, and after a while we were none the wiser and we decided to go with her idea a man would size up a woman, and then decide how much trouble they should go through to get what they wanted.
It leaves me thinking how disappointing this whole situation is. Tired chat up lines, nothing sincere leaves their mouth from the moment they decide that you were to become their latest victim.
Some are so abysmal that you are left to wonder how they even managed to mobilise from where they were standing to were you unfortunately were situated, their conversation/babble suggesting that their level of brain function would not even allow them to complete a task so arduous as to walk in a straight line!
The other day working in the recovery area, one of my favourite radiologists (not) decided that he wanted to place bilateral ureteric stents, do a chest and a liver biopsy and perform a uterine artery embolisation all before 4pm, and it was lunchtime. So here I am running around headless chicken style trying to find a radiographer, equipment and able bodied porters who'd fetch me some patients, where from I didn't care, carol singers in the street would have done. Oblivious to my surroundings whilst running past the main X-ray waiting room a gazillion times I have this feeling of eyes burning into my back. Knowing I work in Woolwich and at any time there are about ten dozen Somalis roaming the corridors of the hospital I think nothing of it. When I manage to rope in one of my colleagues to help me find some guide wires, I see this young Somali bloke and a relative. (I guessed dad but it turned out to be a snazzy dressed grandad, Diddy didn't have anything on this awoowe) A while later I left my colleagues chattering amongst themselves and walked over to the porters' station. On my way back the young man who was by now by himself stopped me and said.
"Listen walaal, you work here innit, I mean I seen you walking around and that, you're busy" I stopped him in mid sentence and said, "Asalaamu Alaykum, you know it ain't very nice to stare, it's awkward for me, a bit rude on your part and bewildering to my colleagues instead do the gracious thing and just say hello"
He laughed and said "Yeah sorry walaal, you're right, I'm just so annoyed, I mean I've been waiting here for like an hour and a half for an X-ray and other people keep going in first before me."
I quickly replied seeing where this was going, "I'm sorry man, I can't help you with that I don't work in X-ray"
"Yeah I know, but "
Changing the topic I asked why he was there. Apparently he had sustained a football injury and had come to get his knee X-rayed.
"You know what" I started feeling an angry rant come on "Well, this is the NHS, you're not paying for this X-ray are you?"
"No..." "Well then, don't expect too much, plus they don't send people for X-rays nilly willy, and as you've been here for that long, its shouldn't be much longer now, just take a seat and wait , OK? "
At this point slick grandpa came over, wagging his blinging watch in his grandson's face he yelled "Waryaa, toban minidh kale ayaan ku sugaya markaasna waa tagaya, waan raage ileen!"
The young man replied "Awoowo, isug de, wax badan imii hadhin, imka ayaan soo baxaya!"
Trying to keep my laughter suppressed I watched grandad stalk off swagger and all, turning my attention to his grandson I continued, "you brought this on yourself you see, that's why they're making you wait longer that the confused elderly ladies with fractured hips and young kids in car accidents".
Admitting defeat he decided to change tack. "You've got an older brother haven't you? His name is Abdi and he plays basketball, round from your ends"
Caught off guard by this sudden change of topic I said "What, who? I haven't got any brothers." The young man replied "are you sure? He's very tall, same skin tone like you and he looks a bit like you as well."
Hmmm, now I think about it, a tall Somali guy possibly called Abdi, looks strangely similar to me always clutching what looks like a basketball has been loitering about for the past 20 odd years, Yeah!....
"No walaal, I'm sure that none of my sisters are called Abdi and plays basketball..."
A dopey smile formed on his face, at this point I decided to cut the conversation short and told him to take a seat, rest his knee and have a bit of patience whilst edging backwards slowly, hoping he's taken the hint....
He decided to go in for the kill at this point realising his grip was loosening on his prey.
"Numbarkaaga isii walaal!"
Incredulously I say "Yaaaa?" wondering how we had gone from waiting times, his knees, my non existent brother to my mobile number.
"Come on walaal don't be like that isii numbarkaaga."
"Maya, walaal" I reply, "numbarkayga dadka ma siiyo."
"Oo waayo, walahi I'm not a bad person you know"
"I didn't say you were, but thanks for letting me know, its reassuring"
"Come on then! Maxaad sugaysa"
A flash of silver was being bounced from one hand to another, screen all lit up.
"No, walaal I'm being serious now, and my colleagues are looking I really have to go"
My colleagues were not only looking but also dramatically recreating what looked like a scene from Titanic.
"Oh! I get it" he says now "you're seeing someone ain't ya?"
Deciding he'd just given me a way out without having to slam dunk his ego, I said agreed, probably a bit too quick as he gave a look that said "You better not be lying to me girl, I'm gonna hunt down and make you my woman whether you like it or not"
How self assured must he be though, to think the only reason I'd refuse donating my precious 11 digit number to his little PDA (Yes that's right, he whipped that baby out about 3 seconds into our conversation) would be because a commitment to another man.
Funniest thing is when I finally managed to go for lunch I took the work experience student out with me, and she said some random Somali guy coming for an X-ray to his knee asked her if she could give him my number! Persistant little bugger....
I've probably gone a bit off topic here, but I was just thinking back to this the other day and wondered whether I may have been a little more giving if it wasn't for that blasted film, for some reason, no one liner or conversation will ever be good enough. Thanks to this soulsucking film industry I'll always keep on the lookout for just the one man who manage to get himself separated from his secluded school/flock/herd and will quote Nietzsche at me to get my attention, I'm not even that picky Rudyard Kipling, Herman Hesse, or Dr. Seuss will even do. Till that day my "why are you even bothering your few remaining brain cells, make it easy on yourself and keep on walking" frown will stay etched into this face of mine
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Stop and stare
Churning them out one after the other!
This has me thinking...
My thoughts lie with the question of when if ever is quantity better than quality? How about when one is with futile effort attempting making up for lost time and lost posts.
Sometimes I feel that if I do not document what I am feeling at a particular time, that feeling will be lost to me, as if setting in motion a terrible and irreversible course of events, the day in question will slowly but surely start to fade and then inevitably its memory will be gone forever. For none other than this selfabsorbed and rather selfish reason I have started to carry a notebook around with me. This rings quite similar to when I first began to carry the samsung nv3 around with me just in case I saw something I wanted to capture. Then one evening when walking alone along this little path somewhere where I had never been before I saw this beautiful scene unfold in front of me and I instinctively rummaged for the camera only to stop just before I positioned the viewfinder in in front of my eye.
How selfish of me to only consider something like this as on a need to capture basis! If it is good, take it, if it is not, then keep on walking. I had become completely incapable at appreciating something that wasn't pleasing to the eye. And even worse I had forgotten to just stop and stare.
