By Hassan M. Abukar
This article is the fourth of 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 these individuals have been changed to ensure their privacy.
_________________
The Workaholic
I was living in Virginia on the East Coast when I met my wife. I met her during a visit to Minneapolis to attend a political event. I was attracted to her bubbly personality, infectious smile, suave demeanor, and beautiful fashion style. We took a liking to one another. We talked as hundreds of Somalis surrounded us with their clamor and rendition of national songs. It seemed the two of us were on an island even though we were in the midst of more than a thousand people. Simply, we clicked.
When I returned to Virginia, I was a 40-year-old man in love. I lost a taste for food, neglected my friends, and became glued to my cell phone. In other words, I became mesmerized by my new friend in Minneapolis. I missed no opportunity to talk to her. I would call her three or four times a day to ask about her, her two children from a previous marriage, and her parents. I was into her and she was into me. We wanted to get married, the sooner the better. She had a professional job and, on top of that, was running a small business. This bionic woman was amazing. I asked her how she juggled her parenting responsibilities, her job, and her business. Her response was smart and measured: “I prioritize what is important in my life.”
She told me I had paid so much attention to her by calling her daily and asking about her well-being. One thing was clear: To marry her, I had to move to Minneapolis. I had been to Minneapolis many times and, I must admit, it was one city I couldn’t stand. Its problem is simple: too many Somalis. Some say there are 40,000 Somalis, and some estimate as many as 70,000. I am not used to such a large concentration of my fellow countrymen in one major city. I prefer cities where Somalis have a smaller presence—say 5,000—to bigger cities like Minneapolis, Columbus, Seattle, San Diego, and Atlanta.
After seven months of courtship, I got married and moved to Minneapolis. The marriage ceremony was small and conducted in front of an intimate group of relatives. The bride, uncharacteristically, did not attend the ceremony because she was working. The marriage contract was done by proxy through her father as her official representative. In our religion, it is acceptable for marriage ceremonies to be conducted by proxy. The guests feasted on rice and lamb and, after three hours, dispersed. I gave her the benefit of the doubt and let the matter slide because I was totally enthralled with her. After five hours, near midnight, the bride came home from work.
Love alone, it is said, is not sufficient. Although I clicked well with my two stepchildren, I realized what a big mistake I had made in marrying their mother. She immersed herself in her work as though nothing had changed in her life. My new wife worked seven days a week; the workload included her regular job and, on top of that, managing her business. The two boys were in high school and, in essence, took care of themselves. They had busy lives attending school and spending time with their friends. I had never before felt so lonely and marginalized. As a recent transplant to Minneapolis, I had no friends and no relatives. Most of all, I worked at home. By the time my wife came home at 6 PM, I was exhausted and she was exhausted. Four days a week, we lived on food purchased from Somali restaurants. I am a health-conscious man, and I do not like to eat restaurant food. My wife and I talked about setting aside some time to spend alone, but to no avail. There were always new things popping up to take care of. Saving our marriage was never the priority.
Then, I saw a side of my wife that I had not known: She was a micromanager. She wanted me to wear this shirt or that shirt, cut my hair in a certain way, and she insisted on going with me to the store to purchase the clothes she liked. I protested, but she was not listening. I became resentful and acted immaturely by becoming withdrawn and distant. Suddenly, I felt unhappy and my relationship with my wife started to fizzle. It was a melancholy period of isolation and loneliness.
One day, I did something stupid: I packed all my belongings, put them in the trunk of my car, visited briefly my wife at her business, and drove off to Virginia. I was not bold enough to tell her that I was leaving her. The petulance I had demonstrated did hurt her and my stepchildren. I was a jerk and acted foolishly. When my wife returned home that evening, she was shocked to find my stuff gone. Interestingly, she immediately called me and left me an odd message: “You forgot one of your suits.”
My return to Virginia was not easy. I lost weight and became depressed. I was also wracked with remorse and blamed myself for my hurtful actions toward my wife and step-children. My wife understandably asked for a divorce, and I granted her wish. However, I did one thing during that tumultuous period: I kept in contact with my ex-wife. I apologized to her profusely and implored her to forgive me. Hope, not resentment, is the predominant feeling in our relationship today.
Do you know something?
I am getting remarried to my ex-wife. She no longer works seven days a week or owns a small business. Most of all, she has forgiven me and has vowed to work harder to maintain our marriage. We will be living alone, as my two step-children have become adults and they have their own careers.
The Equalizer
I am a professional woman. I was once married to another Somali professional who treated me like a maid. After we were married, he asked me to stay home and cook and clean for him. I love my career as a counselor, and I will not quit. My first husband and I split because our differences in regard to household duties diverged so badly.
I believe partners should equally share household responsibilities, including the finances. I do not like my husband paying for everything. My first husband took my monthly contribution to household expenses, and on top of that money, he wanted me to take on extra duties like cooking and cleaning. No, no, no. We both worked, so why should I carry an extra load of work? No, I can’t accept that rule. I made the difficult decision to end that marriage. Of course, the divorce was clearly acrimonious. What else would you expect?
Two years later, I met a wonderful Somali man who is a true partner. We have what is now called “an egalitarian marriage.” We share responsibilities and decision-making. We both work, but we equally share the responsibilities. When I cook, he cleans, and vice versa. We are not only partners, but great friends. He is not secretive, and I share a lot with him. He has been accused of being “Nin daciif ah” (a weak man) by my fellow Somalis, and I am accused of being a control freak, a man-eater. So what? I am happy and my husband is too. Got any questions?
Mama’s Boy
My husband is what the Italians would call a “mamoni” (mama’s boy). We were happily married until his mother came into the picture. The family dynamics changed once she started living with us. In so many ways, she is a home-wrecker and her son, my husband, is the most disloyal human being I have ever known. Every day, she would deliver a laundry list of gripes. She criticized everything I did. I did not cook well or clean thoroughly or take good care of her pampered son and beloved grandchildren. Simply put, I was no good for her son.
My husband, the mamoni, listened only to his mother when she directed her vitriol against me. You would think his loyalty would be with his wife, but he simply said nothing and stood like a Hawo Taako statue. I was always good to this woman, so I did not understand why she was so hostile toward me. Even my children have asked me why Ayeyo (Grandma) hates me so much.
I asked my husband to rent his mother an apartment close to our house. He became enraged and stormed out of the house screaming at me for being difficult.
Suddenly, after being the first lady in my home, I was relegated to secondary status. My marriage hit the skids. My husband left home and took his mother to a hotel, where they both stayed for a week. When he came back and started harassing me again, I couldn’t take it anymore. The children and I moved out. He went to court, filed for divorce and full custody of the children. It is odd that a Somali man would ask for full custody of children under the age of 10. However, he wanted his mother to raise my children and thus render me irrelevant. That was only wishful thinking. I still have my children.
Hassan M. Abukar
Email:[email protected]
——————
Hassan M. Abukar is a freelance writer and political analyst .
We welcome the submission of all articles for possible publication on WardheerNews.com. WardheerNews will only consider articles sent exclusively. Please email your article today . Opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of WardheerNews.
WardheerNew’s tolerance platform is engaging with diversity of opinion, political ideology and self-expression. Tolerance is a necessary ingredient for creativity and civility.Tolerance fuels tenacity and audacity.
WardheerNews waxay tixgelin gaara siinaysaa maqaaladaha sida gaarka ah loogu soo diro ee aan lagu daabicin goobo kale. Maqaalkani wuxuu ka turjumayaa aragtida Qoraaga loomana fasiran karo tan WardheerNews.
Copyright © 2024 WardheerNews, All rights reserved
