By: Boodhari Warsame

If only I could remeber exactly which year or month was it, but it was indisputably an infamous day in my childhood. On that day, I , as usual, came back from Dugsi for one of those highly coveted daily quraac breaks, extremely hungry and angry at everybody, including the merciless macallin whom I have been constantly at odds with lately and the neighbor’s bully older boy who perfected a habit of stealing my laboriously produced khad at will.

Suddenly, I entered my family’s house. I do not remember whether I kicked the door in or it was opened for me, for no one dared to close the bloody door at that hour of my expected arrival. I usually do not talk to any anyone at this moment, so I directly went into the kitchen, immediately stopping at the famous table were the heap of Canjeero was kept for serving. Lo!  Holly camel! I could not believe my eyes. There was no single piece on sight, let alone a heap fit for a feast. I took a reassuring look at the burjiko. I actually touched it with my bare tender hands to feel its warmth. If it is warm there is hope and a heap of loxoox hidden somewhere, but unfortunately it was not. It was cruelly dead cold. Members of my family present at the time were all watching me in silence. Some of my mischievous siblings were seemingly holding back, excruciatingly suppressed laughter.

Finally, one of them, my sworn archrival sibling, broke his silence: “It is Wasiir Barre!” What? Who is this Wasiir Barre, and what has he got to do with our missing Canjeeros? I asked him. “No! Not again!” I protested, without waiting for an answer. My thoughts were now wrongfully incriminating one of those greedy reer baaddiye revelers we usually host in our house for shorter or longer periods as the culprit. The youngster interrupted my desperation and added; “No, not one of those. Don’t you know Wasiir Barre? Siyaad Barre’s brother, you madax koryeeri.”  I wondered why he has to use such a biting nickname anyway. Doesn’t he notice that I am already in distress? And what in the universe does Siyaad Barre’s brother have to do with my canjeero? Doesn’t the Barre family already have the whole country’s canjeero in their big house, the Villa on the Hill?

The youngster annoyingly interrupted again. “Nooo!” he said louder.  “They didn’t call you madax koryeeri for nothing. The Barre family did not eat our Canjeero.” He seemed to have now clearly felt delighted with my misery. I asked him again, slowly and clearly; “so what the flicking happened? Our Canjeero is missing and you mentioned Barre brother being in our house?

Then, another wrongful thought dawned on me. “No! It can’t be true. Our Canjeero has nothing to do with anti-regime sentiments that are brewing from everywhere nowadays.” I desperately yelled, thinking that our Canjeero must have been taken to the district central police station for Kacaan-diid questioning. I knew that the head of our family household, who was himself a government employee, had lately developed a feverish passion for a new sport that had been invading the minds of urbanite Somali male chauvinists. It was sort of a deadly sport called “ Mucaarad.” But what in the whole world does my beloved Canjeero has to do with that?

By this moment, I must have felt extremely angry as I secretly hatched an evil plan. I decided to tackle this irritating youngster if he ever teases me with another puzzling nonsense. Tackling had a special name for us those days. It was termed as “gal”, literally meaning as it looks and sounds. This was the art of fighting employed only when one is extremely angry or a weaker fighter facing stronger and heavier opponent. Your supporters usually encourage you from the ring side shouting “gal (throw yourself into) the s.o.b.” It is simple but deadly. All you have to do is aim at the mid section of your opponent and dive at him head first flying at full weigh. If perfect trajectory is calculated, your human missile will deliver a sure and serious knockout. If my plan succeeded that day, it would have caused a sure disaster in the household. The prospect would have been facing the wrath of the head of a family. A battle hardened solder and a deadly opponent no one wished to face. Every one cleared out of his way unless one was an extreme gambler.  It was only in the last seconds of my would-be disastrously thoughtless plan that help came from somewhere else, a caring true legend in my life saved that day for me.

My beloved Ayeeyo (may Allah bless her soul) came to the rescue. I will never forget her believe in the absolute powers of a young religious student. She used to say regularly; “arday dugsi ka soo rawaxay maradiisa geed ma qabsado, haddii uu qabsadana waa qallalaa.” I doubted the validity of such age old adage this morning and I had a reason. If what Ayeeyo says is true, why don’t I see this Wasiir Barre stiff, frozen and good as dead right in the kitchen from where he stole our hard-earned Canjeero!?  She immediately called me into her room, opened her famous ancient jest which looked like a remnant of the glorious Ottoman Empire, took out a well and neatly preserved jug full of delicious Oodkac. She then opened another sack pouch full of freshly baked rooti shideeye from neighboring Maxammad Jaalle bakery. There also forever ready is her decorated famous tea thermos in company of a lifelong partner, the Farasle cup. She quietly and silently afforded me a service fit for a king, both of us not uttering a single word, when I suddenly erupted; “…but Ayeeyo, what happened to our Canjeero this morning…?” Her reply was; “shuush! Just enjoy your meal in peace and I will explain to you later what happened this morning. Ok!”

I did exactly as she wisely suggested enjoying an excellent and authentic Somali soul food that could dampen the flaring tempers of the angriest dugsileey. When I finished, did I say finished? No, I actually licked the plate clean to the point of showing its flowery decorations as fresh as the day they were laid by the hands of a masterful Chinese artist. I then let out two or three violently noisy belches as I tried to exit Ayeeyo’s room heavy in the belly and weak on the knees. As usual, all I care about now is to get out of the house as soon as possible and share some valuable playful moments with my colleagues before we return back to that dreary joint called Dugsi.

Suddenly, Ayeeyo caught me midway; “hold it right there! Come here, take this money and buy us a dambiil of charcoal from Adeer Suudi’s store.” Everybody in the family knew about my complete hatred for chores, particularly after such a hefty breakfast. But none in our household had the ability to ignore any of Ayeeyo’s orders, so I did what she demanded and went carrying a nicely woven Somali basket and money in hand.

I met Suudi sitting outside his locked charcoal store. This never happened before. Suudi’s store was always open every day from seven in the morning to six in the evening, except Fridays. He was the funniest man I have ever met. A sage and complete comedian with most poetic Abgaali accent I ever heard. I greeted him as usual; “Assalaamu Calayku adeer Suudi. What happened today, did you lose the key to your store or what…?” He pulled a Gambar behind his chair and invited me to sit on without replying a word back to me. This is not a good sign. He seemed angry and something horrible must have happened to Suudi this morning! I sat on my designated Gambar comfortably, keeping quiet for some time waiting for him to just say something or crack one of  his roaring  jokes.

You could not believe what I heard next; “arreey waa halkii Kaddare Barre ahaa, eebo ha jalaftee. Qandho xumoo madax saangura leh.” I bolted up from my Gambar before he finished his last sentence; “shit! And his brother robbed our Canjeero this morning. Is Barre gang out in force today or what? What did this Barre do to you anyway?” He smiled starring at me for a moment, probably amazed by my bizarre story about Barre’s sibling stealing our Canjeero and stuff. I bugged him further; “tell me Suudi, tell me wha really happened?” His reply was; “cunoqabataynuu nagu soo rogey, walax cillami cunaha ha qabtaane.” Now he must have complicated the issue even farther. I asked myself; “what the hell is cunoqabatayn anyway?”

He did not wait further as he laid down the issue bare before me in child freakeconomics. He asked me; “Madaxeey, as you were coming towards my store, did you pass Mohammed Jaalle’s bakery and grocery store.” I replied in the positive. He then asked; “did you notice a long line of clients streaming into his business?” I replied to that also in the affirmative. He continued; “could you believe that most of these clients started lining up in front of every store in our district as early as six in the morning just to buy their basic foodstuff – a kilo of sugar, flower, salt, cooking oil and …etc?” I answered to this one in the abject negative. He then faced me, looked at me between the eyes and said smiling; “you would have known what happened to your beloved Cajeero this morning if you answered my last question in the affirmative. This is called ‘rationing’, and that is why my store was closed today. I think the Barre that stole your Canjeero this morning and the one who closed my store are one and the same. The reason why your family could not bake their cajeero is that I had no charcoal to sell to them.” To drive the point home, he called out for one of his helpers playing shax in the shade of the store and asked; “… aryaa Xaamudoow! Xoow ahaay halka wasiiree cillannee aan ka cayshi waynnay? The fellow answered back loudly; “ma helo magaciisa, magaciis ha miriree. Kaddare  Barre inoow ahaayaan filaa.”

I went back to our house dragging my feet, knowing that tomorrow is also another day without cajeero, but learned one or two from the childish politics and economic policies of the Kacaan generation. Arrived home dejected and discouraged, I threw myself into the soft arms of my Ayeeyo for comfort as she asked me; “why is the basket empty?” My reply was now well articulated and more mature, or as I believed; “Ayeeyo, the Barre gang was out in force this morning and Suudi’s store was another victim.” She wisely replied; “we are all victims. When one is victimized all become victims in the process, including your Canjeero”. I now interrupted her with loud protest. “No!” was my reaction. “Ayeeyo, my Canjeero should stay out of politics. Period.”

Ayeeyo had always the last wise words; “your Canjeero will stay out of politics when the Barre gang stays out of politics. But, let me reassure you, or rather scare you should I say: I am not that worried about this gang in power now. It is the gang after this gang that sends the coldest chills down my spine. May Allah help your generation? Aammiin”.  She concluded.

Well, the notorious generation Ayeeyo warned about came and messed not only with my canjeero but threw my whole future in the dark. The damned gang is now illegitimately in power more than the Barre gang ruled and still steals my Canjeero. This is the generation I deservingly named Generation Jiirkayo Xaraar. Their grim story is for another day; if I could ever muster words to describe them.

Boodhari Warsame
Email: bodhari.warsame@gmail.com

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