Dear Blog,
It has been far too long. Let's not count the months or list the reasons why. The important thing is that I am back. The poem below is part of a body of work reflecting on experiences and relationships in Somaliland.
It has been far too long. Let's not count the months or list the reasons why. The important thing is that I am back. The poem below is part of a body of work reflecting on experiences and relationships in Somaliland.
Cadriyad
This is the
story of how a meal becomes a journey.
This story
marks the beginning of a new hunger
to feed on
journeys and words accompanying them
The first
time I saw Hodan’s baby boy
she served
me sweetened vermicelli
while we
waited for him to awake.
The breeze
whispered in the soft light.
The snack
had hints of cardamom and anise.
It sat on my
tongue with hesitation.
I embraced
its taste slowly.
It journeyed
into my heart, and I
journeyed
into my friend’s life:
She told me
about fleeing Mogadishu
fearing for
her little brother, tasting fear,
smelling
blood; big empty nights, tears.
Depending on
the generosity of strangers
Her father
died.
She was only
nine.
I walked
with her through Lower Shabelle
Galkacyo,
and on to Hargeisa.
Before we
sat together that day,
eating
Somali sweets,
I could not
have imagined the wounds she doesn’t show;
the scars
she tends in silence.
The baby
awoke. We admired
His fat
cheeks, his chubby legs.
He is a
joharad; a son of Somaliland.
Hodan told
me about the night
she saw the
snake’s green stone.
I didn’t believe the story of Joharad;
yet I do
believe.
I believe it
walks the sandy streets of Hargeisa;
It is in camel
herders in the plains,
Sheep
keepers in Sheikh
Poets and dancers.
It is in mothers
putting their children to sleep
And friends
sharing a meal.
I believe in
this sweetness discovered on a sleepy
afternoon in
Hargeisa.
