Un-forsaking with a poem from Hargeysa

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. 

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.