Guess Who’s Coming to Qado

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God-fearing, good looking and a medical graduate from a top-ranked school that spent his days off volunteering at a local soup kitchen – by all accounts he was a catch. What family wouldn’t open their doors to this unicorn of sorts? The scales were disproportionately tipped in his favour. So, why did he feel disheartened during a meeting with ‘the parents’? It must have been the objectionable look the bride-to-be’s father gave him the moment tribe was brought up.  The gentleman boldly asked, “Why is a learned man such as yourself blaming my parents for siring a son that came to ask for your daughter’s hand?”

Her father was a worldly man – a preeminent scholar of anthropology, fluent in many tongues and a virtuoso of the kaban (oud). He was cultured and prided himself for rising above the herd mentality afflicting his people. Yet now he too was gripped by the same sickness and brought to his knees by the invisible strings of cultural conditioning, which dictated he was not suitable  for marriage due to clan stigma. If this was a different world he would accept him and parade him around the promenade, while gloating that this man was his son-in-law. However, her old man was a self-preservationist that justified his reluctance by indicating the callous and cruel nature of his people was beyond reformation. They were trapped in an old paradigm and nothing could be done to change their minds. Conscientious of the opinions of others and aware of how this union could adversely impact his daughter’s well-being, he had to disapprove. Why would he not shield her from marginalization and away from vultures waiting in the wings to find faults to peck at and exploit? 

The young man then addressed him by saying, I’m held accountable for a past I had no part in making and hampered by a history blanketed in superstition. I am forced to make penitence for crimes never committed where the nature of the offense is not known.  However, I must serve out the length of multiple life sentences that I inherited from my ancestors and will pass on to future generations if this cycle is not broken.  Let me set the record – I am not a tyrannical king that terrorized people, nor do I find dead meat palatable. Any thinking person would know that is no reason to relegate my clan to subordinate status. We are tantamount to you. I cannot wrap my head around why my hands are still stained with deeds that I have not done and I do not know why my ancestors are sullied with a reputation grounded in fiction.

Her father then asked the lad what he would do if the shoe were on the other foot and the young man replied, “I would accept a man that would love, protect and provide for her. I would be pleased she found someone she shared innumerable commonalities with – faith, ethnicity and values.” He went on to say, “Why not accept a man, whose heart was full of compassion that knew no bounds, which extended even to individuals blinded by ignorance and coloured by visceral hostility toward him?”

Her father then said, “You are a good man with akhlaq, a kind heart, pleasant appearance and financial stability, but with all due respect I cannot allow my daughter to marry you.” The young man got up from the table and proceeded to grab his coat and slip on his shoes. On his way out he exclaimed, “You cannot protect your daughter forever and one day you and the irrational fears you have will be dead. The world will be unrecognizable to you and the badge of shame I am forced to bear will be discarded.  You are a future-thinking man and strike me as an innovator ahead of the curve, not a laggard – that will be left behind.” The father’s mouth was agape, and before he had a chance to respond the young man proclaimed, Madhiban baan ahay! Then he slammed the door shut.

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Don’t Tell!

habo

Polyphonic ringtone goes off. Hooyo yells at you from across the room to pick up the phone. You were saved just in time by the landline. She was vexed earlier, the moment she starts laughing in mid-conversation, it’s your queue to leave. The caller had her at hello; endorphins kick in and the rest is history. Suddenly, whatever you did to annoy her is forgotten, at least for now.

You can thank the interconnected web of habaryars (aunties) for their impeccable timing and giving her the lowdown on what’s going on. These ladies are always in the know, and they never fail to deliver the daily dish whether it’s scandalous or trivial they’re reporting it like the Daily Enquirer. They possess an aptitude for fact finding and have at their henna stained finger tips a dossier on everyone including the mailman. Their leads are solid and reliable. Always privy to information on those they have never met, have limited contact with, know of vaguely or met through so and so bari hore (long ago). Yet they will swear to the high heavens that they know this person, even when evidence suggests otherwise.

If recruited by an intelligence agency they would be adept at gathering Intel, and can do so without intimidation or water boarding. They don’t even have to hide incognito behind foliage snapping photos. Information has a way of just landing in their laps without them actively looking for it. At a moment’s notice they’ll readily pull up details of one’s family background, education status, occupation, financial portfolio and marital status. Their news feed is transmitted via telephone – graduations, upcoming engagements, wedding bells, baby on the way, deaths, illnesses, convictions, they’ve beat you to it.

You should be forewarned before enlisting their help on a reconnaissance  mission. Their achilles heel lies in their inability to keep quiet. The problem is they would compromise a mission with classified information leaked, given their inability to keep a secret if their lives depended on it. Reason being, everyone and their ayeeyo (grandmother) would be enlightened. At least, they are thoughtful enough to provide a disclaimer before their tell all. They utter the words “Sheekan maqlay laakin qof na ha uu sheegan” (I have news for you but don’t tell anyone). This forewarning reads like a prescription drug commercial with a laundry list of side-effects that sound like an inaudible blur, which goes over one’s head.  Similarly, information is passed along without an afterthought. It’s a shame they aren’t able to backtrack when it’s a sensitive matter. Sometimes all people want is an empathetic ear to listen, without being exposed. Perhaps it’s best they exercise their discretion judiciously.

Hadal wuxuu amaan yahay intaanad odhan

Afka haduu ka soo baxo adu uma arimisid

Ramadan Kareem

Shishacapades

Shisha conjures up thoughts of postmenopausal Somali women lighting up, or Egyptians chain smoking shisha in between sips of black tea. Globalization exported this exotic novelty to the west. Now young folks flock to the cafes and lounges to inhale and exhale flavoured vapours. The laidback vibe gets them in hook line and sinker. If you call a spade a spade, it’s still candy-coated smoke. Apple, mint, mango, cinnamon and grape fill the air. The sounds of Arabic, Amharic, urban and pop music play in the background, heat emanates from the coal burning and stares can be felt from across the room.

If your memory serves you right, grade school and high school made you smoke-phobic; you used to make a 5000 metre dash like Mo Farah, away from the loitering smokers. If you are like me you cringed when your friends surprisingly pulled up to a shisha spot and likened your aversion to that of a house cat forced to bathe. You were confronted with a cul de sac; with no way out. The only mode of transportation aside from your friends was city transit. Coxwell Station was a mere block away but it was past midnight and you preferred to avoid the inebriated partiers.

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Before stepping inside you vehemently refused and implored your friends to change their minds, they shot back with their predictable action figure responses. Exclaiming “shisha isn’t real smoking”, “its herbal”, “the water filters out the chemicals” and “the ventilation disperses the fumes.” They scammed you when they promised it was a one-off day and they would never come back. Inveterate addicts – they were there the following Saturday. You still wanted to protest, throw your hands up in grief, hyperventilate and faint. The Prima Donna in you didn’t mind putting on a show, but you just headed for the restroom to calm your nerves.

When you got home your clothes were soiled with smoke, and you felt light headed from the cocktail of indoor air pollutants: carbon monoxide, arsenic, particulates and lead in the air. You vowed never to return, but spoke much too soon. Rather you developed a penchant for the place. Magically, the smoke chamber of death transformed into a Moroccan casaba on the Danforth. You became accustomed to the hubble bubble. You rationalized that aside from clubs where else could you socialize at that hour? After all what was so wrong with lightly sweetened mint tea  and a couple harmless card games  of  crazy eights or texas hold em’. The environment alone was intoxicating; the sociability factor drew you in and negated the harmful effects of shisha. Although you as a non-shisha smoker ardently opposed to the practice still developed fanciful ideas about  shisha, to justify your presence there. It donned on you that you were no different than your friends. The fumes clearly got to your head making you more bubbly and vivacious, and you didn’t even smoke. The social lubricant got you talking and clouded your judgement. It wasn’t until the morning after that you noticed fatigue and a sore throat and rued the day you came. After all the increased risk of cancer, heart disease and respiratory disease weren’t worth it.

 

 

The Somali Problem

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Your obstinate demeanour and inability to acquiesce are what sets you apart from the rest. Somalis I salute you for your high self-value. Those characteristics are not up for debate. I would like to call your attention to an insidious problem you are confronted with, but are not consciously aware of.  This problem is systemic and has been with you since antiquity. Camel raiding is encoded into your DNA. You all but abandoned the practice yet you are unable to escape its grasp completely and your behaviour suggests so.

When the rain poured it was a prosperous time, animals were plump and in synchronicity your bravado intensified. You gained strength and courage to fight. Nature also equipped you with the tools to claim what was rightfully yours from a neighbouring hostile clan. You knew you were superior; they were weaker, ill-prepared and deserved to have their livestock taken. As a child you were spoon fed stories of only victories never failures. Your pride was propped up by elders and others were degraded. The weak will parish and the strong will prevail; your survival on this earth is a testament to that ethos. In the midst of negotiations between rival tribes, grudges are kept and old scores are settled eventually. There are casualties on both sides. Mercy, remorse and guilt are foreign to you. Ownership for wrong-doings is contrary to cultural beliefs, convictions are absolute and no one will make amends for blood spilt. The thought of a formal apology or dare I say compensation are unheard of. Why would one give back what they have taken, they would only come back to rob you blind. There is no honour among thieves.

 

 

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Today you cannot trust other clans in the political arena. They represent a threat like their predecessors. It’s only natural to believe they will stab you in the back and claim what is yours. They are incapable of sharing power, being less than than a hundred years removed from marauding. After all your clansmen would never betray you, so you over represent them in positions of power even if they lack the experience and expertise. Their loyalty is unquestioned, which makes them more favourable than other clans. Under this system a few flourish. Egalitarianism takes a backseat and the cycle of pilfering livestock or public monies continues. I’m afraid the status quo will remain unless the zero-sum game sees a change.

Somali Issues

Somalis…

Why is it we warn each other to stay away from one another?  God forbid we have apocalyptic hands; laying waste to self-esteem, blood-letting via fratricide or dream killing through crab tactics. It’s milder than that. Worst case scenario you are infected by malaise of lowered expectations or egoism takes over, meaning there can only be one on top.  Next thing you know success is jeopardized and goals compromised. The remedy of course is self-alienation. This entails avoiding “them” and “yourself” in the process.

Perhaps claiming descent from some other group, or focusing on spiritual growth and less on ethnicity is an option. Here’s a thought – Ethiopian. They seem to be better received by westerners, and more demure than their war-like neighbours to the east. I hear being Yemeni is fashionable these days. This may be an unsubstantiated claim, but perhaps if you shake your family tree long enough a little man wearing a dish dash might fall out.

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[Dish dash silhouette]

Warning:  This notion is more fiction than fact.

In the process of pretending, one ends up exorcising the Somali inside that used to have unshakeable pride and noble ties irrespective of their station in life. Consequently, there is a severance of authentic ancestral connections and a historical legacy that predates the existence of one of Africa’s oldest Neolithic cave paintings (in Las Geel, Somalia). Cultural artefacts are left behind, the attire (sedex-qeyd and guntiino) are burned and cultural activities cease to continue. Subsequently, memories of traditional dances, ceremonies, rituals and rites of passage are wiped clean.

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[Traditional Nomad]

Now that these are relics of the past, you rationalize that they will not help you self-advance or aid in your spiritual or financial development. You experience a mental glitch; transporting you to the heart of Toronto’s downtown but wearing tribal clothes. Overwhelmed and feeling like an exhibitionist you catch the gaze of onlookers that view you as a spectacle or a radical provocation of dissent.  You dozed off for a moment on the TTC and are thankful to be the cosmopolitan farax or xalimo you are (Sans tribal garb).

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[Sedex-qeyd]

Being a cultural runaway can get lonely at times. I know it’s hard to be at ease without that wonderful fire hazard we call unsi (frankincense).  The thought of being “without” it sends my mind sinking into doldrums of despair. There is a “self” that refuses to be rejected or removed from what others see that is quintessentially “Somali.” I can’t help but chant audibly [Somali baan ahay].  Suddenly, I do not cower or put on a guise to make others feel comfortable. I simply am.

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[Guntiino]

Somali pride has taken a back seat, but resilience shines through.  People experiencing hardship never got anywhere with self-loathing talk. They never overcame by focusing on astronomical odds or the direness of their predicament. They only flourished from effort, planning, unity, eons of ancestral wisdom and God’s will.

Those that antipathize their fellow Somalis are either riddled with personal grievances or rivalries from the past. They have experienced stagnation from fixed thinking, and for that reason they are not moving forward. They have forgotten that pride in self and knowledge of self is the key ingredients of success. One cannot advance alone, and cannot disconnect themselves entirely from the whole. Yet naysayers still cling to the belief that Somali people are toxic, by examining their interactions with each other; they conclude that their behaviour is unruly, selfish and self-destructive. They have likely taken a stand to stay away from that which is caustic and burning to their souls. Yet they seem to forget they are simultaneously inviting negativity in to their lives by operating on that frequency. They might even go on to say that the ethnic nepotism you speak of is fictitious and overshadowed by clan-love. That is true but they fail to see more than one angle of the truth. I guarantee if you are stranded somewhere and come across them they will likely help you out (most of the time). You also have them to call upon for social support in times of need i.e. financial distress, sickness or death. This support normally crosses boundaries of tribe and indicates genuine concern for one another. Let’s not forget remittance sent back home to relatives. At the end of the day we are there for each other when it counts the most.

Ramadan Kareem

 

10 types of unattainable girls

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Siren 

With curves that make any man go “Like Woah” you’re the archetype of a femme fatal. No need for deviant connotations, but if you touch yourself you sizzle, your that HOT! It’s not like you try hard to turn heads, you’re decently dressed and the opposite sex can’t help but have their eyes follow you like a spotlight tracing a fugitive. And for those men not keen on showing interest, you may get a devious eyebrow raise from even the most reserved of them. This may sound like another Axe commercial for *women* but it’s a reality for you, fighting off crazed men, that faint at the sight of you *a slight exaggeration of the truth, but close enough*. Having men wrapped around your finger, means you yield power over them and you’re one to use this control to your advantage (with standards of course; you’re no lady-of-the-night). I doubt you’d be willing to compromise you’re dignity for a man, but if it means getting a few discounts here or there, then why not. You’re a flirt when you’re bored; blowing kisses and winking at unsuspecting strangers, you’re careful not to give them your real name or number, but you do have fun subtly manipulating them.

[Sirens according to Greek mythology they were sea nymphs that charmed sailors with their voices causing them to crash into cliffs and rocks.]

Battle Axe 
Ruthlessness is definitive to your character. You’re a dame not be scorned, or crossed. What comes of those who try to take a blow at you? Simple: they are ground-up like a wood chipper and spewed out by your fast, fluent-tongued rebuttal. After your victim is attacked they’re left with a vacant stare. When they do realize the onslaught of your stabbing insults and injuries, they scurry with their tail between their legs. This is normally masked with a snarl or grunt, causing the assaulted to spread some vicious lie about you. Being frank guys are usually chummy with you; challenging you to a game of Madden NFL 14’ or better yet Tekken 4 through 6. You’re sure to cream them in every game in your arsenal. When you cross paths with men that want to take your friendship to new heights, you let them down fast, but never easy. In fact you see their come-ons as an unwritten duel. Making you revert back to your primitive man-clubbing days: you remember the park when you fought a boy several years older than you and won. The All-star champ you are (now) you’d probably take it to the court or field, with an indecent wager, involving the fool embarrassing himself after you crush him in a one-on-one game. Extracting whatever masculinity he had left, you’ll send him walking home in his boxers, while you escape with your prize.

Mystique
Lady of mystery: you’re described as a double entendre; people know you, yet know little about you. You’re very vague about your experiences, even though you’re very vocal at times. You’re also a wonderful listener, whether it’s to avoid questions aimed at you, or because of a genuine interest in what people have to say, is unknown. What’s for sure is you rarely disclose information about your intimate life, even your closest friends know little about your business. People love trying to demystify the elusive lady you are, but you’d rather leap into the path of a car then reveal your biggest secret.* You’re not suicidal,* but there’s this oomph quality about you that leaves people wanting to fill in the blanks you give them. Inconspicuous: you’re a private person, acquaintances see you as shy, but you don’t have to talk all the time to have fun. Saying little but meaning much more, makes people puzzled by your laconic responses. Sometimes it seems like you blend into the woodwork, and pop out when it suits you. You’re not a fan of twitter, or talking on the phone, and friends can expect to hear from you days if not weeks at a time. Alluring and shrouded in mystery, men want to know more, but your questionable responses have them at square one; learning almost nothing.

Ice Queen 
Notoriety for your sub-zero heart is known all-around; word on the street is you exhale sheets of ice at room temperature. It’s not like you have a permanent scowl on your face, it’s your stare that sends chills down the spins of many men, so penetrating, and your gaze can see through them. Usually frightening men, they know not to mess with you. Without a doubt you’re a force not to be reckoned with, being a double threat you are, both challenging on an intellectual level, and easy on the eyes. The vibe you emit is of a deadly, yet delicate statuette; best admired from a far. There is this hold that you have on people: transforming an otherwise brazen   *kind of guy* into a helpless kitten.

Angelic Maiden 
You captivate the hearts and minds of whomever you come across with your gentle, likeable and cordial manner. A pleasure to be in your company, it’s hard to leave you. Your friends and acquaintances never feel hurt by you, and if by chance they do, you respond abruptly with an apology letter and dozen lilies to seal the deal. As for male prospects, you’re not interested in linking-up with the many fine, well-adjusted men you seem to attract *you’re too studious for that*. However you’re unable to notice that they display any interest in you, since they come-off, to you as indifferent and pleasant. When you do come across some men you misinterpret their advances as friendly gestures (without second guessing, you fail to realize you may have signed yourself up for a date). You’re childlike behaviour is endearing, but you sometimes overlook the possibility that wolves can dress in sheep’s clothing i.e. men you thought were friends want to further their relationship with you. You’re deeply saddened by this, and choose to cut them off immediately.

The Empress 
Calm, cool and calculating; you’ll analyze your internal thoughts and put them through a series of filters, so you won’t be caught doing or saying something out of step. You’re cautious of every move you make, often replaying scenarios in your head a million times, sometimes prior to follow-through. You’re one of those folks who wish they were precognitive, so as to anticipate every outcome to a present/future dilemma. You’ll probably blow off the men you cross paths with even before they ask to get to know you better (you’re well aware of the tell-tale signs of male infatuation). After all you follow this wise old Somali proverb: Katsata ma kufto. Translation – A girl who is patient doesn’t fall, *for just any Farah, Abdi or Ahmed*

Corporate Queen 
You never lead men on ever! For you believe you know the ins-and-outs of the male psyche, or you’d like to think you do. You present yourself as a high-horsed tycoon, with exceedingly high expectations; a man with the highest rank has to climb even further up the ladder then he thought. You’re often told by men because *they so want you* that you’re too idealistic and may end up rotting on a bench until your bones turn milk-white. Need we forget you were secretly nominated by your male coworkers as most likely to die a spinster. Note: discouraging men is more business than pleasure.

Court Jester 
You send the crowds of people you’re surrounded by into roars of laughter. Your humour and wit are your most admirable qualities, letting you outshine, or should I say out-joke the rest. Under the impression men usually want nothing more than to get “In those jeans,” you ignore perverted male innuendo and sometimes respond with quick-witted rhetoric, leaving them with a pervy smirk. You don’t mean to be a seductress, but your wicked sense of humour leads men on. What you thought were harmless puns, to men can be reinterpreted as erotic mind-games.

Rising Star 
With a mug like yours, a face made for the silver screen is the first phrase to surface in everyone’s mind. You’re G.L.A.M.O.U.R.O.U.S with every photo you take. Ru Paul would have said it best “Work it girl.” Not to be redundant, but you’re usually hassled by modeling/ acting agencies at the mall. Evidently you’re Kay-ute, ambitious and talented in one of the arts: singing, playing an instrument, acting, dancing, writing, painting, sketching, printmaking, sculpting. With your God-given dexterity you certainly don’t run out of friends. Guys are lining up, rehearsing their game so they can speak what their heart preaches; chances they’ll go through with it are slim given that your ‘people’ will probably intercept them, and escort them off the premise.

Damsel in Distress    

You’re always caught with a novel in one hand and a caramel macchiato in the other. So into your latest read; surroundings fade away, noises are silenced and the words from your novel seem to leap off the page, only to return when it comes to an end. When you’re not indulging in Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace, you’re chatting with your closest compadras. You’re family and friends would readily call you a quirky klutz. You’re goofy and spontaneous so people don’t know what you’ll do next, but your biggest down fall is being accident prone. You frequently stub your toe, and often trip on the side-walk cracks (you’re quick to blame your shoes for your lack of elegance). As for being a damsel you’re approach is unconventional, oh sure you sometimes have a helpless look on your face, but you’d rather save yourself then let prince charming lend a hand. You’re no hopeless case!

 

No hadal, Flex.

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No ‘hadal’ flex. If you don’t already know. It means don’t talk,  flex. Mental gymnastics aren’t needed to impress. Let’s face it, they over looked your stellar personality. They took notice after you started working on your “body project.” You clocked in overtime at the gym and subjected yourself to tongue lashing and whip cracking. Courtesy of an ex-military officer gone rogue – I mean “personal trainer.” The verbal abuse you incurred was well worth it. You used to keep your shadow company and struggle to fit your calool [belly] into your jeans, in the hopes your button wouldn’t launch into someone’s face, leaving a casualty behind.

Fast-forward to penetrating stares and fear of being trampled to death by human stampedes. The incessant cat calls won’t let up. Instinct tells you to wear some formless garment *cloaking device* as a distraction. Now that the opposite sex sees you in a whole new light insecurity starts to settle in. You can’t come to terms with your new figure. You’re unable to reconcile the fact that you are not who you were then. Although it’s apparent that the animal magnetism emanating from you has reached its peak. Could it be the new found confidence that’s accompanied the physical change? Is it the positive energy you radiate? Is it that quick wit that you never knew you had, or the physique? What’s for certain is it’s foreign to you, people fawning over you. Even your rivals are bemused by your transformation. You’re friends are in awe,  coxing you for tips and one-on-one training sessions.

You love the attention, but you realize it’s fleeting, based solely on your aesthetic. You question if you are a body on a slab, or a mind? You feel empowered but dis-empowered all at the same time – Catch 22. You would rather not go back to life when handles were on your side, and spare tires weren’t merely from Good Year. It’s a scary thought, a life of inattention, self-doubt, low self-esteem and self-pity. It dons on you that you should have felt good about yourself beforehand, that your physical form is constantly changing and to enjoy the ride while it lasts.

Pimp to Relationship Guru

I heard through the grapevine that Sir Supa Dupa Fly  provides useful relationship advice. I know what you are thinking. What can I learn from this former pimp turned Steve Harvey? For one his book aptly titled “Fishing for keeps: conquests and esclades then marriage” is flying off the shelves. He claims he owes it to the clueless public to offer a helping hand. He credits his romance expertise from watching 10,000 hours’ worth of R&B music video footage and pays respect to legendary crooners. Citing names like Jagged Edge, Ginuwine, Tyrese and Barry White.

In a recent interview he claimed: “If you want to get a man’s attention tell him that you are ovulating…as nothing drives a man wilder than to know you are fertile.” His research started budding in gentlemen’s clubs where he came to the realization that strippers with the most tips were at their most fertile(1). 

He also provides helpful suggestions: 
(1) Any place is as an opportune moment to meet that special somebody.

(2) Actively pursue based on looks alone. 

(3) A tried and true way to get a man’s attention is to pretend to drop something and pick it up slowly (caution it only works for the booty-ful). 

(4) If you want a sweet lady to take notice (figure 8 her with your eyes, while biting your lower lip, and rubbing your hands together like you’re either cold or hungry). When she’s uncomfortable go in for the kill. 

(5) The best place to meet is in a paint ball arena, since used jumpsuits and fake desert landscapes that remind you of Baghdad really liven up the mood.

(6) While engaged in an armed assault the object of your affection wishes to be pelted in the head with rubber bullets full of paint. A head shot will guarantee he thinks of you while in a coma.

(7) Before you try to meet her parents for (talks) stake out her house, wire-tap her by screening her calls (to ensure no other man is in the picture) then ambush her father like an episode of cheaters.

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Source of Study:

1. Miller, G., Tybur, J. M., & Jordan, B. D. (2007). Ovulatory cycle effects on tip earnings by lap dancers: economic evidence for human estrus? Evolution and Human Behavior, 28(6), 375-381.

Saints and Whores

Sweeping statements or generalizations don’t sit well with me. I have heard it said on multiple occasions, many if not the majority of Somali girls are down for the count. The popular euphemism out here is “bout it,” which if you are not aware the term implies they are easy or morally flexible. Whatever that denotes? Anyway I try to be objective and remove myself from the equation, so as not to infer bias. I just wish to gain insight like a clinician via personal distance. So I probe my male cousins who seem to be self-proclaimed experts on the topic of Somali females. They explain an 80-20 rule, where 80% of them are “damaged goods” or “bad” and the remaining 20% are “good girls” clearly less riddled with baggage like their damaged sisters. They seem quite confident, although the statistical rigour and validity of their claim comes into question. That and the terms good and bad are subjective and seen in juxtaposition. I have noticed there is no spectrum in their definition and I doubt they see a continuum.

I call into question how they perceive their female relatives and they reply “they are family, so we care about what they are up to  but if we aren’t related to them why should they be our problem.”

I then state that girls which aren’t your family are someone’s family. They have people they are accountable to and for i.e. their father, mother, siblings and extended relatives etc. They may or may not be conscious of this all the time. It may not be our business what they are up to, as we outsource them as someone else’s concern. We fall into the trappings of societal individualism of the west, it seems. Anyway, it’s important to understand that irrespective of their past (good or bad) they will likely get married and be someone’s wife. We tend to bad mouth these girls for their unfettered sexuality, or allowing some guy sexual access without marriage. However, we say nothing of the boys who fit into the same category. In fact wider society tends to congratulate that sort of behaviour.

I then asked them would you like to contribute to baggage of a Somali girl, with a “hit and run” or would you rather have a clear conscience and some sexual restraint and carry on? Also, these girls which are thought of as “bad,” what if they end up marrying into your family, or if their child does in the future. That’s when life throws a curve ball. Poetic Justice!

The reality of the matter is it is hard to have an open and honest conversation about what is taboo i.e. sexuality, to do so almost seems as though one is encouraging licentious behaviour, rather than curtailing it. Truth be told there are Somali girls who have never compromised their dignity and integrity to win the affections of a man i.e. given up the goods.  And to those that have, we should stop being judgemental and help to push them in the right direction, rather than apathetically wincing or shrugging it off. Exclaiming I’m not their hooyo, or aabo it isn’t my problem.

We are all connected, it should be our problem.