[Hello everyone. Normally I would post this story with a link to the webpage and just leave it at that, but I’m feeling a little curious about this one. I decided to just release a story set in Mogadishu based on a news article I read a few days ago. It really got me thinking about well… the importance of representation, and so I decided to write this piece.
I’ve never been to Somalia so I’d appreciate feedback on this one. Have any of you been to Somalia? Does the story read a little cliche? What are your thoughts?
Do comment or email me if you can! Thanks!]
…
It is the evening and yet the heat from the earlier sun is sticking to the inside of the house. It is like the sweat on skin, dampening even the little shards of dust on the countertops. Mother cleans and she cleans and yet she returns for an hour to see that it has become dirty, once more.
Rubble, rubble. Outside of her house is mostly rubble. There is a street, there are some stores, there are gateways to the other houses too.
But mostly outside of her house is rubble.
Mother has her five prayers and she rarely steps out. Mother loves her family and they are the only reason she would ever leave her home. Mother spends a lot of time staring outside of her window.
Sometimes there is electricity.
Most of the time she sits alone.
Mother is staring outside of her window. In the background is a giant skyscraper as tall as anything she can imagine. In the foreground is an old home riddled with bullets. Mother used to remember who lived there. But it was almost a decade ago, and she never saw any of them again, and so she forgot. People are walking up and down the street. Some are aimless, some are with purpose. It does not correspond to the profession of a person. There is a person in a truck that seems to have parked in the neighbourhood just to chew khat. On the other side of that there is a woman with her two children in her hands. She huffs along like she has somewhere to go.
The sun has set. Father will soon come for dinner. Somehow Mother fancies an espresso. She only drinks coffee in the morning with her sister and their family. She rarely has it in her own home.
She will not make it. It is her duty to cook at this hour. Should she make baasto? Or will Father be in the mood for ful? Father is mild mannered. He will not hit her or complain like a more traditional man. But Father does express disappointment easily in his eyes. He talks less when he is upset. He sits on his favourite folding chair and faces out towards the television, watching whatever is on mindlessly. If Father shows such disappointment Mother knows that she will be upset. She will feel like she is failing her duty to her husband.
She has a mild pain in her wrists but she will cook something. She does not have much in her fridge but she will do her best.
The power cuts right while she is in the middle of cooking. Mother switches to a lamp but it is not enough light. She is cooking to herself in the dark. Because of the lack of things she has she decides to cook pasta. She will mix it with the ground up chicken from yesterday, flavour it with more cumin so it has a fresher taste. She has memorised how to turn on the stove, where to put the pot, how long to cook it for. Thirty minutes of cooking pass, but she is not happy with the taste. She wishes she had bought more spices. She punishes herself in her mind for not getting enough from the supermarket when she had last gone.
The power has come back. Mother notices that she has been called by her sister. She decides to call back. Faduma has not much to say, but gives Mother a recommendation to watch something on a certain television channel. Mother does not understand what Faduma is trying to say but Faduma is shouting so Mother turns it on for the sake of it.
What Mother sees is a bright smiling face reading the news.
The bright smiling face is a woman.
She is a young woman, clearly. She is covered in hijab but has a bright and charming smile. She is giving voice to the new generation of lawmakers that were sworn in recently. She scrutinises each one and the opinions they stand for. She is unrelenting, even when she smiles.
Mother feels a warmth in her gut that she cannot explain. She has to take the time to process it all. So this news channel, according to Faduma, is an all-woman news channel. It will tell the stories of women who are living in Somalia.
The power has come back on, and this is what Mother has gotten to see.
Father has finally come back. He sees Mother sitting there as he puts his lab coat on the rack. He takes a surprised look at her.
Why are you smiling?
Mother is taken aback by the question. She herself has not realised yet she is smiling. But then when she notices how wide her face is and how her muscles have contracted, she remembers in fact, that yes, this is a smile.
Mother responds quickly.
There is a woman on the television. Can you see her?
Look!
She is the age of our son.
Father looks at the television. Not a single muscle in his face has changed. If anything, the black circles under his eyes have dampened in just a few minutes. Mother thinks about the hairs on his head. There is a natural bounce to the tight curls on his head, but there is something about it today that looks like it is about to unfurl.
Mother remembers the time. Mother remembers he must be famished.
And yet Mother cannot forget that she saw a woman as an anchor.
Mother goes to serve Father, but also makes a note that she will watch this channel, only this one, any time she is bored inside of her house.
wonderful write up. I loved it. Narrative style as well as unfolding the theme of representation