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I sat on the hill in darkness of the night watching the city burn from distance of about 30 Kilometres. Rockets launch into the sky and fell down on the city like shooting stars. From far away I can hear the sound of the explosion and in my head I can hear the cry of a burning child, just like the one I saw when we flee the city onto the mountains two days ago. We gathered close, around the radio to listen to the news as the city fell under the opposing warlord. My aunty switched the radio off in an anger and disappointment with the news broadcast. She started telling us stories of ghosts and cannibals to keep the kids close and stay in the camp. Although 21 years of age I started to feel afraid. It was so dark I could not see who was a feet away from me. Suddenly there was a light coming up the hill towards us. We all got closer together as my aunty whispered the name of Allah and my little niece started to cry. I started to be more frightened. Being the only man, apart from the young boy, I stood up and demanded who was down there. There was shallow squeaky female voice. It was familiar. I repeated, ‘who is that?’ It was my grandma who could not sleep because of worry, the bombardment of the city kept her awake. We were relieved by the sound of her. I went down to assist her up the hill to join us.
My grandma was the only person I loved on this earth I decided that night. She raised me and my brothers and sister us our parents worked away. She was fit and strong. At her age she looked younger and healthier than even the younger women in the family. Sadly, because of the war, she lost her hearing. She never had children of her own apart from us. She wasn’t my mother’s mother either. She also raised my mother from young age when my mother’s mother died after child birth. I haven’t seen her for more than ten years since we moved to London. I was her favourite as we were growing up and dearly loved me. She was so overwhelmed to see me after many years. Tonight, as a grown up, we are together in a war zone, that remind me of more than ten years ago when the civil war began. She was there in 1991 when we escaped the war in Mogadishu and travelled on the back of a lorry for weeks on end while we nearly starved to death from lack of water and food. She was there when I nearly drowned in a river trying to drink water as we camp in the Ethiopian land. I dearly missed my grandma when we got separated all this years. She said, ‘when you left, it was like taking the children away from a mother without her will’. I saw the pain and how much she missed me and my brothers and sister.
As my grandma joined us on the hill, she quickly asked us ‘what did the radio say?’ My aunty quickly answered in anger, ‘the dog with the liver transplant is massacring our people down there’. My grandma looked into the horizon and for a while we watched the city burn. It was like fireworks. I looked my grandma, she was expressionless. But, into her eyes, she seemed she was looking beyond the burning city thinking deep of those soles losing their lives this moment. She seemed to have seen enough of pain as loved one’s died over the thirteen years of the civil war. I did not know exactly what to feel. I was afraid, although not sure of what, the war or the cannibals my aunty was talking about earlier. I strolled off to have a wee. I trembled on the rocks and stones on the hill us I headed away from the city and the camp into the darkness with my grandma’s torch. I went around a ruined castle that my aunty said it belonged to Sayed Mohamed know as the Mad Mullah. As I stood there I looked into the surrounding mountains which were completely dark. But far away I saw a light. It flashed on and off and stayed bright for some of the time. For a second I thought that must be the cannibal. That was silly I thought. I remembered a group of teenagers who based the waters at our camp yesterday. They told me they were going up the mountains to collect gum. It was the gum season and they were going to sell it to Emirate countries. It must have been them having a camp fire far way. I switched on and off my torch to greet them. To my shock another light shone from the same spot flashing on and off as I was doing with my torch. I smiled and waved my hands as I swirl the torch. I could see my light shining on the mountains and on the pitch black blanked that was the sky above me. Suddenly the earth moved and rocks strolled down the hill side. I quickly ran back to the camp and got there in time for my grandma’s question of ‘what happened?’ my aunty quickly responded, ‘I think they fighting over the airport’, which was closer to us but still 25 kilometres away. We started heading down the hill as the kids went to sleep on my auntie and grandma’s laps. I carried my little niece while my grandma holds the torch for us. We arrived at the water wells where we had our mattresses and rugs under the shady date trees. It was pitch black. There was the moon and so many stars that I thought was never possible to see in London. Us the family went to sleep, I went over to my bed by one of the water well. Although it was night, the walls of the wells were Luke warm. The Italians build this area after discovering geothermal water that sprang from underneath the rocks and between cracks in the mountain. It was beautiful place with lots of palm and date trees. There was ruined hotel build over hundred years ago by the Italians. There was underground sauna under the mountain were holidaymakers steam and purify their body. There was a believe that this waters were good for rheumatoid arthritis. The water never ran out for as long as the horn of Africa existed.
Laying on my mattress, I watched the stars and thought about my life in London. I was depressed. The very reason my family asked me to came back to Somalia. Little did they knew I would be sleeping in remote area fleeing a war while halve of the city is being massacred. But I needed to think. Now I thought was the perfect time as I stared at the bright stars, the only light in this African countryside. It was time for me to reflect on my life. I was confused and constantly depressed in London. My new lifestyle caused depression in my family and because of it I felt guilty. I did not knew how to handle it nor did I got any role models to show me the way. I started going out to Kudos, a gay bar that I discovered after returning from Canada. To me it was exciting. A chance to meet someone and fell in love. I loved every minute of going out to Kudos and Heaven, a gay club. I quickly made friends and went out every week nearly three times. For a year I was strong and did things the way I saw it best. From young age I was reading love stories and I wanted to have my own love story similar to my novels. I read nearly all the Mills and Spoon books my sister lend from the library. I wanted my life to be similar in a loving relationship were I got spoiled and treated with care. I was naive. After a year I started drinking but never more than three bottles of Smirnoff. I let down my self so much. My dreams have gone down stream. This was not how I imagined it to be. Friends got me into tasting drugs. I dropped out of university. There was no one to trust. I could not turn into my family as it was shameful to tell them about my feelings towards boys. I was helpless. I started clubbing all night and sleeping all day. My future has just shattered. I was ‘A’ student in sciences at school. My father was well know teacher in Somalia and he taught Maths and Sciences in London. My mother was accountant for a petroleum company in Mogadishu and later become successful business woman. I had no excuse to fail in any way. Being the eldest son I had to get things right. I had pressure from all angles in life. But I was failing all the expectations I had for myself and the ones family expected of me. I was lonely in a world full of friends and brothers. There was a fire in my heart burning inside me. No one to trust with my feelings or to ask for help and guidance when I needed the most. Fragile as I was I trembled with life.
As I lay down gazing at the stars I thought about the people being massacred in the war. I thought about what will happen to us tomorrow. Suddenly a mosquito bit my cheek. I quickly sat up and slapped it off my cheek. Then I noticed I was crying. My tear wet the back of my neck and t-shirt as I lay on the mattress. Then the thought of Hicham came into my mind. Hicham was half Moroccan Half French artist who I befriended in Kudos. From the moment I saw him I thought he was gorgeous. I thought about him being with me under the stars keeping me company in this frightening war. Hicham was shy sweet boy. He was four years older than me and he had the most beautiful crystal eyes. The thought of him calmed me down. I was too shy talking to him at first. I also appeared too rude and cocky talking to him. As I was confused with the direction of my life I did not work on building a good relationship with him. I had everything going downhill for me. I did not care if one more thing went downhill with the rest. I wished he opened up to me and take the pain I had inside me. Like the war happening thirty kilometres away, I was fleeing the questioning and harassments of my family in London. I reached a point where I needed to go away and take a break from this mind draining situation. I didn’t care were. I agreed to a family proposal to go back to Somalia for a month or two. I agreed. In a way I was glad that I was going back to the place I was born. I missed it really. I blamed London for my troubles such as drinking, being gay and drugs which I tried but never hooked on it. My mother cried nearly every night while my father shouted and tried to strangle me. My brothers stayed distance and my sister felt bitter. This was simply part of growing up. I was growing up further away from my family as my life slowly slipped into London underground world. I did not want this to happen. But it was happening. I never slept a night away from my family before. But I was fading into the distance in a world completely new to me. I was all alone and needed to be far away from this new world.
I heard stories of people going back to Somalia for holiday proposed by their family but never returning. I kept my passport and memorised my passport number. I made several photocopies and wrote the details on note book. My thinking was if ever my mother took my passport away from me then I could travel to Djibouti or Ethiopia and pass my details to the British Embassy. There was no one to trust. Why am I causing my self this pain? Why could I not get married to my cousin arranged by my family without my presence? I did not want that that is why. I wanted to be with someone like Hicham.
I could not sleep. I needed to find solution for myself. Why did I get into this situation? Why do I have to be stubborn? Why could I not be like my other brothers or those admired by people. From childhood I expected high of myself. I am hard working, kind and caring. I am survivor and a reasonable person. I was the favourite of my parents and my teachers. I always was the perfect example. But it’s not happening for me. Everything suddenly changed since I started looking to meet other boys. Was this a teething problem that will correct itself later? May be I am feeling guilty that I should not enjoy myself. I should be punished because of my dirty thoughts of having feeling for other boys. It’s the guilty of not meeting the expectations of my family when it comes to marriage. Apart from this I am well liked in all other areas in my life. But this has let everything else to go downhill with it. Dropping out of university is one of it. Homosexuality has no room in my household. Nor does it have in all straight communities. But some are ready to accept it than others. Nevertheless, with the entire world against me I continued trembling with life.
Coming back to Somalia after a long time was so exciting. I kissed the ground as I got of the plane on the dusty runaway. It was exciting and I was enjoying up to the first two weeks until the war began between two rival warlords. It was traumatising. It remained me of the first civil war when I was nine years of age. The sound of gun fire and explosions has distressed me and added onto my previous confusion. Surprisingly I still preferred this war than to the one at home in London. Although I hated the scream of children and women who were shelled. I stayed with my Uncle who was the managing director of Al-Barakat, a trillion dollar Telecommunication Company. Unlike other businessmen in the city he was involved in politics and as a result it was dangerous for me to stay with him. My uncle flew to Dubai in emergency when the opponent warlord got closer to the city outskirt while I stayed with my dear grandma. After fleeing the city with my grandma, the house I stayed with my uncle has been shelled down to the ground. We left in afternoon before the opponent warlord smashed the city’s defence and broadcast on his pro radio he will teach a lesson to remember the ‘terrorist’ in this city. He promised to turn every stone and ‘smoke them out’, a direct quote from George Bush, I thought as it was just the time when the twin towers were attacked.
In the morning, I woke up to the sound of rooster and other birds. The camp was full of families fleeing the war. My Aunty was making pancakes. My grandma was buffing the fire were a kettle lay on top of three stones. My grandma greeted me as she saw me approach the fire. She gave me a twig to brush my teeth with and said the tea will be ready soon. I quickly headed towards the hill were we sat on last night and went to find a private place to wee. There was warm humidity in the air. The women in the camp complained about heat in the night. I came down from the hill and went into one of the wells to have a bath. I noticed there were other young boys who were my age. I was wearing shorts that I bought in Eaton Centre in Toronto and YSL netted vest. As I entered the water all the boys started to look at me. I haven’t spoken with anyone of my age for two days apart from those on their way to the gum in the mountains. They were discussing the war and how the city fought back the humiliating warlord and how he has been pushed out of the city. They were saying how the women in the city slaughtered the wound of the enemy and one woman had a head of an enemy soldier on her rifle. I asked them when it was safe to go back. They looked at me and laughed. They asked me if I was a city boy and where I came from. I told them I lived in London and I am here for a holiday. They started to be interested and wanted to know more about England. But I was interested in the war. I started to ask question such as who were the warlords as I was not familiar with them. They thought I was dump.
I continued to bath as the boys splashed water on each other and swam competing with each other. I watched. I didn’t felt lonely any more. Then they started climbing the date trees and jumping on to the water making big splashes. One of them invited me to join. I recently learned to swim with my brothers in London. I agreed to join and did my best to float and dive deep into the pool. He came over again and said lets get away from these kids. I sheepishly agreed and we got out of the water. As we stood out of the pool I noticed he had other intensions as he wore polyester swimming trunk that was cream in colour and tight when soaked with the water. I had a feeling of excitement that came over me. As we walked towards one of the other pools grandma called for me to have breakfast. I excused myself from the boy who only now we asked each other’s names. Not asking someone’s name initially, I only thought this happened in Kudos or other places I went in London. He introduced himself as Magan. I invited him for breakfast.
I had my breakfast with Magan enjoying every moment of the time. I don’t know if the people in the camp understood what was happening between us. Surely we were gazing at each other and sending out flirtatious signals to one another. Magan was two years younger than me. He was a bit taller but very slim although muscular at the same time. He was of very dark colour that was smooth and shiny. He had bony European features and beautiful eyes. He spoke firm and caring as well as flirtatious. He walked gentle and proud with a bit of arrogance. My grandma come over to us and greeted Magan. Only now I understood he was the son of the family who look after the waters and the date trees. This was his home. We were refugees, not him. He was glad that we were here as the oasis was in remote area far from the city. He told me he walked every Thursday, which is when weekend starts in Somalia, from the city to the oases on foot. The very reason he looked athletic build I guessed. He enjoyed studies and wanted to become pharmacist. I was surprised how much organic chemistry he knew in English which was A-Level equivalent. Sadly he will not have the opportunity I had in England to work for companies. Suddenly I felt guilty about dropping out of university over stupid thing like worrying about boys and if the family found about me.
TO BE CONTINUEED......
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