19 May 2007 04:14

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  • Title: [SW Country](Togane's Poem) Can any good thing come out of Mogadishu?
  • From:[]
  • Date :[15 Mar 2000]

Can any good thing come out of Mogadishu?

Some forwarded me this poem, it is Togane's poem, very interesting!.

>
>Dear Friends:
>
>Jeesow is a gadfly and loves to play the devil's advocate and I have
>been enjoying his antics.  I do remember him from former close
>encounters of the Mog kind.  Apropos of his recent visit to that city we
>all love to hate, he is right on.  For a long time, many of us,
>including myself, had this dismissive attitude that Jeesow found so easy
>to debunk:>
>Can any good thing come out of Mogadishu?
>
>A question that echoes that famous question from the New Testament: Can
>any good thing come out of Nazareth? Well, Jesus Christ, the son of
>Mary, the Word of Allah, came out of Nazareth.  So, do not underestimate
>what can come out of Mog; the story is not over yet. Mogadishu has still
>many a surprise up her sleeve that she will spring on all of us who love
>to badmouth her and write her off as
>
>The old sow that eats her farrow.
>
>It ain't over yet; some of you might have heard them singing in Aden;
>but I have yet to hear that fat lady of Mog sing. Just hold on to your
>horses, or rather donkeys, since Mogadishu is a donkey city!
>
>Since with us Somalis the personal is political, the reason I found it
>so difficult to believe that any thing good can come out of Mog is that
>I still find it difficult if not impossible to forgive & forget what
>happened to me the last time I was there: 1992.
>
>The bullets are still whistling in my ears; the chorus of abuse I
>endured every morning for forty-five days as I gingerly ventured out to
>swim at the Lido is still ringing in my ears!  Every morning, in front
>of Ali Mahdi's villa, I ran the gauntlet of street Arabs who would yell
>at me at the top of their voices this chorus of abuse:
>
>Dibi dibi ka wayn
>Dofar calool wayn!
>
>An ox
>No, bigger than an ox!
>A huge behemoth!
>A pig with the biggest belly in the world!
>
>That is what 35 years of eating whatever Kaffirs eat does to your belly!
>Watch out!
>I am glad I got out of there alive, though I am still smarting from the
>tarring and the feathering and the humiliation.
>
>Even though I lived among Gaalos more years than I care to count, they
>have never succeeded in breaking my indomitable proud Somali spirit;
>they have never managed to make me feel like a nigger. Deep down inside
>I always knew I was somebody: A proud Somali.
>
>I am not so sure of that now after what we Somalis have done to each
>other. The only time I truly experienced what it feels like to be a
>nigger; what it feels like to have no place in Allah's wide world where
>you can be somebody; is when my own kind, Somalis, crucified me on the
>cruelest cross the world especially reserves for coons: The Cross of
>Humiliation.
>
>I am sure each one of us has a similar tale of woe, a similar tale of
>fear & loathing, about the city of Mog, my kingdom by the sea!
>
>Where am I now?  In an involuntary exile. In cold Montreal where the
>marrow freezes in my bones!
>
>I believe it was Wilde who said each one of us is born a king and we all
>die in exile like most kings.  As I was saying, each one of you can top
>my story.  But who can top or forget how Mogadishu humiliated one of her
>most illustrious sons & citizens, my friend, Professor Said Samatar.
>
>With Ted Cobble and with the whole world watching, I can still see Said
>in my mind's eye on ABC, NBC, CBS, CTV, CBC, PBS, and BBC, cowering
>inside an American tank, being rescued from the yahoos, from the Hutu
>Hawiye hordes of General Wow!
>
>Yes, we all remember what Mogadishu has done to us, but how come none of
>us remembers what we have done to Mog.
>
>Mogadishu was once a thriving cosmopolitan city of world renown until
>one sad morning when Lucifer, Son of the Morning, and his sidekicks
>showed up in our midst disguised as these three hicks from the sticks,
>as these three wretched ruffians:
>
>1. Herr Doctor Dirty Darod
>2. Haji Hutu Hawiye Hee-Haw
>3. Sir Isaac Eedor smoking the stolen pipe of Sherlock Holmes
>
>And then a war of epic proportions whose end we have yet to see and
>celebrate broke out
>
>among these three monsters, these three Molochs, who still are
>
>In friendship false, implacable in hate:
>Resolved to ruin or to rule the state
>
>And the tragedy is that each one of us consented to the enticements of
>these three disciples of the devil.
>
>Now Mogadishu lies prostrate, tattered & trashed, and in ruins and in
>the deadly boring cold impotent embraces of Haji Hutu Hawiye Hee-Haw and
>his castrated dumb dear donkeys.
>
>In the meantime, Herr Doctor Dirty Darod is either singing the blues or
>blowing his own horn:
>
>I am still the boss
>I am still Numero Uno
>
>Don't I still possess
>Bossassa & beautiful Buntland
>The land of frankincense and myrrh
>
>Let the Hutu Hawiye
>Hack each other to death
>Over Villa Somalia
>Over the carcass
>Of the country I controlled
>Over three decades
>
>Let the Kikuyu kill each other
>Like Kilkenny cats
>Over my leftovers
>Over my villas
>
>I am still the same Macavity Majerten
>I am still the same Darod
>You chased out of Mog
>Full of deceitfulness & suavity
>
>I still have the moxie, the money, and the honey
>To build villas anywhere I please
>
>I repeat
>For the Bantus are slow
>And not so bright
>
>I am still the same Macavity Majerten
>I am still the same Darod
>You chased out of Mog
>Full of deceitfulness & suavity
>I still have the moxie, the money, and the honey
>To make any dessert bloom like the Garden of Eden
>
>I am still the boss
>I am still Numero Uno
>
>And Sir Isaac Eedor is still smoking the stolen pipe of Sherlock Holmes,
>puffing away in the Hargaysa Club, claiming to have founded a new
>Republic, a Zion called Somaliland that even the devil, his own boss,
>does not recognize, holding his haughty nose at the stink and the mess
>of the faqash in Mogadishu.
>
>Conveniently forgetting his own contribution to the stink and the mess
>of Mog when he was Faqash number 2 and Faqash number 3 in Afwayne's
>nomenclature.
>
>No, before you separate and feel superior; come off your high horse;
>come back to Mog and help clean up the mess you have helped make in
>Mog!
>
>To conclude I will let Oscar Wilde, the Farax Gololay of English
>literature, have the last word:
>
>Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
>By each let this be heard,
>Some do it with a bitter look,
>Some with a flattering word,
>The coward does it with a kiss,
>The brave man with a sword!
>
>When and if each one of us kills these three demons we have been so
>faithfully serving:
>
>1. Herr Doctor Dirty Darod
>2. Haji Hutu Hawiye Hee-Haw
>3. Sir Isaac Eedor smoking the stolen pipe of Sherlock Holmes
>
>Who are still abroad with us; still stuck-up on being stuck on
>stupidity; still fighting over us and over the sick soul of Somalia;
>when we truly exorcise these three genii out of our souls; then, there
>will be hope for Mogadishu, for our second mother, Somalia; and then, we
>will not be so hopeless, so self-defeated, so negative, and greet every
>snippet of good news that issues out of Mogadishu with the cynicism that
>ought to be sick of its own breath; that ought to kick the bucket; that
>ought to cease and desist asking:
>
>Can any good thing come out of Mogadish?


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