When I descended

[Lamagoodle]

This guy is funny and entertaining. He is a good storyteller

I remember the first time I descended. It was in 1973, well before men with glistening heads and dark glasses started to sully the importance and thrill of descending. In truth, it is the sheer number of people coming back to their villages and the frequency with which they come that made “descending” or “soo-dagid” meaningless these days.

The memory of the Saturday I descended is still in my mind. Habar-yar Ceebla let out a loud Mashxarad ilililililililililili… And if I remember correctly, someone broke eggs on my left leg to protect me from bad spirits, in the process spoiling my oversized secondhand trouser. Uncle later told me that it was Xalimo-naadis, wife of Cumar Jabane. I carried a very big bag, full of hadiyad (gifts) for the family and friends. Auntie’s friends chanted something that still sears in my conscience. They were singing “Wuu soo dago, waa Wiilkayagii”, he has descended and he is our son.

People lined up to greet me and to have a glimpse of me. Like a chief who returned to his village after a long absence, I shook hands and warmed to the embrace of sobbing cousins. Saafi, inaabtiday, was particularly so proud of me and her role. She brought young boys and girls one after another, introducing them to me. “Do you know this one, he is Ina-Jirde. This girl is my dear friend. Her name is Malyuun. She insisted I introduce you to her.”

But those are not the ones I remember most.

I remember eeddo Koraad’s more useful introductions to the children of the clan. “come here Kaldeeq”, she would summon a young man and ask him to stand in front of me. And then the questions start.

“Now, tell me! Whose son is this boy?” as a clue she would tell me, “who does he look like?” After I fail, she would laugh, and affectionately patting me on the shoulders, she would tell me how we are related to each other. “Waa Ina-abtigaa (he is your cousin from the mother’s side).” If the person she introduces me to is someone we grew up together before I “crossed oceans”, she has a way of reviving my memory. “Here is the hint: this young man is the boy you threw into the water-well. He was saved by the grace of God. Now see what he looks like.” I shudder at these introductions, wondering whether Eedo was introducing me to old friends or was reminding people of crimes I committed as a juvenile. The worst was when she adds “Qorane is still limping from the leg you broke that day”. Qorane was standing there, smiling. I admired his equanimity.

The small town talked about me for weeks. If there were local TVs or newspapers, it was clear I would have been on the headlines. “Waxaa soo dagay Ina-Dhega-Laab (Ina-Dhego-laab has descended)”. The village beauties started to do their utmost to befriend my sisters. That week, I even heard that my younger sister Maan-qas reconciled with a girl she hadn’t spoken for a year. Maanqas was also busy delivering white and blue checkered envelopes to me. Not that there was anything particularly amusing or attractive about me, but my status could not have been ignored. After all, you should remember, I just descended. And if a girl is lucky, she can ascend with me.

But I enjoyed the male enchanters talk most. They talked about me. How great I was as a boy. Some swore that they saw my present-day glory coming. Others prophesied about the great reaches I am to attain tomorrow. For example, Abdi Haybe said that he saw me and him in a dream. “We were sitting in beautiful place and all the people were saying who is the man dressed in all white, standing on top of the rotunda? Look at his grace and valour.” Abdi Haybe is adamant I was that man. According to him, I was waving to crowds of adoring reer-Hawd. He didn’t tell me what my particular achievement or status was. I assume I was some kind of celebrity or a king or perhaps a warrior. I don’t know. But he is certain it was me. He said he heard people saying my name: “We greet you Saxardiid”.

Speaking of dreams, I had mine too. Abdi Haybe wasn’t in it. But Soofe was. I recall we were killed by some armed men who accused us of belonging to a clandestine organization. We were hanged. At the burial ceremony, as my body was lowered to the grave, I was astonished to learn Soofe was actually alive. He was among those who were throwing dust to my grave chanting “Hadaa xaqqullah, Xaqu Daa’imu laah (This is the truth. The ultimate truth.)” Someone in the crowd was whispering to another how Soofe escaped death. I overheard their discussion. And I knew what he has done to me. Apparently he was a snitch. He was arrested only to give the impression he was a suspect. I heard this while under the soil. I also knew who cried for me and who didn’t. I like the absurdity of death in dreams and in the morning, alive and awake, I confronted everyone. “Waan kala bartay dadka (I know who is who now)”, I said.

Throughout my stay, old friends would come to me and I would show the Album. The Album is the first. Always. “Meeshan miyaad garan (do you know this place)?” I ask them. When they so no, I tell them.

“Margaret Thatcher baa lagu aroosay” (It is where Maragret Thatcher was wed). I show them all the buildings and the life I assumed they missed. The twin emotion of delight and envy was always palpable. My t-shirts, chest emblazoned with flashy pictures of first world infrastructure or emblem of where I descended from, would become the obsession of the village folks. The Casanovas of the village would ask me to leave my sunglasses for them.

Now tell me if the arrival of a diaspora today can evoke such a reception and fanfare, even in a village?

By Ina Dhega-laab