Resettlement

She had always found these groups retrogressive, in their thinking especially. They were the most exposed, some of whom had never lived in Somalia like her. For folks who had been exposed to western civilization and foreign existence they had turned out too conservative for her taste. Her community has always been close knit, in bred and frowned on veering into the fringes, daring a leap of faith into the world out there. They had kept close to feeling of home and alienated as they were still clung together as if their life depended on it. She approved this of course, since what was a man without family?

But what if the family was distasteful to her invocations or her reaction towards the world? What if they met every of her action with spite as they had with Amina, the foreign minister of Kenya launching a cyber attack on her person because she did not wear a headscarf on appointment to the office. She smiled thinking about how crass they had sunk with their insults, guess they had learned something from their host country, Kenya had acquired a reputation for insulting people in cyberspace.

In the chatter in the big hall in Eastleigh where they had met she could recognize almost all present. Some family, some friends, community members she had lived with for years. The women were clustered away from the men invoking the loudest chatter cuckolding like penguins in the dark mystery of bui-bui’s. “Women cannot lead men, it is immoral and European,” a woman was saying.

In these meetings she preferred to hold her silence, the arguments usually heated exhausted her. And she always found her convictions at antagonism, always. “I heard that a woman wanted to be an MP in Garissa and after consulting with the village elders, they asked her to lead in prayer after the meeting, of course she could not,” another was saying.

She had always preferred to separate politics from religion. Religion had its place, culture had its place and politics had its place. “Exactly, another retorted, just like a woman cannot lead men in prayer so they cannot lead men in politics.”

She felt stretched to her uttermost tempted to go right into the argument. She restrained herself. Somalia was rising from its ashes like phoenix to a grandiose that the whole world never thought possible. Its people, unrelenting had been spread to the four corners of the earth but remained true to her. And now its people were on the verge of seeing Somalia resurge.

When the meeting was called to attention and issues discussed the main agenda came up. The leaders announced that they were organizing for the group to go back home. They had made arrangements in Mogadishu to get accommodation and they would be availing means to go home in batches.

Never had she seen so much enthusiasm the meetings. The eyes of the men shone brightly wither inner light of expectation. The women teared ululating. She felt her heart rush in an excitement. The thought of home had never been far although she had never been there. But what she was clear about is she was not at home here, at least life kept reminding her. She wished she could be there with her people. In their comfort and acceptance. Somewhere she could lay claim to, where she could be free like a kite slashing through the skies.

But, there was always a but. Some people were skeptic about the plans and raised their issues. What if it was not safe there and what of the lives they had started here. A cold shudder rushed through her nape, what of the life she had started here.

A comabatitive man had risen up vehemently thrown back by the doubt. He spat wildly and asked “A life here!” she remembered him, he had been arrested in the raid last week when the Kenyan police claimed he had no papers.

“Here in this God forsaken country you call this life. You call life when they think you are a dog and say it in your face. Where you do not have to carry a gun but by virtue of your being Somali you are considered a terrorist and they tell you in your face. Where they ransack Eastleigh everyday to kick in doors at night where our women are sleeping and defile them in unwarranted body searches. You call this a life in a country where they have sent their army against their own people in Garissa to shoot and maim Kenyan Somalis, and you, a foreigner, think you can make a life here?” He was shacking with indignation as word spat themselves out with frothing saliva at the sides of his mouth. The room had held silent for a while and as he sat down still shacking indignantly the crowd bust up with similar experience.

He was not wrong about Kenya, her office had been moved to a new building the other day. When se went there a guard had taken it to herself to be offensively mo through with her. She had insisted she turn her bag inside out. She was not ready to expose all her personal things to the strangers who had lined up and so she refused. The Kenyan guard lady had then made derogatory stereotypic insults of her; she had then called her office because she di not believe she worked there. “Kuna warriah hapa anakataa kuserachiwa…” (There is a Warrriah here who refuses to be searched…) she had shouted over the phone. What amazed her most is that the people in the line who had witnessed her humiliation and were now witnessing the false accusations, instead of backing her up, joined the guard in insulting her. “These Somalis, if they cannot follow our rules they should go back to their homes,” one blurted out bluntly. “They come here to make our country insecure, peace has returned, they should go,” another pointed out.

As other people recounted their own ordeals she felt her resolve had weakened. How could she call this place home when its government had issued a decree to deport her anyway? Was it not better to go on her own volition than be bundled and dumped like a reject?

***

When she got home that evening Paul was watching TV. “How did the meeting go,” he asked. “Not bad, just the usual,” she avoided the topic. She had fallen in love with a Kenyan man who saw beyond mere nationality. Love transcended borders, it knew no bounds and came when one least expected it, where one least expected to find it. Paul was a progressive in has thinking, he neither held the chauvinism her people held to so dearly nor the prejudices and stereotypes his countrymen were lent to. He saw her for who she was and appreciated every aspect of her. She had never found someone in this world who complimented her person as he did, who stood by her and was sworn to love her. She had kept him a secret from the group as she knew how they would react how they would never understand. Her act of finding this universal felling of love would be treated as a betrayal to her people, and her religion. They would never accept her fight into the foreigner’s arms, especially a foreigner they held with spite.

She sat with him and cuddled close to his chest. He kissed her soft hair and breathed deeply in relief. She could never find a warm and loving place more than her with him in his arms. The TV set was blaring a programme on KTN a local Kenyan station, ‘perspective’. It was showing a feature about two United Kingdom Somali, were planning on the journey home and their experiences in Mogadishu. Hw they had parted with friends and threw caution to the wind and gone. How it was blissful to land in the city with a silver sea shoreline and smell of Somali air. How they had overcome their challenges and how they wished all Somali in the Diaspora would come back and do their duty by their country.

Paul coughed uneasily, he wanted to change the channel but figured it would be awkward, “But you are not going back honey,” he whispered and held his breath. Silence dropped between them although they still held closely. She fought in her mind, in her heart, in her spirit and convictions. He was looking down at her when she raised her face and looked tearfully into those warm eyes that loved her with a passion. “I don’t know, I wouldn’t say.” She whispered and avoided his eyes looking beyond the TV set, beyond now and the future, looking at nothing.