By Hassan M. Abukar
This is the seventh article in a 10-part series about true stories of Somali men and women and their very blunt assessment of their relationships. The names and locations of the individuals have been changed to ensure their privacy.
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A Neat, Well-furnished Apartment
I have been single for a few years. I was once married with children. My marriage became stale and I decided to leave my wife of 14 years. Okay, I was actually dumped by my ex-wife after I stopped being a provider. I stopped working and became depressed. My father had died in Somalia, and I was too broke to go there and visit my relatives after such a tragic loss.
My wife got tired of me because I stopped communicating with her and paying the household bills. I did not go out and look for employment. One fateful day, she asked me to pack and leave our house. By then, I was ready to move on and embark on single life. My family had become a financial burden, and I couldn’t wait to be relieved from such an onerous weight. I gingerly carried my luggage to my car and left our compound without anyone noticing my departure. There were no cameras to capture the humiliating experience of being kicked out of my home.
In a way, I was happy because I became single. I wanted to see what the world had to offer to a 38-year-old single Somali man. I met several Somali ladies in a span of three years. I was appalled by the abundance of single mothers in our community. What happened to the men? The news of my divorce spread very fast in the community. Everybody knew that I was a lousy husband and an irresponsible father. Oddly, my flawed marital record did not deter some women. I was not seen as a liability but rather an asset—a single man, medium height, athletic, articulate, fluent in English, and fun to be with. Moreover, I once worked as a disk jockey at several Somali weddings. In a nutshell, I was a good catch, at least to some women.
The best offer for living arrangement I got was from an attractive, sexy, single lady who simply told me to bring my luggage and move in with her. No need to pay rent. Her house was neat and well-furnished. “Let us get married and all you have to do is bring your luggage,” she said. Her home was decorated with beautiful Italian furniture and exotic rugs. I had never been to a house that smelled so good. She had been married before, three times in fact. “My former husbands all wanted children,” she said smiling, “but I can’t conceive.” Great, I thought; this way I wouldn’t appear selfish. Honestly, I couldn’t see myself being a father again.
I started seeing Ambara and I thought I was lucky. She was caring, attentive, and bubbly. We decided to get married in six months, but slowly I became disenchanted. I was used to a wife who did not give me any attention. Then, there was Ambara showering me with too much. I was hungry for a woman’s attention, but not this much. She called me constantly, gave me gifts, and started laying the foundation for our future wedding. She wanted to have a big wedding that would be a source of conversation in the community. Things were moving a little too fast. I told you, I was employment-challenged. How was I supposed to pay such an astronomical cost? I couldn’t feed a soul, let alone 200 people at a wedding. Furthermore, I felt suffocated. I am the type of man who wants to have his space.
Once upon a time, I knew a sorcerer in Oregon who used to ask Somali men to pay him $200 in return for making their wives love them more and focused on them. He naively pitched the idea to one man, a certified womanizer. The playboy rejected the bizarre idea and told the sorcerer: “Adiga ma waalan tahay? Xaaskeyga inay iga sii jeedo ayaan doonayaa.” (Are you crazy? I want my wife to [be focused] away from me). I felt the same way about Ambara. I wanted her to give me space and focus on something else.
Fortunately, my problem with Ambara got solved itself. I noticed something odd about her. Even though she gave me so much attention, she would receive many calls from other men. A stream of men always visited her apartment coming at different times, and sometimes at odd hours. I have never seen a woman who had more than 40 men—single and married—in her cell phone contact list. Yes, she was single, but 40 men! When I raised my concern to her, she would tell me that they were all her brothers. Give me a break. I knew her brothers, I had met them personally; these men were not her brothers. Of course, I was concerned because I wanted to stake out my territory.
I felt sick with apprehension. I kept thinking of our impending marriage and the concern of our house being bombarded by visits from wayward men and loafers. I know myself very well: I am the jealous type who can’t stand his woman socializing with other men. Call me possessive and a control freak if you want. There is no such thing as a platonic relationship between unrelated men and women.
After Ambara and I split, she once called me. “I want you back,” she pleaded. Somehow, I was not in a generous mood and my answer was lame: “It wasn’t meant to be.” Translation: I am glad Ambara you are out of my life. I assume you think I am cruel. Yes, indeed. I am guilty of being a heartbreaker.
The One that Got Away
Canada. Every time I hear someone mention that country I cringe. The name brings back memories of sadness, disappointment, and regret.
I am a single mother with a son. A decade ago, I moved from Asia and settled in Seattle. I applied for and was granted political asylum. I did not know anybody in my new city. Shortly after my arrival in America, I met a young religious man who lived a block away from my apartment. I am a Somali woman who can’t stand religious men or, as the Somalis call them, “wadaado” (I find them self-righteous, intolerant, and controlling). I can’t fathom being ordered around by a man who acts as though he has the keys to paradise. But this young man—Guled is his name—was different. He was broad-minded, well-read, polite, courteous, and extremely kind. He would greet me warmly when we met outside my complex, he played with my son, and he even gave me rides to the grocer and doctor’s clinic (he had a car and I did not). He had applied for asylum in the U.S. and was waiting for a decision from immigration services.
After several months of acquaintance, Guled asked me to marry him. I was a bit taken aback by his request and politely ignored his overture. Our relationship was purely platonic. I saw him as a Good Samaritan, but never did I develop any romantic interest in him. I told him I was not ready for marriage at that particular juncture in my life. My first marriage had been difficult and uninteresting. My first husband showed me how marriage can be not a source of joy and happiness but one of anxiety and even depression. He was intransigent, bossy, and unwilling to let me go to school or work. To him, a woman’s place was in the home—cooking, cleaning, and procreating. Before I married him he had assured me I could finish college. After the marriage, he became Mr. No—no school, no work, and no leaving the house without his stamp of approval. Isn’t that the classic Somali aphorism: You win over a woman by lying to her but once married you reveal your true nature.
After I refused him, Guled continued to help me. My son became attached to him. Then, one day, I realized that it had been days since I had seen him—that was weird. I became concerned for his safety. Was he sick? Was he involved in a car accident? I went to his apartment to check on him but was met by a Mexican family. They did not know anything about Guled; they had just moved into the unit. I panicked. I had no choice but to go to the mosque in our neighborhood that Guled frequented. I talked to the imam there, asking about Guled’s whereabouts. The imam inquired, “Are you related to him?” I told him bashfully, “No, he helped my son and me from time to time.” “Well, he is gone,” the imam informed me as a matter-of-factly. Gone! “Where did he go? I wanted to know. “Canada,” was the cleric’s terse answer. I asked if Guled was coming back, but the imam reiterated that he was gone for good. “He originally came from Canada, but he was unable to get immigration papers in the United States,” added the imam.
I was shocked and did something unexpected: I started crying profusely. The imam became intrigued and gently asked me why I was weeping. “My son and I are going to miss him tremendously,” I said, “he had asked me to marry him but I told him no.” The imam looked at me in sympathy and stated, “We all are going to miss Guled because he was a good and selfless man.” That was when I realized I had lost a man whom I had simply taken for granted. I was devastated. I kept asking myself why I had let him go. Why hadn’t I accepted his proposal? I felt bad for my son, who had lost a role model. The loss was so painful that I decided to move to a new state and hoped I would meet someone like Guled. I have yet to find one.
Mr. Truthful
I am a young Somali woman who has never been married. Through the years, I have been courted by a dozen men. In my limited experience, one of the salient characteristics of Somali men is their tendency to ration the truth. They rarely tell you about their marital status, how many times they have been married and whether they have children. I knew one man who told me he was single, but he did not take into account that my uncle managed a money transfer company that many Somalis use to send money back home. According to my uncle, this man sent $400 every month to a woman in Somalia. She turned out to be his wife.
It was by pure chance that I met a man at a wedding. He approached me and asked me my name, and we engaged in idle talk. He seemed to be a well-grounded man, intelligent and witty. When he had to leave, he asked me for my phone number. I never expected him to call because he appeared to be laid back, but he did, although I have to admit I put no premium on his call. I was wrong. Within 20 minutes of the start of our conversation, the man surprised me with his candor. He told me what Somalis refer to as his “411” (basic information such as his full name, his home number, details of his first marriage and its duration, the name of the son he fathered, where he worked, what he did for a living, and with whom he was living). That was the first time a Somali man had been so forthcoming with me. Normally, questioning Somali men about their background is like going to the dentist: It is slow and painful. I became intrigued with this individual.
As the weeks went by, I witnessed something strange about my new friend. One day, we were talking about the civil war in Somalia. He told me that his younger sister had died of starvation as his family was fleeing to a neighboring country. Then, he began to cry. I was touched by his display of emotion. Now, ladies, how many times have you seen a Somali man cry? Our men simply view showing emotions as a sign of weakness, right? What a sensitive man, I mused. This man was unique, and I gradually fell in love with him. I am going to marry this guy.
Hassan M. Abukar
Email:[email protected]
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Hassan M. Abukar is a freelance writer and political analyst.
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