Insha-Allah, I am switching blog, again, to a new one for a new year.
Insha-Allah, from now on, I will be at www.isseh.wordpress.com
PS: I am keeping this blog as it is, and may Insha-Allah, add few posts if deemed necessary.
Thank you all for being frequent visitors of my blog. Your clicks are duly appreciated .
If I had me a gun and some ammo, I’ll would’ve shot the godamned neigbour, whose laughter sounds like a cross-breed between a pig farting and a frog croaking. Godamn it, this annoying man deserves nothing else but to be f!king shot point-blank!
Bloody Somali faraxs!
.[friends, I am sorry for the lengthy idleness. I have not had much to post. However, I managed to write more parts to the story. I just can't seem to end it. I am approaching 50 pages and nothing...no end. And I am becoming a pedant as a result. ]
.Blood now trickled down two foreheads, in defense of honour. Verbal interaction now turned physical. Moreover, the menace of confrontation displaced the language of reconciliation. Friendship broke down in the face of enmity and vengeance.
.It is with Somali tradition, that a woman’s honour is the pride and bedrock of each family’s reputation. Actions that may be perceived injurious to it, sows the very seeds of mistrust and violent retaliation. To commit a crime of such nature is thus unsurprising if were deemed worse than murder. For a man of honour, nothing inflicts more pain than this crime.
.In most cases, the offense gains the potential to transcend his or his family concern, and become a vendetta between clans. The consequences of which need no over-estimation. Such fatal anticipations, above all things, troubled Diiriye to an extent unimaginable. How they would affect him he did not want to predict.
.The second his consciousness registered the blood gushing from his forehead, a tornado of raw emotions enveloped him with the cold embrace of sorrow. In pain’s place, dread was the only thing felt. The deep cut crossing through his forehead had no pain comparable to the thorns of emotions piercing his delicate heart. He needed stitches, but dread, as stitches follow each other in pattern, lined up to assault his sanity. Doctors and hospitals were now his mortal enemies.
.What if the doctors asked me what had happened, he fretted. They will involve the police, he feared, and that would add another dimension to my dire predicament. His heart drummed in the chest loudly that its beating drowned his hearing. And soon, his strength betrayed to the seduction of gravity. Down he went.
.With the passing of few minutes, he could faintly make out the panicked yells of those gathered above him, yet his brain could not decode a single a word from what they said. All the same, he was lost to the oblivion of his thoughts.
.Even at the slight and gradual recovery of his cognitive faculties, the thought of police involvement assumed a princely position above all other thoughts. It presented itself in different guises of pending danger. The authority’s involvement now seemed more damaging than cultural consequences.
.The police would get involved if they demand the origin of my injury, he reasoned. If it were up to me, denial would become the answers to all their investigative questions. However, that was not going to be the case, because there was another victim of Haajir’s action.
.There was his older friend who was now as furious as hell, swearing on his mother’s grave to make Haajir pay for the injuries. He was adamant to promptly go to the police station and make a statement. And as though not enough troubles weighted on Diiriye’s skinny shoulders, the restaurant’s owner was cataloging grievances of his own. Diiriye was now standing on his two feet. He was not to stand longer than a minute when the owner’s list of grievances began pile up.
.‘Furniture was broken, glasses and cups were smashed, cried the owner.
.‘You must pay now or I will ring the cops’ he threatened, ‘I have lost valuable customers who panicked and fled in the moment of your guys’ madness.
.’They didn’t pay!’ he complained. ‘Pay now, or wash my dishes for two weeks’ he further threatened.
.Again, as he regained his consciousness, the combination of these grievances fueled Diiriye’s state of panic to new highs. Beads of sweat formed, mingling with the trickling blood on his forehead. The pain of his injury, which he was now feeling, veiled his weary eyes with a shawl of dizziness. Hyperventilating and grasping for air, he drifted into a whirling world, and his feet gave way for the second time. The next thing he knew was lying on the ground but awake, with unrecognizable faces starring down at him.
.Although the faces were those of his friends, they all looked like strangers to him. He could only hear their contorted ‘some body call an ambulance’ yells. His friends were greatly worried at his state of being. To them, the two collapses meant only one thing to them; brain damage. They must get him a swift medical help before it was too late.
.On his part, faintly hearing the word ‘ambulance’ compelled him to attempt to speak. He tried very hard to say do not call an ambulance and that he was OK. But his speech sounded like an inaudible mumble to them. ‘No, no’ he mumbled and before he could say another word, his wakefulness waned and denigrated to unconsciousness.
.The following morning when he opened his eyes, nothing made sense. He assumed he must be in a bad dream. He closed his eyes several times and opened them again, to correct the faulty images they beamed to his brain, but again and gain, nothing was correct.
.Where am I, was the thought that came into his mind. He investigated his immediate surroundings, and after several beats, it dawned on him that he was on a hospital bed. Soon afterwards, a nurse appeared and asked:
.‘How are we doing today?’
.‘I am doing good, thank you’ he replied.
.‘Good to hear. Are you feeling any pain?’ she inquired
.‘No, not much pain. Just a little headache’ he said.
.‘Don’t worry darling, the headache will go soon’ she assured him, as she swayed away to leave the room.
.‘Nurse, how long have I been here?’ he shouted after her.
.‘Since last night’ she told him, ‘accompanied by a friend.’
.‘Has there been another man with a head injury admitted?’
.‘Yes, but his injury was a minor one so he got stitched and left’ answered the nurse and left the room eventually.
.Diiriye wanted to know about his older friend’s injury, and if lodged a statement to the police. A statement to the police was the last thing he wanted. He hoped his older friend would be wise enough not to involve the police, who would dig up a lot more dirt that would certainly implicate him.
.As the nurse disappeared in to the hallways of the hospital wards, Diiriye laboured to shift himself of the bed. He swiftly covered his behind as he staggered off the bed. As long as he can remember, he hated anything to do with hospital clothes. He always associated some of them with an outright queerness.
.Why do they (people working in the hospital) subject a man to the indignity of dressing him modestly but uncover his ass? This question accompanied all his thoughts about hospitals. This time, he was glad he still had his own clothes on.
.As soon as he could locate his feet into the shoes beside the bed, he tiptoed cautiously towards the room’s door, slid it open very gently and peered into the hallway. There was no sight of the nurses.
.Thank God, he whispered, and placing his left on the forehead to hide the bandages, he emerged to the hallway. Managing to go unspotted, he quickly arranged his steps in a measured balance of forward motion until he was way out of the hospital’s sliding doors.
.A gladdening spread to every inch of his body and soul. He was at last out free and mobile to sprint he desired so, and if he were to sprint to anywhere, it certainly would be to where he knew his older friend dwelled. Walking was now a leisure he could ill-afford. His only fortune at that moment was that his older friend dwelled not far from where the hospital was.
.Five minutes later the door of his older friend’s house was swung open to welcome him. He was not to remember pleasant greetings or salutations, and the first words exchanged went thus: ‘did you go to the Police, Ahmed?’
.Ahmed, the older friend, was doubly surprised and alarmed. On the one hand, he could not believe Diiriye was fine and walking considering the injuries he had sustained, and on the other hand, the expression of panic on Diiriye’s face alarmed him.
.‘Calm down, calm down my friend’ suggested Ahmed.
.‘Did you go to the police? Please tell me’ begged Diiriye.
Ahmed smiled back slight as he placed his hands on Diiriye’s shoulders and pleaded:
.‘Please sit down. First calm yourself Diiriye’.
.‘I will I! Just answer me; yes or no?’
.‘No! Of course not’ shouted Ahmed.
.Diiriye’s question slightly annoyed him. He believed Diiriye would have known better than to assume he would complicate a problem such as this, instead of remedying it. As far as he was concerned, the group considered regarded him, albeit self-made, the wise and cool head amongst them, whose consul they sought whenever a crisis looms over the horizon.
.‘What do you take me for? I am no fool man!’ he yelled.
.‘I thought you swore to go to the police?’ said Diiriye.
.‘Don’t be such a daft Diiriye’ said Ahmed mockingly.
.‘It was just the moment’s temper, but soon as I calmed down, I decided against it. Now are you happy?’
.On hearing that, Diiriye’s eyes began to well up with tears of relief. At least this was one less major catastrophe to deal with, he told himself. He was already yawning with tiredness. Ahmad studied his face and suggested that he should get some sleep. Another day for all other worries, felt Diiriye as fell into a deep sleep.
OK. Talk of being lazy of even operating the remote control. Some would call such laziness going over-board with it. But guess what? The lazy amongst us don’t have to worry about criticisms anymore!
There is new TV on the block; it can recognize your clapping! Two claps, three claps…and you get what you want . Better still you can apparently point your finger at it and click on things on the TV. Awesome, innit?
For those who still searching for social nextworks all over the net to, then brace yourselves face-book phenomenon. I remember using this facility two years ago to link up with former friends at university. Then, it wasn’t as popular as it is today. I remember searching for London Guildhall University/London Met Uni and finding no big groups. Now when I rejoined face book and did the same search, I was surprised to find quite different social network groups that have my former uni in common.
There seem to be a lot more quality in the name Guidhall than the new (almost fake sounding) name Metropolitan. And truly, I am angry about this name change. I went to the university when it was Guidhall only to have it changed to Metropolitan University. Metropolitan sounds like a far cry from the university’s days of being a polytechnic. I was angered by having my ‘Metropolitan’ on my papers that I even contemplated suing the institution.
But enough with my rants against the Uni. For many who are now attending it, its all good. Now back to facebook. I encourage you bloggers/readers to check it out. Who knows you might find long lost friends or even old folks from your old village .
Another issue is Technorati. I bring this up because I am becoming addicted to it lol. A sad fact, I know but its pretty good. As a certified lazy-fellow, it cuts all the husle to a minimum. Easy and convenient browing. A glorious service for the lazy. Thank you Technorati.