The Diplomat - Africa virgin

by Sara Svensson (Sweden)

A leap into the unknown Somalia

They knew and the Gods knew, this year was the year that would kill the soul I believed I had, and this marked the day that changed our lives forever. But the problem started upon his arrival to the African content, long before my birth. He was young, just like a fresh piece of lamb, but instead of arriving at the butcher’s counter, he had arrived in the horn of Africa. In the hustling, bustling streets of Mogadishu. Inexperienced and confused he tried to find his way, his eyes blank like an uneducated book. Street vendors, somewhat chanting rhythmic rhymes and rhythms, beautifully composed an orchestra. Adding to the depth of the chorus was the honking buses and the whistling of the wind. It was a first class ticket to the symphony of Africa and at only twenty, he had traded in the rolling stones and the Beatles, however, those tunes would always be dancing in his nerves, hoping and jumping creating electric impulses forever. He was not to stay in Mogadishu, he was to travel to Kismayo. A small scattered village along the Juba river, where the land was, as or even more, fertile than the young somali women. A place where the river meets the sea. Johan, was in awe of what he saw, he could not compare the sand to the snow, the ice to the flowing rivers and he could not compare the beauty of the Somali women to that of the pale woman. For him, this was paradise. Mogadishu was beautiful. White stone buildings and perfect streets. The sea crashed into the land as the waves moved with the wind. Johan was amazed as he tasted the salt of the indian ocean in the air as the particles danced with the breeze. He had difficulty grasping that he had made it to Africa, to the place that was once just a place on his paper globe in the corner of his room collecting dust. Everything felt surreal but everything felt good. The various shades of orange, pink and yellow mixed as the sunlight was slowly being replaced by the moonlight. As the stars appeared scattered over the African Night sky, the hustling and bustling continued in the minuscule side roads inside Mogadishu. The smell of kerosene slowly filled the streets as the vendors continued their small operations even though the dark had clearly indicated that it was time to retreat and go home. During this time, believe it or not, Mogadishu was more or less safe. Johans eyes wandered trying to catch a glimpse of all the small stalls and the shadows that lurked behind the light from the lamps. People stayed on the streets, drinking a delicious blend of spice tea and sharing energetic conversation with one another, which could often be misinterpreted as a argument, especially by a white man unknowing of the tone people spoke in. Of course the activity or the conversation you pursued was dependent on your gender and age. The men would often sit in groups laughing, chewing chat and talking about the woman or women they were trying to pursue. Their cheeks would be bulging as the leaves from the chat accumulate. Some women would tend to their children trying to wash off all the dust that had settled on their skin as they played football barefoot on sandy, dry pitches, at least one that somehow resembled one. Soon Johans yawn caught up with him and he knew that he would soon need to lay his sun burnt body to rest. He returned to the Italian inspired hotel, still very fascinated by everything that Somalia has shown him during his first day there. The annoying buzzing sound of mosquitos delayed his sleep but it was somewhat ok, because even they were apart of everything. He was soon taken to the land of dreamers and there he would rest on Mother Africa's broad chest until the sunlight would tickle his skin in the morning. The mosques simultaneously summoned people for prayer at the same time as they summoned the sleeping city to life as if they were the city's alarm clock. Johan, slept on.