--Dreams are illegal in Dadaab

She lives where the died are envied

Two doors below hell,

where smell of gun powder and feces greets

you, acacia and brittle thorn trees

Stand guard

Emaciated figures,

once proud farmers

–slump by the road trying to sell

charcoal to passers by

…that never come.

Asho does not know politics,

Or policies,

Or pirates.

She does know numbers

400,000 too many,

12 months, no rain,

6, that was family.

but the most difficult task,

Is rocking herself to sleep,

No longer even able to weep

She sings,

Century old nursery rhymes,

Huwaaya Huwaa

Hooyadaa ma joogtoo

She dreams that she could

Make love with

the scent of freshly baked bread in Mogdishu.

Brave through the mountains of Bossaso.

Drink tea with the sweet darood people.

Kiss a mango softly in Kismayo.

Bled love, passion, and euphoria on an empty sheet of paper.

Write a poem in the sand of Makhir beach,

Make a hammock out of hoyos garbsar 

And, dance in the rain to synchronized melody

of a lovers heart beat,

See a child smiling, laughing, living,

perfect and harmonious like soft strokes of piano keys

Then scavenger hunt possibilities with a Rahaweeyn

Echo the silent murmur of the night breeze in Ogadeen

Whisper secrets to a shell on the shores of Banadiir

Aimlessly roamed the streets of Xamaair

Then,

sway like a fall branch to an Isaaqs sweet sung melody,

Embrace morning with Grandmas sweeties and blessings,

and when spring came,

she could spring until she feels a breeze,

discover a grassy hill lit by fireflies near the trees

But her beautiful dream is interrupted by the brutal reality:

Dreams are illegal in Dadaab

….her name is Asho

She lives two doors below hell,

where smell of gun powder and feces greets you,

acacia  and brittle thorn trees

Stand guard

Emaciated figures,

once proud farmers

–slump by the road trying to sell

charcoal to passers by that

never come.

….she lives where the died are envied

Naima Mohamed

Copyright © 2011