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An Uprising Call from Mandera Prison
By Yusuf Deyr, Hargeysa
I wish if I could have lyric poem or song full of irony and sarcasm with a deadly weapon tongue, like Professor Gariye. An owner of special breed of idiomatic phrases dressed up with metaphoric expressions and a good student of William Shakespeare. An honest ambassador for an oppressed nation with iron guts; and impartial wise judgement, like Professor Gariye. Accurate and sharp in my prediction; and full of witty knowledge of astronomical data with a mathematical certainty. Proved astrologer that compiles star – charts and arm – reading with amazing accuracy and facts. A mind reader with appealing knowledge of the present and the past. A fortune – teller and a clairvoyant poet with impressive holy verses and demanding prose, like Professor Hadrawi. A traditionalist friendly with nature, and crowned with fantastic creativity of his own. A poet with very descriptive pictures with full adornment of the beauty of nature and wild life that captures your imagination. An expert in his own culture and deep knowledge of the environment. A true son of nature, like Hassan Ganay. A pioneer with a well – apt and demanding aptitude for a touching expressions of agony and revolt against a nihilistic regime. A shrewd instigator with accurate alarming sensor for political upheaval. Associated with a platonic – love – hiccups and epic – drama. An artist with unmatched vision and creative philosophy extracted from his own environment. A true icon of a revolting nation, like Abdi Qais. Being a master of all those fatal tools and a trigger in hand. What you expect is nothing but smash and ash of the spider – web and its henchmen. For sure I will jump the gun. This is an uprising call from Mandera Prison.
Reading the desperate face of the lay – man on the street is my favourite book. Using his tongue as a pen inked with twisted tears deep from his heart. Spying on him with my investigative eyes while he is coughing and sneezing; hitting his tiny legs on the dusty streets of Borama or Hargeysa. Swimming in an ocean of rolling corruption and abuse of power. Surrounded by stunning revelation of endless scandals and high treason crimes. An obligatory witness against rigging the Human Rights Commission office and installing a puppet bureau that serves the Government’s agenda. The bogey bully man, Yusuf Talabo who believes only and only in a tribal muscle and his personal wallet, is taking the law with his own hands. Who cares love? Let us call a spade a spade. Mr. Talabo, poor morals is contagious, and such a despicable behaviour is rarely rewarded with good ending. Simply you have to understand that the Human Rights Commission is our shelter and the diplomatic immunity against your corrupted silly Government. The State has no rights in our bedrooms. You can’t have it both ways. Who the hell are you? Watch out for the poisonous sting. Flatterers are cats that lick before and scratch behind. Mr. Rayale, be not misled by the flattery. Yusuf Talabo is not entitled to honour you with the Cross – Medal of Queen Victoria by giving you the title of Mujahid. Mr. Talabo, your previous guilty comments of Mr. Rayale is still recorded in our archives. Hell with your archetype primitive culture; but congratulation for your rustic paradise. The way you dress up gives us the image of who you are. What counts most is what you have under your hat. The full do not believe the Hungary. Because he that full of himself is empty. Long hair little brain.
Mr. Malcolm X said that Negroes had been trained to dissemble and conceal their real thoughts and feelings, as a matter of survival. The Negroes only tell the white man what they believed that the white man wishes to hear. That art of dissembling reached a point where even a Negron can not truthfully say that he understands what his fellows Negroes believe. The art of deception practiced by the Negroes was based on a thorough understanding of the white man’s moods and wishes. While the Negroes remained a closed book to the white man; who has never displayed any interest in understanding the Negroes wishes and needs. Experience has taught us that wrath and rage of the masses of an African dictator is always buried beneath the visible surface, and looks as a dormant volcano or non existing wrath. Before it burst into open surface. The growing pressure of abuse of power plus the unjustified detention, injustices, nepotism, diseases, illiteracy, and unemployment that does exist among the public; will finally generate a volcanic out rage that will sweep all previous efforts of nation – building and stability. And I am afraid that this is the hidden agenda of Mr. Rayale and his borrowed eyes, the Mad Cow Cashier of our Revenue. Mr. Rayale, what you wear in your heart, shows in your face. It is not enough to exist, we have to live.
Spring is God’s way of saying, one more time. There is a time to fish and a time to dry the nets. Only those are fit to live, who are not afraid to die? Flattery is a sweet poison and the last resort to fools. He who flatters me is my enemy; he who reproves me is my teacher. So early in life I had learned that if you want something; you better make some noise. But I have learned later that crying out peacefully in protest against an African dictator could accomplish nothing. As they never grow up and always remain in their Toddling Stage. The physical down hill is as quick as the psychological depression. Hence, the unjustified illegal detention of our genuine heroes and its psychological deterioration hit the public circles and began to eat the pride of all walks of life. Mr. Rayale, a man can’t be sued for his thoughts. The constant tangible abuse of power made us feel destitute. We can do nothing except to gaze up in to the blue sky and ask help from the higher power, Allah. They are punishing us with our own mistakes. Our day’s dinning menu is nothing but to vacuum all dust and dirt into our mouths that are always hanging open. Lunging, bumping, and tumbling in despair. Fearing of the coming tomorrow. Yesterday was a painful memory, today is dark, and there is no a promising tomorrow. Just facing each other with drowned sleepless eyes, and singing with a soul full of sorrow and the desperate feeling of oppression. Mr. Rayale, your confrontational gates are always open. You are a faceless entity with a narrow vision and negative vibrations. Your opera is over. We must plug the hole. We pay taxes to be insulted, and drive our genuine heroes to Jails and detentions for no apparent reasons. It so much negative as it is wrong. Prices are skyrocketing, inflation and unemployment is reaching its climax. Epidemic diseases are abundant every where. Justices are denied and strangled to death. Courts turned into detention camps.
Our genuine heroes are treated as criminals and live under the mercy of human butchers that sells human spare parts in their show – rooms. Moreover, the arms of the law are misled and functioning as if they belong to the ruling Junta. Breaking into the Human Right’s Commission and installing a puppet bureau that is under the thumb of the State. The Police must understand that we, the tax – payers pay their wages; not Mr. Rayale and his stinking system. Above that, we purchase everyday narcotic drugs from the Ethiopian friends without commercial restrictions or letter of credit; while the Ethiopian authorities demanding an LC for our fish export. Is there anybody from the Ministry of Commerce who is old enough to solve this puzzle? Mr. Meles, the Emperor of the Horn of Africa. Don’t take the fat with the lean. Bad news travels fast. Because gossip is the lifeblood of the society. Mr. Meles believes that the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the World. When two friends have a common purse; one sings and the other weeps. Mr. Meles, don’t overload gratitude; if you do; she will kick. If the oil is exhausted; the lamp dies.
Starting from his first day in office, Mr. Rayale felt threatened by the SNM freedom fighters and their hardliner fans. Regarded them as an evil who doubts much his version of Somaliland’s Independence. That is why he always funnels bad stories about their beliefs. Shaping them as an iconic evil for dismay, unrest and friction. Teaching us to hate every drop of blood of our heroes. Considers them as hateful elements who are leading the country into an abysmal and catastrophic situation. Labelling them as an unwanted trash. In the contrary, due to their armed struggle, safe – conduct, and bloodshed sacrifices; we had regained back our self – respect, aspirations and pride. Saved us from ages of misery and betrayal after betrayal. But unfortunately, under the rule of Mr. Rayale, the SNM cadre are treated as unwanted noisy aliens that are good to be held behind Iron – Bars. Naming them as retired whores of the fucking street of Hargeysa. The elite noble men and the true voice of the nation turned into shoeshine – boys who are not worthy to get even a menial job to support their families. They are noble men that got stuck in mud. If you look at the streets of our towns with the passionate eye; you will see the SNM amputees either crawling or hoping with one leg.
Every morning is another rude awakening for all of us; and every piece of cigarette is another nail in our coffin. I hate to say I told you, but I did. Mr. Rayale, no one needs a colander to die. You want us to melt like candles; so that you can forge our identity. Kindness is a language that the deaf can hear, the blind can see, but Mr. Rayale can’t understand. An ignorant King is a crowned ass. The fish rots from the head and down. All that we know is that, we know nothing. Because if we increase our knowledge, we increase our grief and sorrow. A man may have a thousand eyes, yet if his mind is blank; he can see nothing. Mr. Rayale is an implacable foe who could not be tamed at any price; and his greed can’t be satisfied at any cost. Fairness is the flower of justices. Deal with the gossip and get the courage to resign before it gets too late. Because no man can call again yesterday. There is no life in a Mosque that does not produce praying members. Good guys have to shoot so the evil must not win. We are treated as slaves with free limbs.
We must set the trigger off for a peaceful uprising, so the good guys like Mr. M. White have to finish their last mission assignment. Besides that, we must show to the Civilized World that we are a patient nation; but not a dumb nation. The time of consideration is over. We must stand for our rights under any circumstances. Everybody needs to love, and touch a rose in his life time. Welcome back to another twenty one years of brain – drainage, and freezing of ideas. Mr. Rayale, Democracy can’t be a painful whip to beat us to death. The sweet taste of freedom of choice means so much to us. Rats can do a better job than dogs in finding explosives. Mr. Rayale, you can’t always spit on our face, and say it is raining. Your credibility is clearly in doubt and flashed years ago. It is too late to repair the damage. We are expecting soon your parting news conference.
Mr. Rayale, we want the law to speak, not the lawyer.
It is for sure that in the near future our school children will sing.
Mr. Rayale, you are the sun, you are the moon.
What a confusing legacy life can play!
Mr. Rayale, Thank you for being totally ugly.