(5) Seaside Weekends

Among my cherished memories, aside from the rural nomadic experiences, are the joyous weekends spent at the seaside, a reminiscence intimately intertwined with my maternal uncle. My maternal uncle had always been a part of our family, and even after his marriage, he resided in the house adjacent to ours. Our favorite pastime was the weekly excursions to the beach. My maternal uncle would drive his car and whisk away my siblings and me for a day of swimming and relaxation there. The journey from downtown Hargeisa to the beach of Berbera normally took about two and a half hours. The road leading there, a product of Chinese aid, was smooth and well paved. We would merrily chatter along the way, despite of my mother's constant admonitions for my uncle to drive more cautiously. But, steadfast as ever, he continued to speed along. We, the boys, couldn't contain our excitement. The weather in Berbera, as we reached it, was often hotter than Hargeisa, with the relentless sun forcing even the girls into tightly wrapped coverings for fear of sunburn, while the boys would fearlessly wade into the ocean, some of us even venturing into the deeper waters. We loved to engage in competitive swimming and play until the sun dipped below the horizon. It was only then, with our stomachs growling from hunger, that we would reluctantly emerge from the sea. Our sisters would usually be seated at a beachfront restaurant, eagerly awaiting our return. We savored a hearty meal before embarking on the journey back. On the way home we were all fell asleep, until our grandmother roused us one by one, urging us to shower and prepare for the evening's religious observances. After greeting our parents, we were back to our rooms, where we would continue to discuss the nuances of diving and swimming competitions in the dark, drifting gradually into the realm of dreams...  

In 2002, my elder brother returned from Qatar. He said, at the time he left, our family was living comfortably, and he was the privileged young master, driven around by the chauffeur wherever he went. However, upon his return, the family's financial situation had deteriorated, and our elder sister had fallen ill. He arrived with joy, but we, burdened by our sister's illness, never had the chance to chat with him. My elder brother tried adapting to the nomadic life but found it difficult. His childhood dreams about the family were shattered. He had been sent to live with our relatives in Qatar from a young age, and upon reuniting, I could sense his discontent with his life in Qatar. Despite this, a month later, he left, deeply disappointed and disheartened. That was the last time we saw each other. My elder brother later settled in the United Kingdom. We hardly stayed in touch, and it wasn't until I was preparing to study abroad that we reconnected. I shared my aspirations, and he suggested that I could study in China. He offered to support my living expenses during my study in China. For three years, my brother generously provided financial assistance until the year I got married. At that point, I kindly declined his continued support, and he redirected it to our younger sister, who was living in Dubai. My brother had faced some family discord due to his marital issues, but as long as he was happy, I wished him the best. Perhaps my brother and I share distant memories of Berbera, but life takes us on different journeys. How I long to return to the days we spent at beach of Berbera!

(6) A Teenage Bus Driver

During my time in junior high school, my maternal uncle bought a bus. In Somalia, our buses were typically second-hand vehicles, but my maternal uncle's bus, although also second-hand, appeared almost new. It was a small bus that could accommodate no more than 20 passengers. He drove it himself, with a conductor selling tickets. The fares for these small buses were quite affordable, and the owners often decorated them beautifully, sometimes even playing music to attract passengers. My maternal uncle was quite indolent, so he initially hired someone to drive the bus. Later on, he requested my assistance. I didn't dare to defy my maternal uncle, and I also wanted to earn some pocket money. Consequently, I would sneak away from home to help out on my maternal uncle's bus. After school each day, I would go on  the bus to collect fares. Eventually, I learned to drive, and I became my maternal uncle's exclusive driver for the evening shift. Our bus was usually parked in an open area in the city center, akin to what we call a bus station. Passengers would queue up to board. Once the bus was full, we'd set off along the designated route, heading towards the final stop. Without bus stops or signposts on the way, passengers would board and disembark continuously. We would halt as requested. Most of our passengers included people heading to markets as well as women and children.

We rarely encountered smooth roads, as many of them had been damaged due to the ongoing conflict. Despite the poor road conditions, there were streetlights along the way. When the bus was crowded with passengers, the fare collector would have to stand by the passenger door. Although the road condition wasn't good, the traffic was relatively light, allowing us to maintain a brisk pace. Nevertheless, some buses struggled on rocky or dirt roads, swaying precariously, as if they might disintegrate at any moment. Therefore, being a bus driver in our area was a testament to one's driving skills. Those fearless days as a teenage bus driver marked the beginning of my journey towards a life beyond the shadows of war, where I strove to make a living.