Call Me American by Abdi Nor Iftin

Author:Abdi Nor Iftin
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2018-06-19T04:00:00+00:00

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Among the people happy for the change was my mom, who had opened a kiosk in Bakara market where she sold maize, sorghum, and rice. To increase her sales, I scampered back and forth in the alleys, coaxing shoppers to come down and check out our food. But everyone else did the same thing, so the loudest voice got all the attention. Also it was so noisy there because right next door was the gun market called Cir Toogte (Sky Shooter), where customers tested the guns on the spot, all day long. Many times the shell casings fell on Mom and her maize. My mom and I were raising our voices so high all day long, trying to make money, until by sunset I was hoarse. When I sat next to my friends at the movies, they complained they could no longer hear my translation because of my scratchy voice.

The ICU had announced a curfew from dusk to dawn. Anyone seen on the street was assumed to be breaking the law and could be imprisoned or shot. This meant there was no chance of theft in Bakara market overnight, so Mom could leave her bags of corn, beans, and grain in her kiosk without lugging them back and forth from our house every day. Her load was lightened, but now my mom’s clothes became a new weight. Like every woman in Mogadishu under the new rule, she had to wear heavy clothes and face cover under the hot sun. Everyone was either covered or bearded and listened to Islamic chants, so it was hard to tell who was a member of the Islamic Court fighters and who was just doing their bidding; you had to be careful what you said to anyone.

But with no fear of crime, the market was packed. Bearded men walked up and down the alleys, making change for large American bills. All this commerce had become the main source of revenue for the Islamists; they came and collected money they called charity, really a tax, from the small businesses including my mom. But she was happy. “Alhamdulilah!” Mom said every time I complained. Praise be to Allah!

“Who thought of this peace?” she would say. “Alhamdulilah!”

I knew what she meant. The Islamists were doing a good job by not allowing bullying or clan superiority and by kicking out the clan-affiliated militias. If anyone bullied anyone else under their rule, you could just call out for help and an enforcer would show up, like calling 911 in America. But to me, the Islamists were not in Mogadishu to serve and protect, they were here to deprive me of my freedoms. I was not sure what to do with the new changes in the city. Wearing my hat that said “Titanic” almost got me killed one day when a young Islamist thought it was the name of an American city. If he had known it was a Hollywood movie, he surely would have killed me.

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