The Last Nomad: Coming of Age in the Somali Desert by Shugri Said Salh

Author:Shugri Said Salh [Salh, Shugri Said]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781643750675
Google: wBuVzQEACAAJ
Amazon: 1643750674
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2021-08-02T23:00:00+00:00

I thought I would be a picky eater all my life, but my sister’s cooking greatly improved my relationship with food. In the orphanage, I had found the institutional food repulsive. But in most Somali households, including my sister’s, meals had a ritual all their own. It started with a trip to market each morning, and by midday, the smell of well-seasoned food sizzling away filled not only our house but the whole neighborhood. Just before sitting down to our lunch, the largest meal of the day, we squeezed fresh papaya, mango, and grapefruit for juice. Our family gathered and ate together, and after lunch, when the sun was at its hottest, the whole country took a siesta, resting and digesting contentedly. Some days I didn’t feel like resting and would wander outside, but the harsh, white-hot sun and the sight of streets empty of all but a few stragglers would usher me back in.

My favorite part of the ritual was walking to our neighborhood market each day. It was more than buying groceries; it was a chance to dress up, socialize, and slyly check out the handsome boys in the neighborhood. I often went to market with Laja’el (“Loved One”), a friend and neighbor about a year younger than I. She was a giggly girl who saw humor in everything. We wanted to be mischievous together, but I swear Laja’el’s mother knew this and kept a vigilant eye on us. She was a sweet woman but kept my friend busy with endless chores; going to the market together was our only chance to briefly be free. As we walked, more women and girls would join us, all carrying their baskets on their arms like we did. I knew we were getting close when the alluring aroma of spices and fresh herbs hit my nostrils. It instantly gave me a craving for sambusa, fried pastries filled with potatoes or meat, which was sold along the way. The open-air market reached its bustling peak around midmorning, and we excitedly wove through the crowds of women wearing colorful tunics and babies strapped to their bodies, the scent of frankincense lingering behind them. Laja’el and I hurried to get our groceries purchased first, so we would have some time to enjoy ourselves before we were expected back home. We bought sambusa and roasted peanuts from the street vendors, and on hot days, we stopped for cold gelato. We giggled our way back home, baskets laden with food, still keeping our eyes open for boys.

Some days, my family made brunch, so we went to the market early to get goat liver or goat meat, which we chopped finely, seasoned, sautéed, and served with anjeera. Our family frequented the same vendors, buying from whoever gave us the best price that day. It was very important to get the best cuts of meat because it showed your ability as a woman to shop and negotiate properly. If you came home with leftovers and scraps, your family looked at you as if you were a child just learning how to shop.

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