“The modern Somali is portrayed in such tales as ’Igaal Bowkahh. ’Igaal is a humorous character, and yet there is something in his essential toughness, his way of laughing in the face of disaster, his pride and jauntiness, even in the most discouraging of circumstances, that remind one very much of the pride, courage and humour of the ordinary Somali. It is this toughness and defiance that save ’Igaal from starvation and death.
“In a country as barren as this, where the population is almost entirely nomadic and where the actual process of survival demands so much effort and tenacity from each tribesman, it seems remarkable that there should be such a large body of unwritten literature, containing such a high degree of dramatic sense, vivid imagination and wit.”
BELWO
When you die, delight
By earth’s silence will be stilled.
So let not now the priest
Drive you from your song.
A man enchanted by the waking dream
That enters like a djinn, his heart to own,
Can never sleep, Amiina – I have been
Away, these nights, walking the clouds of heaven.
Woman, lovely as lightning at dawn,
Speak to me even once.
Your bright mouth and its loveliness,
Your fragrance, the look of you –
Ubah, flower-named, for these
My journey is forgotten.
All your young beauty is to me
Like a place where the new grass sways,
After the blessing of the rain,
When the sun unveils its light.
GABEI
To a Friend Going On A Journey
(extract from a gabei by Mohamed Abdullah Hassan)
Now you depart, and though your way may lead
Through airless forests thick with ’hhagar tree,
Places steeped in heat, stifling and dry,
Where breath comes hard, and no fresh breeze can reach –
May Allah place a shield of coolest air
Between your body and the assailant sun.
And in a random scorching flame of wind
That parches the painful throat and sears the flesh,
May Allah, in His compassion, let you find
The great-boughed tree that will protect and shade.
On every side of you, I now would place
Prayers from the holy Qoran, to bless your path,
That ills may not descend, nor evils harm,
And you may travel in the peace of faith.
To all the blessings I bestow on you,
Friend, yourself now say a last Amen.
To a Faithless Friend
(extracts from a gabei by Salaan Arrabey)
Ye tribesmen gathered here, my song is of sorrow,
And of that man, the faithless, for whose sake
My lungs were parched with a desperate call to war –
‘Awake and arm, oh Habar Habuush men!
The spear of vengeance is thrust at your kinsman’s
heart!’
So strongly pulsed my cry that warriors, waking,
Took it for doom-knowing huur, the fearful bird
Whose eyes alone may see the angel of Death.
Oh ye who fought unflinching at my side,
Recall the tangled forest of Odaya Deerod,
Where the courage of men was tested in the fray,
And evil-tongued Olol swore by his wife
That we could never force him to surrender.
Then for my friend’s sake, fiercely I flew at the foe,
Flashing my weapons like the winged huur.
For him in the war with strangers I yielded to no man.
A woman in childbirth, fainting with cruel pain,
May swear this suffering never to forget,
But when her menstrual time has come again,
Birth’s agony has faded from her mind.
My kinsman’s memory is short as any woman’s.
Now he forgets his anguish of the past,
Denies remembrance of the help I gave,
And in my dire need he turns from me –
Exceeding is the evil in such a man!
The slander of fools can injure honest men.
Friend, I gave you my trust, and you have repaid
By seeking to damage my name in the eyes of the tribe.
If ever there was love in me for you,
Now, by Allah, it is strangled and destroyed.
This is the way of life, this bitter way –
Kindness towards men begets their secret hate.
If in this life our friendship we have failed,
Allah will decide our dispute in the other World.
Put someone else in my place among your kin,
As I sever the bonds of my loyalty to you.
Now do I hang your fate on the hem of your robe –
And the judgement, let it be left to Allah alone!
SOMALI TALES
’Igaal Bowkahh
’Igaal Bowkahh was the name he went by. He was a wizened little thing, with one crippled leg, and by no means handsome to look upon. One time ’Igaal Bowkahh decided to journey far away from the dwellings of his tribe, in order to get work and send home money to his family. After much travelling and many hardships, he found himself in the country of South Africa.
One day, in a town called Johannesburg, ’Igaal Bowkahh was seized by a reckless desire for gaiety and good food and the laughter of companions. And so, within the space of a single day and night he had flung away his savings. But ’Igaal did not mourn for his lost wealth. He was not that sort of man. Immediately, he began to make new plans, and very soon he decided to go to another town, which was a distance of four nights away. In his pocket only seven guineas remained. But ’Igaal was a stout-hearted man, and set out cheerily. Along the road he chanced to meet a man leading a fine dog. “Now, my good ’Igaal,” he said to himself, “may Allah permit you to buy this animal and re-sell it at a handsome profit in some neighbouring village.” So he offered the man seven guineas for the dog, which the man accepted gladly.
Then, with no money at all in his pockets, ’Igaal Bowkahh travelled for a short time with the dog, feeling very proud of himself for his good bargain, for dogs were expensive in that country. As he was walking along, however, he suddenly felt he would like a cigar. Ordinarily, he smoked a good deal, and now, as he thought of a cigar, the desire for one became stronger and stronger. Finally, arriving at a village, he made up his mind, and sold the seven-guinea dog for one cigar, and continued on his way in good spirits.
Just before the time of evening prayers, ’Igaal came to another small settlement. By this time he was faint and bleary-eyed from lack of food and water. There was no one in the village to whom he could go for help, and he felt very lonely. But he made the best of a bad lot, and settled himself as comfortably as possible in a sheltered little valley near the town. The village had many donkeys, and every day they were used for ploughing, but at night they grazed until dawn in the valley. Among them was a big mule, and ’Igaal gazed reflectively at the sturdy animal. While he stared, the moon rose and flooded the valley with soft light. It was the fifteenth night of the moon, by the order of Allah. ’Igaal began to have memories of home. He thought with nostalgia of the Somalis, and how they used to attack and loot each other’s camel herds.
“Well, now, why not?” said he to himself, looking again at the donkeys.
Then, like a true man of action, ’Igaal rose and wrapped his cotton robe around his waist, in preparation for riding. He lost no time in cutting with his knife the ropes which tied the donkeys. He caught the mule with a bridle and halted the animal near a large stone. As he was a tiny man, he climbed the stone and from there mounted the mule. ’Igaal gathered his strength, then, and kicked the mule four times near the big vein along its belly. The mule bellowed in pain, and galloped away at an incredible speed, and the confused donkeys followed. Then ’Igaal flapped his arms l
ike a bird and howled like a hyena, and the terrified donkeys ran and ran.
The people of the village came running out of their houses to see what had happened. But what could they do? They could not reach the stampeding donkeys on foot. They could only watch helplessly.
’Igaal drove and drove and drove all night. When the dawn came, he reached a village and took the donkeys to the marketplace. In that town, dogs and donkeys and mules fetched a good price. It was natural that these animals should be so expensive in that country, for the people were a poor lot who did not keep camels. ’Igaal, therefore, got the immense sum of thirty guineas for each donkey.
Thus the man who had been poverty-stricken five minutes before, now found himself with bulging pockets. He went to the village shops, where he gorged himself with food. Then he set out gaily on his mule. When he drew close to a place called Durban, he got off the mule.
“All right, my friend,” he said. “You have served me well. Now you may go home.”
’Igaal entered the town, and when he was passing the marketplace, he heard a group of men speaking Somali. ’Igaal greeted them in glad surprise, and they told him they were firemen on a ship. They said they would help ’Igaal to get a job. So ’Igaal found himself before the ship’s captain, who looked him over and decided to put him on the crew list. The ship sailed that night, and ’Igaal with it. And so it was that the man who had done so much evil now found himself in a safe refuge and felt that his soul had entered into peace.
’Igaal Bowkahh came with the ship to Aden. When he had disembarked and was drinking tea in the town, he began to tell his story to some young Somalis of his tribe who were working there. When he had finished, they looked at him wryly.
“ To tell the truth,” they commented, “we think you must have been mad.”
“And why?” asked ’Igaal indignantly.
“Well, why did you give seven guineas for a dog?” they enquired. “And why did you give the dog away for one cigar? These are surely the actions of a madman.”
’Igaal Bowkahh laughed. “You are small children. I don’t know why I bother to talk to you at all.”
“What do you mean?” they asked.
“If you saw the world falling down,” ’Igaal said, “what could you do, by yourself, to put it right?”
“Obviously, there is nothing anyone could do,” the young men replied.
“Look here,” ’Igaal said, “the best thing to do in that situation is to give the world a good hard kick and make it topple over properly! When I saw that my fortune was at a low ebb, I thought I might as well give it a shove and finish it off. But it turned out well for me, because, as the proverb says, a hard belly is the personal friend of Allah.”
Ahmed the Woodseller
Many years and hundreds of years ago, there lived in the city of Sennah in the Yemen an insignificant little man called Ahmed Hatab. He was not greatly blessed by fate, having a squat ugly countenance and a shrunken and twisted body. He had a wife, but she could not be called a blessing, being a large shrewish creature who nagged at Ahmed because he was so poor.
Every morning, just before dawn, Ahmed went out beyond the city to gather firewood. In the evening, he drove his donkey-cart through the streets, selling the wood he had gathered. Each day Ahmed Hatab made three annas. Never any less, but never any more, either. There was never enough food in the house, and his wife was constantly complaining. Ahmed grew more and more weary with his life.
“Ahmed, you are a fool,” he said to himself one day. “You spend years slaving to collect firewood, and what does it profit you? What does the pale fire of sunrise, or the cool dawn, or the singing of birds mean to you? Only another day to scrabble among the thorn bushes, picking up twigs. Why toil thus, to make three miserable annas a day? Better to die now, and get it over quickly, than to struggle and suffer, and die of starvation in the end.”
And so it was that Ahmed Hatab determined to kill himself. The next morning he walked far beyond the city to a steep mountain and climbed to the top. Trembling a little, he approached the edge of the precipice, and after taking a last look at the world, he jumped.
Down and down Ahmed fell, and as he looked towards the bottom of the ravine and saw the pointed teeth of the rocks below, he shuddered and closed his eyes.
Crash! Ahmed lay there, motionless. Then he discovered that he could still think.
“I am dead,” he thought. “But what happens now, in Allah’s name? Where are the gardens and the fountains and the soft green couches that the Qoran promises?”
Then, moving himself gently, he stubbed his foot against a rock and shouted in pain. He was not dead after all, but very much alive.
“But this is strange!” he cried. “Here am I and there is the mountain, and certainly I was at the top a few minutes ago, and now am here, at the bottom. How is it that I am unhurt?”
Then Ahmed Hatab grew angry, and fury shook his small body.
“Cheated!” he gasped. “I have been cheated. Some devil has played a trick on me! But I have determined to die, and by all the saints and djinn, I will die!”
He walked and walked over the dusty roads and through the scorching sand until he came to the shore of the sea.
“Now, let us see who will die and who will live,” he said to himself.
And so, with a flourish of his short arms, Ahmed plunged into the sea, and began splashing through the water in his haste to get out beyond his depth. But the further he went, the further the water seemed to retreat, and when he had waded along for a mile or more, the sea was still not above his skinny ankles. An enormous discouragement took possession of him, and slowly he plodded back to shore.
As he wandered along the road, pondering his bad luck, he saw something lying in the dust. It was a dead man. The fortunate fellow had evidently been murdered by thieves, for his purse was gone and a blood-stained club lay beside him. Ahmed picked up the club, and fondled it, and sat down to wait. Finally, as he had anticipated, the Sultan’s soldiers came along the road.
“Salaam aleikum! ” Ahmed Hatab shouted. “I have killed this man.”
“You are obviously mad,” the soldiers said, “to sit by the corpse and shout out your guilt so readily. But if you have killed him, then you shall be killed yourself, according to the law.”
They took Ahmed to the Sultan, who commanded them to cut off the head of the little woodseller.
“The time has come at last!” Ahmed whispered to himself. “Nothing can stop your death now, my good Ahmed.”
The soldiers took him to the prison courtyard and put his head on a block, and the executioner, who was a strong stout man, brought his huge scimitar down on the scrawny neck of Ahmed Hatab. But then a wonderful thing happened. The blade of the scimitar, tempered steel as it was, shattered into a thousand pieces, and the neck of Ahmed Hatab remained unscathed.
“This blade is faulty!” the executioner cried. “Bring me another, and a stronger, a blade of flawless steel!”
But again the scimitar broke, and Ahmed’s neck did not. A third time a new blade was brought, and a third time the steel gave way. Then the executioner grew frightened.
“It is a miracle,” he said. “Take this man back to the Sultan, for I will not touch him again.”
The Sultan’s face grew solemn when he heard of it, and he said he would not meddle with one whom Allah intended to live. So it was that Ahmed Hatab, still alive and still penniless, was turned free again. He thought he would walk to the next town and try his luck at dying there. Presently, he came to the place and his feet took him to the palace of the Sultan. Now, this Sultan’s palace was rich and splendid, with many courtyards and fountains and gardens. The seven gates were guarded by armed soldiers and by massive dogs with formidable jaws.
Ahmed Hatab selected a gateway casually, and wandered in through it, dressed in his filthy rags. No one stopped him, and so he whistled and sang to draw attention to himself. But the guards only stood stiffly beside the gate, as though Ahmed
were not there, and the watch-dogs did not even glance up. Ahmed grew angry again, and stamped into the palace itself, through long corridors hung with rich carpets, and into the throne room of the great Sultan.
The Sultan was there with all his advisers and wise men. As the door opened, and ragged Ahmed marched in, they all looked up in horrified surprise.
“Who are you,” the Sultan demanded, “and how in the name of all the saints and djinn did you get in here?”
“May Allah preserve your Mightiness, oh pearl of Sultans,” Ahmed replied humbly. “I walked in.”
“What?” cried the Sultan. “With all my armed guards and my ferocious watch-dogs at the gates?”
“Indeed,” said Ahmed, “that is how it happened.”
“Go outside my palace and try to get in again,” the Sultan commanded, “and we shall see if my guards and my dogs are so blind twice.”
So for the second time Ahmed Hatab strolled in through the palace gates. And neither the guards nor the dogs stirred. Then the Sultan of that city was greatly amused, and admired Ahmed for his supposed cleverness in slipping past the guards. He decided to make Ahmed one of his advisers, and to bestow an estate upon him, and to give him one of the royal princesses as a wife.
The Sultan’s youngest daughter was slim and bright-eyed, graceful as a flower. She came and combed the beard of Ahmed Hatab, and gave him fine clothes of embroidered brocade and spoke to him most gently and lovingly. Ahmed had never seen such a woman in all his life, and his heart flamed with love and desire for her. In a few days, the daughter of the Sultan was married to the little woodseller, and so it was that Ahmed Hatab, having found good fortune far beyond his dreams, decided that life was worth living after all.
The Prophet's Camel Bell Page 22