Recalling a Close Call in Somalia

They already had my cell phone, and my small amount of money. I was painstakingly trying to convince them that I am a farmer, and that I had nothing to do with the diaspora. One of them who had a weather beaten face suddenly murmured “What are we going to do with this piece of s***.” He meant me.

“Give him five” another one yelled. I knew what that meant… Five bullets holes right between the eyes!

Shivers ran down into my spine and I kept on yelling in fear that I am a poor farmer who has a big family to support and relentlessly begged them to spare my life.

This had started as a fine morning in early 2005. I was on my way to Mogadishu on board a minibus. Travelers from all walks of life were chatting loudly as the minibus dashed through the Afgooye Corridor.  As we drove in front of the Hawa Abdi Maternity Hospital, four men armed with pistols suddenly rushed towards us and ordered the driver to get out from the vehicle. Then one of the armed men jumped behind the wheel and commandeered the vehicle.

Due to my complexion and facial appearance, one the gunmen mistakenly thought that I returned from the diaspora and thus I could be a lucrative asset for them.

I was seated in the back seat of the minibus and one of the gunmen keep on aiming his revolver at me, finger on the trigger. I was so frightened and kept on praying to the Almighty to save me. I was feeling intimidated until we reached the Mogadishu suburbs, where they stopped the car. They next went through our pockets. No one was spared, even women and children were systematically robbed before they were released. I was shocked to see that all the other passengers were allowed to leave except me.

“Were you living in Dubai or London? When did you come?” I was being sarcastically interrogated by the gang leader.

My life flashed in front of me as one of the gunmen told me to get back on the minibus, but I kept on telling them that I was born and grew up in Somalia. “The only place that I have ever seen apart from Somalia was Saudi Arabia,” I said. “Together with my mom, I performed the Hajj in 2005 and spent only 37 days in the holy shrines of Mecca and Medina,” I lamented.

They laughed loudly and mockingly. A gray haired fellow among them finally said to me, “Young man, you are very lucky; we have an alternative.” He meant the minibus, which they had stolen and could now easily sell.

But it wasn’t over. As I was standing in front of the carjackers, a shot rang out. Up the road, I could see gunmen crowded around a vandalized van, talking excitedly. One of their gang members had been trying to clear a jammed assault rifle, and had accidentally shot himself. I saw his limp body sprawled awkwardly on the ground. He wasn’t moving. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head, as several men rushed him to a nearby tree.  I knew I was looking intently at a dead man.

Fortunately, they freed me, although I was in the middle of nowhere, and I hastily walked at least an hour to reach the main road. As I made my way, I started running, because I knew that the odds could turn against me again the longer I stayed there. I truly believe that.
I’m lucky to be alive to tell my story of how my life flashed in front of me! This is part and parcel of life here, in some parts of Somalia, especially when you are mistaken to be someone who had lived overseas.

“I told you, you should not have gone to Mogadishu!” my brother screamed these words to my face later in the evening, “I told you!”

He was absolutely right.

(The author was born and raised in Somalia. His name has been withheld.)