How to Run a Somali Brothel

I have rehearsed and organised theatre and musical events and rehearsals all my life in the UK. But I only need to run rehearsals for two weeks in Somaliland before I am accused of running a brothel.
We have hired a detached house surrounded by a wall and the obligatory guard with AK47 in which to rehearse our Somali cultural company Geediga Nabada (“Peace Caravan”).
The neighbours (I’m not sure where – we are quite detached) complained to the landlord that the new lodgers had opened a brothel and were chewing khat (the ubiquitous Middle-East narcotic plant). Understandably the landlord came round to investigate. But just as the idiotic neighbours displayed manifest stupidity by accusing a music rehearsal – singing pro-peace songs set to traditional instruments – of being a sex-fest; the landlord behaved like a complete plonker. He barged in on the rehearsal and, inspite of finding 16 middle-aged people sitting around singing songs to the traditional Arab lute, the ud, chose not to believe his ears or his eyes, trusting instead to believe his prejudice and attempted to bust up the "whore-house".
His vacuous morality was revealed when he realised he would not get his rent. Hypocrite. He was happy to throw “prostitutes” out but was happy for them to no longer be sex-workers and remain if his income was threatened.
It has worked out quite well for us. We are moving out anyway in high dudgeon to a better location: a proper stage and amphitheatre down the road.
Geediga Nabada is spreading a message to Somalis to try to not be foolish, violent, bigoted or idiotic with each other whenever they have a disagreement. Judging by our neighbours’ and landlord’s attitudes, we have our work cut out.

Death Below my Window

2009-09-22 Shooting Nairobi.doc

Last night I was awoken by gunshots outside my fourth floor window of my grubby hotel room in down-town Nairobi. I had just spent the evening discussing with Marie from the UN how on earth I was to get from Nairobi to Somaliland. Riots and death had occurred in Hargeisa; the capital of Somaliland, due to the President of that country – which is not recognised internationally – stalling the elections, provoking a fist-fight in his parliament.

I had learned in Haiti to count bullets as they are fired and thus to use the information to know when the shooter has emptied the magazine and I would have a chance to do what ever I thought best while he reloaded. (I’m guessing it will be a “he” doing the shooting as most brutish, stupid acts of armed violence are committed by men. This evening was no different.) But the plan never worked in Haiti and didn’t work here because I never know how many rounds any particular gun may hold. And of course I loose count. Never-the-less I calmly counted 15 shots (or was it 16?) over two periods of shooting separated by a brief pause.

My hotel window overlooks a narrow dark alley-cum-street with concrete buildings matching the height of my hotel and some scrappy yards opposite. There is no street-lighting in the alley, but light creeps in from elsewhere.

Much earlier I had unwisely thrown open all the windows to allow a through-draft in the heat. ‘Unwisely’ because that had already allowed the mosquitoes in and I had had to be quite elaborate with my mosquito net protection which the hotel, unusually, provided.

Far, far more important than trying to count bullets was the rule never, ever to peer out of a window, or even worse, stick one’s head out to get a better view. This, carefully, very carefully, I proceeded to do. Down below, directly below my window, was a young man walking around, seemingly in a daze and almost certainly shot. But his moves were more of a man unsteady and uncertain after perhaps receiving tragic news, stunned to silence and unsure what to do next, rather than in pain.

By climbing on top of the toilet I could look out of another window at another angle (I had opened this window to allow a through-draft of my domain). This was frightening as I could see a group of men at the corner of the street hiding in the shadows. Could they see me? My face felt so white and gleaming in the poor glare of the city night and I craved some blacking to put on my face. In hindsight this seems such an elaborate desire. At the time it seemed perfectly logical.

I recorded my thoughts in a whisper on my portable sound-recorder, only then realising what a massive, visible glare its electric control-panel made.

A police Land-Rover had arrived. No flashing blue lights or fuss. Then another. The ‘gang’ at the street corner morphed into onlookers. I could see the gleam of mobile phones in the street from the policemen.

At some point the man had died and was lying in a pool of blood below me. More courageous now, I took a photograph and was terrified as my flash went off, drawing attention to my position. (I have attached this photo) I was sure I had turned the flash off. Heart racing, I realised that it was the police photographer who was taking photographs. It was his flash, not mime. His flashes made the blood twinkle.

Now it was clear there were two bodies down there. Another was in the gutter below me so I had to lean out further to see him.

More standing around and talking, but still no fuss, the policemen took little notice of the bodies and kept their distance from them.

Eventually one police Land-Rover left and the other backed up to the bodies. Seemingly on-cue the onlookers/accomplices/friends, whoever they were, drifted off and the grisly work of taking the bodies was left to a man in a white coat and a policeman and his less-willing partner.

The bodies were dragged and carried and stuffed into the back of the Land-Rover, one leaving a slime-trail of blood. One of the policemen took off his white blood-stained rubber gloves and threw them in the gutter. Quietly they left. Two patches of blood and a blood-trail are still congealing below me as I write this the next morning. The gloves are still there.

More to follow.