#29: Letter to Myself, For Myself
By Halima Abukar
Saturday, June 5th, 2021
I’m not in Africa yet but I will be. This time tomorrow I will be flying over the Atlantic Ocean and into Doha, and then into Addis, and then maybe Nairobi. I prefer the layovers, it makes me feel like I have something to blame my restlessness and loss of appetite and anxiety on. And eventually I’ll get to Mogadishu, and beg my uncle to take me to the coast or even put me on a boat. I want to embarrass my cousins with my swimming skills. (or lack thereof) I want to feel the ocean breeze; I know this is the cure.
I have made plans with my grandmother in my head. I’ve never met her but I know her. She doesn’t know what I look like. But I’ve got an advantage over her, in that I’ve asked my mother what she likes and dislikes. I know she is soft spoken and sweet-hearted. Her language always contains some remembrance of Allah. I adore her and I can’t wait to kiss her hands.
All I have to ask is that she take me to the fish market, and she’ll gather her scarf and her flip flops, inanimate objects which she’ll amusingly call “miskeen.” We’ll walk together, and I’ll reach for her hand; this immediate embrace that could never be rejected. She dislikes mess, riot, loudness. Everything that I am. I am going to depend on my curiosity and hope my Somali speaking abilities don’t fail me. Every night this week I’ve dreamt of brushing her hair while she recounts to me what she was like as a little girl. My mother’s sister is just as kind and wants to take me to an Ethiopian woman to get my hair braided. I’d much prefer if she braided my hair (definitely a ploy to bring us closer, as getting your hair done is almost always a transformative moment with familial relationships), but I do not want to be an inconvenience to her. Her daughters, too, I’ve bought makeup palettes and brushes for. All a ploy, again. I want them to know that I don’t think about them except for by accident, and even then I think it’s on purpose.
I bought a book yesterday, because I am going to Mogadishu as Somebody’s Daughter. My dad hasn’t been back home in 30 years and his smile has been consistent for the past few days. I am more worried (female trait!) But I think I have to be, as he plans on packing one t-shirt and one pair of slacks. He’ll sweat through it within 24 hours. I know it. We’re both scatterbrained but his scatter is faithful and my scatter is unremarkable, I haven’t honed it like he has. My dad claims he’ll be taking the clothes off his back to give away to strangers… he’ll buy things and give them away, buy and give them away… But I’m not even worried about this. I’m wary of the silence we’ll share when he sees the ruins of the city of his upbringing. He won’t cry. His stoicism will haunt me, as it usually does. His workplace, the banks, his favorite restaurants, the theater, they are relics of the past that have turned into clothing and jewelry markets. We will be beside each other on every plane we take; I can imagine him nodding off to sleep with his mouth slightly open, the little hair he has left on his head tousled, his shirt wrinkled but clean. I hope he’ll talk to me like he always does about his brother, his aunts, his father’s siblings, his mother’s grave, and the routes taken to the yearly family vacation spot. I am looking forward to meeting somebody I knew, but never knew. We will both be somebody to each other. I’ll be somebody’s daughter, and he, somebody’s father. And that is how we will introduce ourselves to others.
In my suitcase my mother has packed random things. She is a whiz at packing, and a whiz at organizing things that seem impossible. This morning, I watched her frantically walk through aisles at the store as she tried her best to prepare me. “You and your father are the same.” She said it as if it were a warning. She doesn’t know that I am more like her, that I have to think of the future because of how arbitrarily forgetful my dad is. She is unexpected in her humor, but quick-witted and constant. I kiss her eyelids so I can see clearer.
It is sacred to think about the notes of ancestry that I have been accruing for my whole life, and it is foolish to not guard this.
I don’t know why, but I’d like to end this note by saying thank you. Thank you.
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