Beneath The Acacia Tree
SYNOPSIS
Interwoven through Edna’s early life in Somalia are glimpses of her unfolding present-day and deteriorating health in London, as her daughter Muraayo attempts to seek answers about her late father, Samatar.
‘Beneath The Acacia Tree’ is a historical fiction set against a backdrop of tumultuous events, spanning four decades.
The novel tells the story of Edna, a young girl from the Madina district west of Mogadishu, following her experience under the Siad Barre regime in Somalia. It starts when she is just fourteen, enrolling as a teacher in the mass literacy campaign (1974), where she meets Samatar, a young geeljire (camel boy) and nomad. Together, they endure the prolonged Dabo-dheer drought which prematurely concludes the rural literacy campaign and leads to the resettlement of drought-stricken nomads (1975); the execution of Edna’s father, an Islamic scholar, for challenging the socialism-inspired reforms of the state (1975); and the subsequent refugee crisis following the Ogaden War (1977), which takes Samatar’s life.
After fleeing the Somali Civil War (1991), Edna, now 46, is settled in London with her young daughter, Muraayo. In a battle against time and her worsening physical state, Edna is forced to relive her painful past and finally come clean to her daughter.
Themes of identity, conflict, survival, courage, and redemption feature prominently in this novel.
EXTRACT
April 2006 — London, United Kingdom
An element of meekness, yet impatience, seeps through an old polaroid taken just before the War. A juvenile Hooyo stares back at me. Her mischievous smirk carved by a bold Cupid’s bow. She wore her curls naturally, a hijab loosely draped over her hair, revealing a proud forehead and widow’s peak.
“Those were the good days, Muraayo”, Hooyo sighs, sipping her Shaah, a blood tainted handkerchief laying casually on her lap.
She stares blankly at the damp walls of our estate, her eyes fixated on the growing mould in the corner, as if she can’t bring herself to accept how far she has strayed from the wide-eyed girl in the photograph.
Hooyo continues, “In the early 1970s, Mogadishu was one of the most vibrant capitals in the world.”
She describes a city of whitewashed coral houses, with Moorish arches and elaborately carved rosettes. Italian art-deco cafes and restaurants graced the palm tree-lined streets, bustling with Fiats and Indian rickshaws. The heavenly beaches were my mother’s personal favourite — inviting Indian Ocean waters and promises ashore. Hooyo recalls a city where young ladies in miniskirts strolled alongside older women in colourful, flowing baatis, with their heads uncovered. A city where young men sported Afros and strutted in flared trousers, past groups of adeer’s in macawis kilts and kofia skullcaps.
“On Fridays, we would gather at Al Uruba Hotel and listen to legendary composer Ahmed Naji perform our traditional Banaadiri music.”
I picture a teenaged Hooyo, care-free and defiant, much like myself at that age, gallivanting the streets of her hometown. While her father, my Awoowe, awaits her unimpressed. The tunes of her youth trailing long into the night, coinciding with the Fajr athaan
Today, living in East London, far from the frenzy of the Banaadir region of Somalia, where Hooyo was born and raised, she feeds her memories of ‘back home’ with a steady diet of recordings by her favourite poets and singers from that era.
For Hooyo, the rock, jazz and Bollywood influences featured in these rich and varied tapes transport her back to some of her most cherished moments — including the moment when she met Aabo. I sit at the edge of her bed, waiting patiently for her to tell me more about the man whose last name I’ve adopted, the only claim I have to my paternal ancestors — in true nomadic fashion.
***
August 1974 — Deemeey & Hiran, Somalia
The energy upon leaving Deemeey village was different to the energy Edna had entering it just a couple of weeks ago. For starters, she was alone. Her group were ordered back home after the accidental death of her supervisor by the local hunter. But Edna, stubborn in nature, was determined to continue and complete her public-duty.
Earlier that month, more than 30,000 student-teachers and officials from the city were sent to the countryside, where over half of the population lived. Their task? To educate the nomads in literacy. Of those deployed, only a sixth were female — Edna being one of them. And now she marked another anomaly entirely — one of the few insane enough to embark upon this mission alone. She had to admit, even to herself, it was ambitious — reckless, even. But it was either that or face the “I told you so” of her father and the humiliation from his three wives. And Edna’s pride quickly replaced any fear that she had.
With no other available farmlands to travel to, her Jeep headed northeast on the main road to Hiran. Not only was that Edna’s first time being away from home, but the highlands she was travelling to were considered one of the most dangerous and remote areas in Somalia — definitely not suited to a fourteen-year-old sheltered urbanite like herself. If she thought the agro-pastoralists and farmers who lived in the stable settlements here were bad, she could only imagine what awaited her in Hiran.
She grew up hearing stories about the uncivilised, ruthless, and proudly independent nomads who roamed the outskirts of the country, deeply distrustful of outside authority. Their latest suspicions revolved around the literacy campaign devised by Siad Barre. They misinterpreted the purpose of the programme as a government plot to tax their livestock or confiscate their produce.
As if that were not enough, her driver Hassan, who occasionally glanced over at her in his rear-view mirror, equally puzzled and worried about the naïve young girl in the backseat, had informed her that the Hiran clan did not take well to unexpected guests.
“Gabadhayda, they attacked the previous campaign group of men who attempted to conduct the census with spears and arrows”, he warned her.
To distract herself from her growing worries and Hassan’s pleas, Edna busied herself with the items in her small suitcase, which doubled as a folding blackboard, provided to all those deployed in the campaign. Her fingers brushed over the blanket, chalk, and books, before retrieving her caday. Running it nervously over her black gums, Edna looked out into the road ahead.
Those back home could never understand her restlessness. They seemed content with the cycle that was their chaotic urban life, characterised by leisure, entertainment, and modernity. But Edna wanted more. She was eager for her education about the world to embody more than just the things her father taught her through his wives’ mouths. Mainly, however, she was keen to retrace her maternal roots. Edna did not know much about the mother she lost during childbirth. But she did know through the snide remarks and tribalistic attitudes of others growing up, that her mother was a nomadic pastoralist — something Edna recounted in delight, much to the shame of her father, and that her forebears had once lived on similar plains to the ones she was whirring through now.
As they started to approach the South-Central Region of Somalia, Edna marvelled at the landscape. A crooked, umbrella-shaped acacia tree stood tall in the horizon, with charred plants densely dotted across the stretch of fine red sand. The simpleness gave Edna a sense of freedom and clarity in a way she had not felt before. And yet, she knew, this was not even an ounce of what the countryside had to offer. It was then she promised to herself that she would never again fall victim to society’s expectations, her father’s whims, or her stepmothers’ mercy. She would much rather be at the mercy of the harsh terrain, wild animals, and the instability of the nomads.
***
“For us, the camel is our pillar — the carrier of goods, the provider of life.”, Abti Issa began to explain. He was the rural elder entrusted as the facilitator of the program in Hiran, operating between the campaign implementers and the villagers.
Columns of dust and hot winds greeted Edna upon arrival at the water wells. A young man donning a maro wrapped around his waistband, with the edges draped modestly over his shoulders, watered and tended to a large herd of camels. He appeared to be so engrossed in a poetic chant that he did not even notice Edna and Abti Issa hovering over him.
“Is that a labour song?”, Edna asked, recognising some familiar hymns from the locals at Deemeey.
Abti Issa nodded proudly, “Camels provide us with self-sufficiency. In exchange, we sing to our livestock to encourage them to drink at the waterhole. It has a calming effect on the creatures, as Samatar can tell you”, he said, gesturing towards the man at the well.
Samatar’s fluffy afro bobbed up and down, synchronised with his rhythmic movements, transforming the otherwise mundane task into a sort of dance. Captivated, Edna watched on. She noticed that Samatar, whose feet were scarred from traveling several miles each day in pursuit of pasture, possessed elegance not known to even the most elite back in the city.
“We drink the camel’s milk, eat its meat, use its leather, and sell off surplus”, Abti Issa continued, stroking the herds’ humps, affectionately.
It was clear to see that the nomads were simple folk, with not much in terms of belongings. As itinerants, they travelled lightly, only carrying that which was essential. The spoken word — the lightest of baggage and most prized possession, is how they preserved their culture. Somalis have passed down history, traditions, and wisdom through generations using a rich culture of storytelling, taken on various mediums, including poetry, folktales, prose, proverbs, songs, and riddles. The practice allowed one to debate politics, settle disputes, mould opinions, deliver praise and even insults. More than a refined art, it was essential for their cultural survival. It was this same oral history that the literacy campaign aimed to make use of.
Samatar eventually put down his tools and walked towards his spectators. The long, navy hem of his maro dragged in the sand, creating clouds of fog under his sandals. His sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and smooth dark complexion, distinctive to the Xawaadle clan to which many of the inhabitants here belonged to, partially hidden by the blaring Dhur sun, appeared.
“Asalaam Alaykum,” he said, addressing Edna, “peace be upon you.”
And suddenly, Edna felt nothing but peace. She was home.
