Somali Farewell

Somali food is gooood. Fortuitously so, since a heaping mouthful also provides me with an excuse to smile and nod when I clearly don’t understand a word the Somali guy across from me just said.

When we arrived at Sahra’s restaurant in Mayfair at 10:30 in the morning, the place was still very quiet. The guys stay up all night chewing mirra, and don’t usually rouse from slumber until around noon. The women were already busy cooking for Marnie’s going away party.

Waiting was her favorite Somali dish, chabati (the sweeter pancake cousin of canjeero) along with some spiced mince and potatoes to scoop up with it. The women sat around a bowl of beef filling, stuffing dough to make samoosas in classic construction worker style—one person to do the work and four people to tell them they’re doing it all wrong.

As the fellas slowly awoke from their zombie trance, I got drawn into conversation with two very atypical Somalis. Allale is an older gentleman and wicked smart, blessed with a rare self awareness of his own culture. The conversation can be a bit one sided, as I discovered during a discussion about Somalia’s national dish that incorporated a folk story about conflict with Ethiopia, the Great Rift Valley and plate tectonics.

Yasin is an aspiring rapper in his twenties, his upbringing in Zambia resulting in his fluent English and worldliness. He operates a lingerie shop, but dreams of moving on to the US or UK. Somalis like Yasin really are heartbreaking, as you know he is capable of so much more, but is limited by his opportunities here, and is an outsider in his own community.

Our conversation was interrupted by a police visit outside. From across the street, we observed the fracas of Somali guys shouting at two cops. I personally wouldn’t mouth off to somebody holding an assault rifle, but the guys are pretty used to this type of treatment by now. Abdihakim, a Marnie interviewee, was being threatened with arrest for refusing the cops entrance to the restaurant on the grounds that they didn’t have a warrant. The cops apparently decided that getting their bribe wasn’t worth the hassle and let Abdihakim go.

The party moved across the street, where the aforementioned samoosas were being served with mendazzi, a cardamom spiced donut, and halwa. Halwa is a sticky confection somewhere in texture between jello and jelly, and takes hours of continuous stirring to produce. Somalis love the stuff, but the version we’ve had in Columbus wasn’t the best. This, however, was buttery, caramelly deliciousness. I wish I could describe it better, but it really is an alien substance.

The guys spread out on blankets and pillows on the ground, while I mingled awkwardly with the ladies. Marnie and I, ravenous, wondered why no one was eating. Eventually the women started plating up food for the men. They had been waiting to be served. Rough life. The social distance between men and women takes some getting used to, as the opposite sexes don’t tend to socialize.

On the flip side, the men were roughly shooed off by Sahra after they ate, so that the women could take their hijabs off and party properly. Opened minded dudes like Yasin and me got to stick around and see some Somali booty shaking. Marnie got decked out in a loaner dirac, a traditional, very colourful dress. To see the women without their head covers, dancing in Technicolor flowing dresses, was to see an entirely different aspect of Somali culture, and I feel priviledged to have witnessed it.

The evening wound down with well wishes and tearful goodbyes. Jacqui has promised a farewell braai Monday night, but I doubt that it will be nearly so colourful, or emotional.