As I sat by the candle, cross legged on a carpet with a compass, waiting for a whistle from the tea kettle, while sirens wailed in the distance, watching fireworks rage inside my brain, trying to move the compass needle with mind control and listening Mohamed Moghe sing in my head.
While from a ghetto blaster, my neighbor raved to the holler of a sermon about heaven and hell-fire.
Dayib Atto
I was thinking about such absurdities of life when thousands of miles from me, beneath the mountains of Switzerland where Physicists shamanized on the God Particle, in a flash of blue haze and daze the Large Hadron Collider came to life, piercing a hole through the fabric of time, snuffing the flame out of the candle, pulling the rug and compass under my bottom, and opening up a pulsating door by the calendar on the wall, last quarter for the year 2009, as I rode a beam of light, two decades into the future, taking me to the year 2029.
Of all the places I could go, for reasons I cannot predict, chance took me to the Hague that day, by the gates of the International Court, where thousands of Somalis gathered, to demand for a harsher punishment to the men on trial that day.
Upon landing on this crowd, I immediately attracted some attention cause of my outfit or hairdo, obviously twenty years behind the times, but was mistaken for a cool hipster retro style.
Then when I asked what was going on, they all laughed at me and wondered…, now this being the Netherlands they must be thinking I must have been stoned.
I protested I did not smoke in twenty years! Only that I was a time traveler who came from the year 2009, and suffering from all that time lag, and in need of some quick information.
Now when they heard what I say, they whispered at each other:
‘ ha ha ha…, quick information? What he need is quick medication..’
Most of the Somalis in the Hague that day, twenty years from now in year 2029, did not speak a Somali you could understand,
But I did find a history buff who upon quizzing me about 2009, did conclude I could be a real deal and told me about what was being tried, saying they were Crimes Against Humanity, committed in Somalia during the long years of turmoil, by warlords, islamists and organized crime.
She went on to tell me about what happened in Koyama, an island just south of Kismayo, where one night in the year 1999, aboard a yacht in that blue ocean a secret meeting took place, and a hideous conspiracy was concocted against the youngsters of Somalia, by warlords, islamists and organized crime
That night under the cover of darkness, from all over the corners of Somalia, warlords and islamists came by the plane loads.
They were then taken aboard a luxury yacht that was anchored near the island, where they sat with men from an organized crime that traded in human organs.
The logic behind this heinous trade was later justified by a shady religious loophole that permitted in times of Jihad, the monetizing of the sacrifices of the martyrs.
The girl in the Hague of 2029 showed me a video in holograms, at that time played all over the world, about a staged gunfight in Mogadishu, where a young man who did not know that his organs had already been sold and now belonged to somebody else, but brainwashed to believe that he was fighting for a holy cause, was shot in the head by a sniper fire, his corpse hauled in an ice box, then taken by the bearded men of the fake Red Crescent hats, to a ship off the coast of Mogadishu, where on the operating tables clients waited for their new organs.
After the organs were removed, his gutted remains returned onshore, now with a frozen grin stamped on his face, then taken to the city morgue, but not before blasting him with a grenade, and then give the cause of his death, as resulting from a trauma inflicted by an exploding ordnance.
This ghastly affair went on for years, indeed a well orchestrated play on the minds of the Somali youngsters, who have now become like a flock of livestock to the warlord and islamist, who organized them in Blood Types then corralled them in militia camps, providing them with food and medicine to keep them fit and fat, for the slaughter on demand.
This was a grand theater of illusions, where deadly skirmishes were staged in the streets of Mogadishu, and the selected ones always died with clean shots through the head, but then buried in mangled pieces.
I asked her about the names of the men who were on trial at the Hague, but she said she could not tell for fear of interfering with the case, and suggested instead that I first travel further in time to the future and learn their names in that way, then travel way back again in times before they were even born, and do something to change the course of their grandmothers’ lives.
The skies of the Hague that day were filled with people flying in colorful and silent motorized para-gliders, that were powered by a battery and were here as legit as riding a motorcycle, to be flown over the tulip farms, or anywhere else in beautiful Netherlands.
We were about to enter a cafe when I heard the whistle from the tea kettle reverberating all over the world, and saw the pulsating door again, but before entering for return home back to year 2009, I remembered I did not know her name, which she said was Idil, and then added:
- This being the country of Spinoza and Ayan Hersi, she too is an author in her time, of a book with a title and content, that may not be suitable for the sensitive minds of year 2009.
That M Moghe song still playing in my head, fireworks still raging inside my brain, while sitting cross legged on an old carpet with a compass.
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This story is fiction, all resemblances to real people, places or things are purely coincidental.
By: dayib atto
