FGM through the Eyes of Waris Dirie: The Story (Part 4)
Catch the First Part of the story here
Catch the Second Part of the story here
Catch the Third Part of the story here
Early the next morning my father called me. “You know that was your future husband.”
“But Papa, he's so old!”
“That's the best kind. He's too old to run around. He's not going to leave you. He'll look after you. And besides,” Papa grinned proudly, “he's giving me five camels!”
As I sat watching the goats that day, I knew it would be the last time I looked after my father's herd. I pictured my life with the old man in some isolated desert place. Me doing all the work, while he limped around with his cane. Me living alone after he had a heart attack, or raising four or five babies by myself after he died.
I made up my mind – this was not the life for me.
That evening after everyone went to sleep, I went to my mother, who was still sitting and whispered, “I’m going to run away.”
“Shhh, quiet! Where are you going to go?”
“Mogadishu.” My sister, Aman, was there.
“Go to bed.” Her stern look seemed to say the subject was closed.
While I was sleeping, Mama knelt on the ground beside me and lightly tapped my arm. "Go, go before he wakes up," she said softly into my ear. My escape across the desert was about to begin.
I felt her arms tighten around me. In the gloomy 1ight I struggled to see her face, trying to memorize its features. I had planned to be strong, but instead choked on my tears and hugged her hard.
“You're going to be all right,” she said. “Just be very careful. Careful! And,Waris, please one thing. Don't forget me.”
“I won’t, Mama.” I spun away from her and ran into the darkness.
Mogadishu
A port city on the Indian Ocean, Mogadishu was beautiful then. Walking along, I craned my neck to look at the stunning white buildings surrounded by palm trees and brightly colored flowers. The Italians built much of the architecture when the city was the capital of Italian Somaliland, giving the city a Mediterranean feel.
I arrived there several weeks after fleeing home. Along the way cousins sheltered me, told me news of Aman, and gave me money to complete the journey. Once in the city, I got directions to my sister's neighborhood and asked some women at a market if they knew Aman.
“I thought you looked familiar!” one cried. Then she told her son to take me to Aman's house. We walked along the quiet streets until we came to a tiny shack, I went inside, found my sister asleep and woke her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked groggily, looking at me as if I were a dream. I sat down and told her my story. At last I had someone to talk to (at least someone who
would understand). (She had found a husband, a good man who worked hard. They were expecting their first child).
Hers was a cramped two-room place, but she grudgingly agreed I could stay as long as I needed. I cleaned the house, scrubbed the clothes and did the shopping in the market. And after Aman gave birth to a beautiful little girl, I helped take care of the baby.
However, it became clear that my sister and I were not alike. She was bossy and treated me like the same little sister she'd left behind five or so years before.
We had other relatives I’d met in Mogadishu, so I went and knocked on the door of Aunt Sahru, my mother’s sister, and asked if I could stay with her family for a while.
“You have a friend here,” she said. “If you want to stay with us, you can.”
Things were off to a better start than I'd imagined. Once again, I began helping around the house.
I had been worried about leaving Mama without anyone to help her with her work, and one day I decided that a partial remedy was to send her money.
To be Continued…
Catch the Second Part of the story here
Catch the Third Part of the story here
Early the next morning my father called me. “You know that was your future husband.”
“But Papa, he's so old!”
“That's the best kind. He's too old to run around. He's not going to leave you. He'll look after you. And besides,” Papa grinned proudly, “he's giving me five camels!”
As I sat watching the goats that day, I knew it would be the last time I looked after my father's herd. I pictured my life with the old man in some isolated desert place. Me doing all the work, while he limped around with his cane. Me living alone after he had a heart attack, or raising four or five babies by myself after he died.
I made up my mind – this was not the life for me.
That evening after everyone went to sleep, I went to my mother, who was still sitting and whispered, “I’m going to run away.”
“Shhh, quiet! Where are you going to go?”
“Mogadishu.” My sister, Aman, was there.
“Go to bed.” Her stern look seemed to say the subject was closed.
While I was sleeping, Mama knelt on the ground beside me and lightly tapped my arm. "Go, go before he wakes up," she said softly into my ear. My escape across the desert was about to begin.
I felt her arms tighten around me. In the gloomy 1ight I struggled to see her face, trying to memorize its features. I had planned to be strong, but instead choked on my tears and hugged her hard.
“You're going to be all right,” she said. “Just be very careful. Careful! And,Waris, please one thing. Don't forget me.”
“I won’t, Mama.” I spun away from her and ran into the darkness.
Mogadishu
A port city on the Indian Ocean, Mogadishu was beautiful then. Walking along, I craned my neck to look at the stunning white buildings surrounded by palm trees and brightly colored flowers. The Italians built much of the architecture when the city was the capital of Italian Somaliland, giving the city a Mediterranean feel.
I arrived there several weeks after fleeing home. Along the way cousins sheltered me, told me news of Aman, and gave me money to complete the journey. Once in the city, I got directions to my sister's neighborhood and asked some women at a market if they knew Aman.
“I thought you looked familiar!” one cried. Then she told her son to take me to Aman's house. We walked along the quiet streets until we came to a tiny shack, I went inside, found my sister asleep and woke her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked groggily, looking at me as if I were a dream. I sat down and told her my story. At last I had someone to talk to (at least someone who
would understand). (She had found a husband, a good man who worked hard. They were expecting their first child).
Hers was a cramped two-room place, but she grudgingly agreed I could stay as long as I needed. I cleaned the house, scrubbed the clothes and did the shopping in the market. And after Aman gave birth to a beautiful little girl, I helped take care of the baby.
However, it became clear that my sister and I were not alike. She was bossy and treated me like the same little sister she'd left behind five or so years before.
We had other relatives I’d met in Mogadishu, so I went and knocked on the door of Aunt Sahru, my mother’s sister, and asked if I could stay with her family for a while.
“You have a friend here,” she said. “If you want to stay with us, you can.”
Things were off to a better start than I'd imagined. Once again, I began helping around the house.
I had been worried about leaving Mama without anyone to help her with her work, and one day I decided that a partial remedy was to send her money.
To be Continued…
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