A day in Mogadishu

If you want to understand the realities of the NGO world, this is a must-read.

I genuinely believe that most people who come to Africa to work for NGOs arrive with good intentions. Many studied development, politics, economics or global issues because they wanted to make a difference. They wanted to work for social justice, to reduce poverty, to empower women, children, people with disabilities and those pushed to the margins. I do not doubt that this was the starting point for the majority. But having lived and worked across Southern and West Africa for decades, in Botswana, Malawi, Nigeria and now Zambia, I have watched how quickly those intentions can become diluted, distorted and in some cases lost altogether.

What often happens is that people enter a bubble. The NGO world becomes a parallel society. They all know each other, socialise together, marry within the same circles and move as a group from country to country. In places like Blantyre, where I lived for a time, and now in Livingstone, this bubble is easy to spot. Branded four by fours, the same hotels, the same restaurants, the same social spaces. The people they claim to serve are rarely part of their social world. Africans exist in their lives mainly as beneficiaries, drivers, cleaners or staff, not as friends, equals or neighbours. Work is one thing, real life is another, and the two are kept firmly separate.

This separation matters. It creates emotional distance. It allows people to speak about poverty, vulnerability and empowerment in abstract terms while living lives of extraordinary comfort relative to the communities around them. I am not suggesting anyone should take vows of poverty, but there is something deeply uncomfortable about fighting inequality by day and retreating into insulated privilege by night. Power becomes addictive. Proximity to ministers, donors and international influence brings status. And somewhere along the line, the original purpose gets blurred.

I have heard directly from Zambian friends who worked at senior levels in international organisations, including the WHO, that genuinely transformative ideas were sometimes quietly discouraged. Not because they would not work, but because real solutions threaten the system itself. If a problem is solved, the programme ends. If the programme ends, the jobs disappear. So progress must be measured, but never too much. Enough to justify funding, not enough to remove the need for the organisation. Poverty becomes something to manage rather than eradicate.

This is how well intentioned people slide into white saviourism without realising it. A community of foreigners, from Europe, North America, Australia or elsewhere, with different languages and cultures, but united by whiteness. A blob that exists alongside African society rather than within it. And the tragedy is that this was never most of their intention.

That said, I know there are exceptions, and they matter. I know genuinely ethical organisations and individuals here in Zambia who live in the community, work with people not over them, and build relationships rooted in dignity rather than hierarchy. I can name some, which in itself is worrying because they should not be exceptional. I also know many local NGOs doing extraordinary work quietly, without glossy branding or international applause. And I know white foreigners who actively reject the bubble, who have deep friendships with Zambians, who listen more than they speak and who use their access to amplify local voices rather than drown them out.

Those people exist. They comment on my posts. They challenge injustice alongside Africans, not in front of them. They are allies, not saviours.

The problem is not NGOs as a concept. The problem is what happens when good intentions meet comfort, power and insulation. If you truly want to work for justice, you cannot live in a parallel universe. You have to step out of the bubble. You have to allow yourself to be changed by the place you claim to serve.

I was inside the big Hodan Hospital in Mogadishu, right by the mosque. That's where I ran into them: two boys, fast and focused, trying to get my attention. They were shoe-shiners.

​"Shine, sir? Give us your shoes!" they called out.

​Even though my shoes were clean, they wouldn't quit. They needed the money, that was clear. City life is tough, and they were hustling hard. I gave them the shoes.

​After I finished praying, I went back. The shoes weren't ready, so I sat on an empty chair to wait.

​Next to them, two bicycles leaned against the wall. One big, one small.

​"Who owns the bikes?" I asked the younger boy.

​He proudly pointed to the small one. "That one is mine. We ride them every day because we live way out in Tabeelaha—the farthest part of the city."

​He was eager to talk. He told me he bought his little bike for $30, but he needed cash now, so he’d sell it for $20. Life had taught him how to survive. He even offered me a $3 discount if I had kids who could use it.

​Then, I noticed it. A terrible, fresh burn on his hand, bright red and painful.

​"What happened?" I asked, my voice low.

​The boy's face went flat. The story he told was shocking.

​"I was playing last night," he said. "I threw my shoe and it hit a man who was fixing his motorcycle nearby."

​The man caught him. And then, the terrible part: "He grabbed my hand and pressed it right onto the hot exhaust pipe of the bike."

​I felt sick. The cruelty was unbelievable. A grown man hurting a child like that.

​And what happened after? The man just took the boy to a chemist to get the burn wrapped up. That was it. No police, no real consequences.

​Today, the boy couldn't use his hurt hand to shine shoes. His friend was doing the polishing, and his only job was to stand there and collect the shoes from people going into the mosque.

​It broke my heart. This young boy, who cycles across the city and tries to sell his bike to survive, now carries a scar from a grown-up's cruel temper.

If you walk into the Safari Hotel at sunset, you’ll see him. Dressed in a sharp suit with a perfectly knotted tie, you’d be forgiven for thinking he just stepped out of the Prime Minister’s office. His friends even call him "Wasiir" (the Minister).

​But the "Minister" has no office. He has no job. He sleeps through the heat of the day and wakes up at 5:00 PM to put on his costume of success. His "workday" is sitting at a cafe table.

Over evening tea, Diiriye is the king of the conversation. He has an opinion on everything. Whether it’s the complexities of Somali federalism, the war in Gaza, or why Liverpool is losing in the English Premier League, Diiriye wins the argument.

​He preaches a modern narrative to the younger crowd. "The youth must be free-minded!" he declares, striking the table. "We must move past tribal lines!"

​But the mask slips quickly. When a man across the table questions the competence of a real government minister, noting the official's poor mastery of Arabic during a global discussion, Diiriye’s face turns red.

The "modern" thinker vanishes, replaced by a tribal defender. "You are only saying that because you are against my tribe!" he shouts.

The heated argument is only stopped by the Adhan (call to prayer). As the sun sets, the men rush to the small, crowded washing area, and Diiriye joins the long line.

​By 9:00 PM, his friends stand up to leave, and that is when the real Diiriye appears. "Ahmed, please cover my bill," he says with a smooth, practiced smile.

"You know, things are a bit dry for me these days." He justifies the request with a joke, and his friend pays.

​Once the bill is settled, Diiriye doesn't go home. He heads to a local sports complex where the lights stay on late.

He spots a group playing Ladu and sits down as if he belongs there. He starts supporting one of the players with high energy, even though he knows none of them.

The men at the table look at each other, wondering, "Who is this guy?" But blending in with strangers is a skill Diiriye has mastered. It is his survival tactic in the city.

​As he leaves the game, Diiriye spots Jimcale walking away from the football field. Three months ago, Jimcale lent Diiriye money on the promise it would be paid back in two weeks.

Diiriye has been ignoring Jimcale’s calls ever since. Diiriye quickly hides in the crowd, turning his face away.

Jimcale, exhausted after his game, walks right past him without noticing.

​Diiriye survived today. He kept his suit clean, his stomach full, and his debts unpaid.

But as he walks into the night, you have to wonder: how long can a man survive on borrowed time?

Mogadishu at 4:00 PM is a symphony of dust, heat, and the persistent hum of three-wheeled taxis. Most people see a Bajaaj and think of convenience or a nuisance in traffic. But if you sit long enough - and in Mogadishu, you will sit - the driver’s seat becomes a confessional.

​Today, I’m stuck at the Sey Biyano checkpoint. We’ve been motionless for forty minutes. My driver is a young man, barely into his twenties, with eyes that seem much older than his face. He grips the handlebars, not out of aggression, but exhaustion.

​"You know what?" he says, staring at the exhaust pipe of the vehicle in front of us. "My wife won’t believe me when I go home tonight. I’ve only made $10 the whole day."

​He gestures to the gridlock stretching toward the horizon. "She doesn't see this. She doesn't know I spent four hours today just sitting at checkpoints, watching the fuel needle drop. And the owner? He doesn't care about the traffic. He wants his $15 daily rental fee, non-negotiable. That is the life I am in. I'm working just to pay for the right to work."

​The conversation takes a darker turn as the heat becomes unbearable. He mentions Tahriib, the dangerous illegal migration toward Europe. It’s a word that haunts every Somali household.

​"Sometimes," he whispers, "I am tempted. But I know it’s not easy. I think of my friend who fell into the hands of the Magafe (human traffickers). His family had to sell the only house they owned, their only shelter, just to buy his life back from the kidnappers. I look at my family, and I realize I can’t put them through that. I’d rather be stuck here than in a cage in the desert."

​Suddenly, his emotional wall crumbles, replaced by the immediate instinct of a city driver. A rival Bajaaj wedges its nose into a tiny gap ahead of us.

​"Ooh, sorry!" he snaps back to the present, his eyes darting to the mirror. "That Bajaaj took our spot. I have to push in; this lane is moving better." He offers a wry, self-aware smile. "You know, we Bajaaj drivers are part of the problem. We create the very traffic we complain about."

​As we finally reached my destination, his story remained unfinished. But as I stepped out, I realized his story is the narrative of an entire generation of Somali youth. They are caught in a cycle of high daily costs, urban congestion, and the desperate lure of migration.

​When we look at a traffic jam in Mogadishu, we aren't just looking at cars; we are looking at young men trying to navigate the thin line between an honest living and the dangerous unknown. Our youth need more than just "hustle" they need infrastructure and economic security that doesn't force them to choose between a checkpoint and the hands of a Magafe.

The music is loud at Caways restaurant on Maka‑almukarama road.

The place is alive, lit with laughter and the voice of a young girl singing Saado Cali’s timeless song “Liibaan maleh adduunyadu.” Everyone sways with the rhythm, but not Bilal. His silence is heavy, and perhaps we should not blame him.

Bilal carries the weight of responsibility.

He is the eldest in a family of eight. For thirty years, his parents raised their children in the residential quarters of the former Somali National University — Jamacada Umada. They never owned land, only survived through odd jobs, scraping together enough to keep the family afloat.

A month ago, that fragile stability collapsed. The government, backed by powerful business interests, evacuated families from the area. Bilal’s family lost the only home they had ever known. With his father too ill to provide, and no money for rent, they sought shelter with relatives. But space was scarce. Bilal now lives apart from his family, displaced not just from his home but from the closeness that once defined them.

He is a university graduate, yet three years of searching for work have yielded nothing. Hope has thinned. The eviction only deepened the wound.

As the music swells, a friend taps his shoulder: “Bilal, enjoy the moment. Nights like this are what we live for.” Bilal forces a smile, but inside he wonders, how can one enjoy the moment when life’s realities refuse to let go, even for a single night?

The Book in Three Sentences:

The United States is engaging in a modern form of slavery by using the World Bank and other international organizations to offer huge loans to developing nations for construction projects and oil production. On the surface this appears to be generous, but the money is only awarded to a country if it agrees to hire US construction firms, which ensures a select few people get rich. Furthermore, the loans are intentionally too big for any developing nation to repay and this debt burden virtually guarantees the developing nation will support the political interests of the United States.

Confessions of an Economic Hitman summary

This is my book summary of Confessions of an Economic Hitman by John Perkins. My notes are informal and often contain quotes from the book as well as my own thoughts. This summary also includes key lessons and important passages from the book.

• “Few swim in riches and the majority drown in poverty, pollution, and violence.”
• The top 1 percent of third world households account for 70 to 90 percent of all private financial wealth and real estate ownership in their country.
• There are (were?) a famous group of pirates in Indonesia known as the Bugi. They so terrorized early European sailors that the sailors came home and told their children, “Behave yourselves or the Bugimen will get you.” Crazy origin of the phrase.
• “The beacon shines on a destiny that is not always one we envision.”
• The imperialist and capitalist drive is so strong and so pervasive that it has become the primary cause of most wars, pollution, starvation, species extinctions, and genocides.
• Life is composed of a series of coincidences over which we have no control. Once we are presented with such coincidences, we gave choices. How we respond, the actions we take in the face of coincidences, makes all the difference.
• How many decisions (including ones of great historical significance that impact millions of people) are made by men and women who are driven by personal motives rather than by a desire to do the right thing?
• This book offers a startling reminder that debt is the new form of prison. Entire countries are handicapped by their debt to the United States and other major players.
• Lesson: avoid debt at all costs of you want to remain free.
• We decry slavery, but our global empire enslaves more people than the Romans and all other colonial powers before us.

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BOOK REVIEW: Thank you for being late by Thomas Friedman

When NYT columnist Thomas L Friedman meets someone for breakfast and they get caught up on the way, he thanks them for being late. That unscheduled wait is a perfect time for reflection, and gave Friedman the title for his latest book: Thank you for being late – an optimist’s guide to thriving in the age of accelerations.

Friedman, taking some time to reflect on the state of the world, argues that we are living through “one of the greatest inflection points in history”. That critical point is dominated by “the three largest forces on the planet – technology, globalization, and climate change – all accelerating at once.” We shouldn’t panic about this, he says. Instead, we should pause, try to understand it, and then engage productively. That’s what the book tries to do.

The first part looks at those three accelerations, beginning with technology. It explores Moore’s law and the boom in computer processing power, leading to new opportunities in big data, the internet of things, and cloud computing. We can all do more, as individuals, than any generation before us – and that’s true for both makers and ‘breakers’ – those who want to do good in the world, and those who want to wreck stuff. It weighs up the benefits and dangers of hyper-globalization, and sets the whole thing in the context of climate change.

One of the key points here is that these three trends are accelerating so fast that change “can outpace the capacity of the average human being and our societal structures to adapt and absorb them.” That leads to cultural angst, unrest, failing institutions, conflict and migration, scapegoating and extreme politics.

If we think we can slow the world down and catch up, we’re deluding ourselves, Friedman suggests. Technological advance won’t be curbed, and neither will globalization. Climate effects are only beginning. We urgently need to find ways to adapt faster. As individuals, nothing will help more than a commitment to lifelong learning, something I would agree with. As nations, we need faster and more responsive governments and workplaces.

One of Friedman’s big strengths is that as a well respected commentator, he can get an interview with anyone. And with decades of experience as a Middle East correspondent, he’s not afraid to go where the action is. So we get first-hand accounts from the front lines of change, conversations with Silicon Valley engineers, Syrian freedom fighters, Somali refugees, Chinese entrepreneurs, all sorts. It’s an interesting companion to the last book I read, Pankaj Mishra’s Age of Anger. Both tackle similar topics, Mishra from the history library and Friedman from the streets. He even gets to Madagascar.

THE PDF OF THIS BOOK IS AVAILABLE - leave your WhatsApp number in the comments section.

Winston Churchill said : "I took the taxi one day and went to the BBC office for an interview ... and when I arrived I asked the driver to wait for me for forty minutes until I got back! But the driver apologized and said 'I can't because I have to go home to listen to Winston Churchill's speech' ... Churchill says he was amazed and delighted with this man's desire to listen to his conversation! So Churchill took ten pounds and gave to the taxi driver without telling the driver who he was. When he collected the money he said: "I'll wait hours until you come back, sir! And let Churchill go to hell!

*LESSON*
1. Principles have been modified against money.
2. Nations were sold for money.
3. Dignity and honor has been sold for money.
4. Brothers were sold for money
5. Families were split for the money
6. Friends have been separated for the money
7. People been killed for the money!

Where money has become the only motive and dominating factor humans have lost their dignity

Winston Churchill ayaa wuxu yiri “ maalin ayaa waxaa taksi uqaatay xafiiska BBC oo aan kubalansaneyn wareysi in laiiga qaado…. Markaan xafiiski imid ayaa ku iri taksiilihi waxaad isugtaa 40 taqiiqo intaan kasoo laabanaya, balse taksiilihi wuu iraali galiyay wuxuuna igu yiri ‘masameyn karo waaya waa inaan aada guriga si aan udhageysto qudbada churchil…… churchill wuu ku farxay sida ninka udaneynaaya wareysigiisa! Sidaa aawadeed Churchill wuxuu soo bixiyay lacag afartan bound ah wuxuuna siiyay taksiilihi isagoo aanan usheegin qofka uu yahay.

Taksiilihi markuu lacagti qaaday wuxuu ku yiri ‘waan kusugayaa ilaa aad kasoo baxda mudane! Churchill waxba igama galin qudbadiisa’

CASHARKA LAGA BARAN KARA:
1. Mabd’a ayaa lagu badashay lacag
2. Wadama ayaa lacag lagu iibsaday
3. Sharaf ayaa lacag lagu iibsaday
4. Walaala ayaa lacag lagu iibsaday
5. Qoys ayaa lacag ku kala tagay
6. Saaxiiba ayaa lacag aawadeed ku kala fogaaday
7. Dad ayaa loo dilay lacag aawadeed

Lacag markaay noqotay waxa kali qofka tiigsado, biniadamka waxaa kalumay sharafti

Ninkii Wiilashiisa Uga Tagay Dardaaranka:

Waxaa la sheegay in uu nin 3 wiil oo uu dhalay uga tagay hanti badan. Waxaa uu si gaara uga tagay dardaaran qoraal ah isaga oo ka codsaday inay warqadda furaan goortii uu dhinto.

Markuu dhintay bay wiilashii warqaddii dardaaranka fureen. Waxaa ku qoran in uu si gaara ugu qaybiyey 17 geela oo hantidiisa badan kamida waxaana uu ku dardaarmay in wiilka ugu weyn la siiyo kala bar 17ka geela ah (1/2), wiilka xigana la siiyo saddex-meelood meel (1/3) wiilka ugu yarna sagaal-meelood meel (1/9).

Haddaba, xisaab ahaan way suurtoobi wayday inay wiilashii 17 geela kala bar u qaybiyaan, ama saddex-meelood u kala qaybiyaan, ama sagaal-meelood u kala qaybiyaan. Muran iyo khilaaf xoogan baa soo dhex galay wiilashii waxaana ay ka gaadhay meel daran. Kadib waxay ku heshiiyeen inay isula tagaan cid kala saarta waxaanay isula tageen nin xikmad badan.

Ninkii si fiican buu u dhagaystay wiilashii waxaana ay isla xisaabiyeen qaybtii geela iyo dardaarankii oo noqday sidan:

• Markii 17 geela 2 meelood loo qaybiyey waxay wiilka weyn qaybtiisii noqotay 8.5
• Markii 17 geela 3 meelood loo qaybiyey waxay wiilkii labaad qaybtiisii noqotay 5.66
• 17 geela 9 meelood loo qaybiyey wiilkii ugu yaraa waxay qaybtiisii noqotay 1.88

Kolkii xisaabtii sidaa u adkaatay baa waxgaradkii fekeray oo arrintii rog-rogay, xisaabtiina caqli ku daray. Waxaa uu xoogga saaray in uu keeno xal wada-ogol ah, waqtina waa galiyey. Ka bacdi waxa uu yeelay sidan:

• 17kii geela ahaa waxa uu kusoo daray neef geela oo uu isagu leeyahay waxayna isku noqdeen 18 geela
• Ka bacdi 18kii geela ahaa waxa uu u qabyiyey 2 qaybood oo middiiba noqotay 9. Markaasbuu wiilkii weynaa siiyey 9 neef oo geela
• Haddana 18kii buu u qaybiyey saddex meelood meel oo noqotay 6. Markaasbuu wiilkii labaadna siiyey 6 neef oo geela
• Haddana 18kii buu u qaybiyey sagaal-meelood oo meeshiiba noqotay 2. Markaasbuu wiilkii saddexaadna siiyey 2
• Marka intaa laysu geeyo waxay noqdeen 17 geela (9+6+2)
• Isna neefkiisii oo u soo hadhay buu kaxaysay halkaasna waxaa uu ku xalliyey khilaafkii loo maaro la’aa. Waxaa weliba xusid mudan, in wiilashii mid kastaa helay intii markii h**e xisaab ahaan ugu muuqatay in ka badan.

Sidaa darteed, inkastoo ay madaxdu yihiin kuwa shiraya ee mushkiladaha xallinaya, haddana waxa muuqata in haddii talo lagu daro ay wax weyn u tarayso, iyadoo weliba aan talada lagala waraygaynin laguna qasbaynin ayna dhici karto intii ay danta u arkayeen wax ka badan inay ka faa’iidaan.

Waxaa Qoray: Nabadoone Jaamac Cigaal