The story of Lone is the story of our age. It's the tale of an identity crisis of the sort that grips all second generation migrants to the West. And it's gripped Lone tighter than the noose around Saddam's neck.
Young Somalis all rebel against their upbringing, but each rebels in a different way. Some become gangbangers with sagging trousers, some become Alt Right and talk about mass deportations, and some become Saudi wannabes who make takfir on their ancestors for not following the correct manhaj.
For Lone, rebellion took a spiritual direction. He made history by going to a kaniisad and doing rukuuc for a half naked man on a Cross. He made a pledge to restore the Italian Cathedral in Mogadishu to its former glory and win souls back to Christ. Give the man his due: it's an original move for a twenty-something geeljire who's dad runs the local masjid. Lone is pro-Israel, but he worships a loincloth wearing Palestinian.
It all began when he started dating Katie in high school. She had a warm smile, a huge cleavage from which a crucifix dangled, and legs to die for. You can see how positive associations with the cross might have come to form in his mind. Ladybits tend to receive good reviews.
The cutie was a fan of David Wood and made him watch his videos about what she called "the lies of Zakir Naik and other devils with long armpit hair on their chin". Lone was reluctant. His iman was still intact at this point. When she made it a precondition for zina however, he relented.
He was able to repulse Wood's arguments. He knew his Ahmed Deedat. But the deep immersion in Jesus dawah left a subtle mark on him that he would not fully realize till much later.
Things took a turn for the worse when he fell out with his mom and ran away from home. He was taken in by his white friend Andrew from school. Lone noticed that Andy's parents never karbaashed him for not memorizing the Bible or for partying in the summer or for eating pink siil, so long as he used rubber. Pink was Lone's all time favorite color, so the pain was made deeper still.
The cadaan parents didn't make their kid go to dugsi to be clapped around the head by a macalin who preached "death to the West" whilst drawing ceyr from the kuffar and claiming asylum because he comes from a persecuted Somali clan. They even threw birthday parties for the little sucker. Fancy that: parents who remember exactly what day you were born and think it was rather a good thing all in all. Most people in Lone's family didn't have a birth certificate and simply rounded up their age to the nearest decade. Cross worshippers are a little nutty theology wise, he thought, but boy are they less backwards.
He was still not ready to bow down to a blonde haired Geezus. He was too Afrocentric for that. But he did not feel creeped out when he saw Cisse Banu Maryam without excessive clothing any more. If anything, he admired his six pack. A subtle change, but a change nevertheless.
One day, sitting at the bar and sipping on a cold pint, two things struck him. The first was that it was a very good pint. Maybe, he said to himself, I will open the first bar in Somalia where tourists, foreign dignitaries, and ciyaal suuqs can drown their sorrow. The second was that most of the time when he made du'a, Allah didn't give him what he asked for. Of the seven he made that year, only two were answered, and not the most important two.
By contrast his buddy James seemed to get whatever he prayed for. He asked for a job. He got it. He asked for good school grades. He got it. He asked for Trump to win. He got it. "Maybe James is God's real nigga" he allowed himself to think. "Maybe the Crucified Jew is the real deal." Under the influence of a strong drink, a man will think anything, and by now Lone was on his third.
As he staggered home that night bleary eyed and drunk as a skunk, flashbacks came to him of his abusive dugsi teachers, his conflicts with hooyo and aabo, the nice cadaan family who took him in when he was homeless, the wide hips of Katie and her flaming red lipstick, and the constant Jesus Loves You, Jesus Loves You, Jesus Loves You of Pat Robertson. The onrush of these childhood memories crowded his unstable mind, and he buckled under the emotional pressure.
"You know what?" he said to nobody in particular. "My life is full of buuq iyo wareer. Too much suffering and pain wallahi, too much abuse from Somalis. Hooyadiina wasa! I just want to be loved. f*ck it, I'm gonna do it ..." and right then and there, our Somali brother planted his massive forehead on the ground and cried out - may Allah forgive me for repeating this - "La illaha illa Cisse, wa Holy Ghost rasulu Cisse".
Rising to his feet he took out his pocket Bible that his friend gave him, and kissed the Injeel. Just as he did that it began to rain and he said "Hallelujah, God is washing away my sins." Authubillahi mini shaytani rajeem. This is what an identity crisis does to a man, folks.
But when all is said and done, Lone is worthy of our respect. He could have become an atheist, a o addict, or a junkie like so many Somalis here. Instead he chose to be a God fearing pastor. At least his mind is on spiritual things.
Young Somalis all rebel against their upbringing, but each rebels in a different way. Some become gangbangers with sagging trousers, some become Alt Right and talk about mass deportations, and some become Saudi wannabes who make takfir on their ancestors for not following the correct manhaj.
For Lone, rebellion took a spiritual direction. He made history by going to a kaniisad and doing rukuuc for a half naked man on a Cross. He made a pledge to restore the Italian Cathedral in Mogadishu to its former glory and win souls back to Christ. Give the man his due: it's an original move for a twenty-something geeljire who's dad runs the local masjid. Lone is pro-Israel, but he worships a loincloth wearing Palestinian.
It all began when he started dating Katie in high school. She had a warm smile, a huge cleavage from which a crucifix dangled, and legs to die for. You can see how positive associations with the cross might have come to form in his mind. Ladybits tend to receive good reviews.
The cutie was a fan of David Wood and made him watch his videos about what she called "the lies of Zakir Naik and other devils with long armpit hair on their chin". Lone was reluctant. His iman was still intact at this point. When she made it a precondition for zina however, he relented.
He was able to repulse Wood's arguments. He knew his Ahmed Deedat. But the deep immersion in Jesus dawah left a subtle mark on him that he would not fully realize till much later.
Things took a turn for the worse when he fell out with his mom and ran away from home. He was taken in by his white friend Andrew from school. Lone noticed that Andy's parents never karbaashed him for not memorizing the Bible or for partying in the summer or for eating pink siil, so long as he used rubber. Pink was Lone's all time favorite color, so the pain was made deeper still.
The cadaan parents didn't make their kid go to dugsi to be clapped around the head by a macalin who preached "death to the West" whilst drawing ceyr from the kuffar and claiming asylum because he comes from a persecuted Somali clan. They even threw birthday parties for the little sucker. Fancy that: parents who remember exactly what day you were born and think it was rather a good thing all in all. Most people in Lone's family didn't have a birth certificate and simply rounded up their age to the nearest decade. Cross worshippers are a little nutty theology wise, he thought, but boy are they less backwards.
He was still not ready to bow down to a blonde haired Geezus. He was too Afrocentric for that. But he did not feel creeped out when he saw Cisse Banu Maryam without excessive clothing any more. If anything, he admired his six pack. A subtle change, but a change nevertheless.
One day, sitting at the bar and sipping on a cold pint, two things struck him. The first was that it was a very good pint. Maybe, he said to himself, I will open the first bar in Somalia where tourists, foreign dignitaries, and ciyaal suuqs can drown their sorrow. The second was that most of the time when he made du'a, Allah didn't give him what he asked for. Of the seven he made that year, only two were answered, and not the most important two.
By contrast his buddy James seemed to get whatever he prayed for. He asked for a job. He got it. He asked for good school grades. He got it. He asked for Trump to win. He got it. "Maybe James is God's real nigga" he allowed himself to think. "Maybe the Crucified Jew is the real deal." Under the influence of a strong drink, a man will think anything, and by now Lone was on his third.
As he staggered home that night bleary eyed and drunk as a skunk, flashbacks came to him of his abusive dugsi teachers, his conflicts with hooyo and aabo, the nice cadaan family who took him in when he was homeless, the wide hips of Katie and her flaming red lipstick, and the constant Jesus Loves You, Jesus Loves You, Jesus Loves You of Pat Robertson. The onrush of these childhood memories crowded his unstable mind, and he buckled under the emotional pressure.
"You know what?" he said to nobody in particular. "My life is full of buuq iyo wareer. Too much suffering and pain wallahi, too much abuse from Somalis. Hooyadiina wasa! I just want to be loved. f*ck it, I'm gonna do it ..." and right then and there, our Somali brother planted his massive forehead on the ground and cried out - may Allah forgive me for repeating this - "La illaha illa Cisse, wa Holy Ghost rasulu Cisse".
Rising to his feet he took out his pocket Bible that his friend gave him, and kissed the Injeel. Just as he did that it began to rain and he said "Hallelujah, God is washing away my sins." Authubillahi mini shaytani rajeem. This is what an identity crisis does to a man, folks.
But when all is said and done, Lone is worthy of our respect. He could have become an atheist, a o addict, or a junkie like so many Somalis here. Instead he chose to be a God fearing pastor. At least his mind is on spiritual things.
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