As some of you may know I'm not a naturalized citizen. I've been having some problems lately with my legal status. I wish I didn't lie on my immigration form. I said I was 19 at the time but my glorious bidaar from which light bounces off like a trampoline told another story. I tried to disguise it with a combover, but the massive forehead betrayed me.
Let's be honest though: What Somali has not lied on his asylum claim? So don't act all superior now. I was served my deportation papers last month. I feel like ratting out all these fake refugees who clambered aboard that precarious raft with me on the shores of Bosaaso all those years ago. Any number of them could get me out of this jam by giving me his daughter's hand in marriage, and Mr Wanagsan would be flashing his spanking new EU passport in no time flat, but they claim it's not from them opposition comes, but that as much as they would like to help their Darood brother in his hour of need, their little girls don't find my Barkhad Abdi looks appealing. That's what counts for walaalinimo around here.
I hate young people who are born in the West and have never milked a cow or seen a camel give new meaning to the word hump when in female company; they are spoiled rotten and remind me of a poem we used to recite in Kismayo back when Somalia was the Switzerland of the Horn: wallee waa dad qooqan / kibir sanka u saaran / edeb iyo dhagan celis u baahan.
But it's times like this when I resent having slithered out of the womb during the era of our beloved Siyaad Barre. Life as a failed asylum seeker is not what it could be. Twice I had immigration officers raid my house, but I managed to climb out of the bathroom window just in the nick of time wearing only my leopard print kastuumo I got as a Valentine's from a beauty who found someone better looking and better smelling. My elderly white neighbours were in for quite a surprise when they saw a nekkid African hop over their garden fence with the eagerness of a jihadist at a Yazidi bride market. Alxamdulilah, the malaaika are looking out for me.
Another time I was chased clear across town by two kafir officers who wanted to give me a free helicopter ride to sunny climes. I dropped my groceries in the carpark and took off as soon as I clapped eyes on the merciless goons. The one good thing about my looks is that I'm slim. My pursuers were burly and musclebound, but they were not as fleet footed as I am. Even though I've slowed with age, the miracle is that I could outrun these two fit twentysomethings, proof that Allah, the most high and the most compassionate, can work miracles if you ever needed one.
After I zigzagged my way out of one dark alley after another and left them trailing in the dust, I heard the black one yell "Stop! We just wanna talk." I said "talk to your sister. She's carrying my baby." For some reason that did not endear me to them.
So here's my question. Would you marry someone to allow them to stay in the country? Let's face it, all your mothers and fathers, your uncles and aunts, all the folks who came to the West in the post 1991 exodus have forged papers. Any one of them could be busted tomorrow. Don't we need a collective insurance policy against snitches like the who reported me to the police after we had a bad romance?
This could be you in the dock tomorrow. Hell, I would even marry a fag just to stay. If the highest elected Somali in the US can marry her own brother for a green card and still be the object of reverence whilst in the throes of matrimonial incest, surely one of you tender hearted fellas can let me put a ring on your hairy finger.
Let's be honest though: What Somali has not lied on his asylum claim? So don't act all superior now. I was served my deportation papers last month. I feel like ratting out all these fake refugees who clambered aboard that precarious raft with me on the shores of Bosaaso all those years ago. Any number of them could get me out of this jam by giving me his daughter's hand in marriage, and Mr Wanagsan would be flashing his spanking new EU passport in no time flat, but they claim it's not from them opposition comes, but that as much as they would like to help their Darood brother in his hour of need, their little girls don't find my Barkhad Abdi looks appealing. That's what counts for walaalinimo around here.
I hate young people who are born in the West and have never milked a cow or seen a camel give new meaning to the word hump when in female company; they are spoiled rotten and remind me of a poem we used to recite in Kismayo back when Somalia was the Switzerland of the Horn: wallee waa dad qooqan / kibir sanka u saaran / edeb iyo dhagan celis u baahan.
But it's times like this when I resent having slithered out of the womb during the era of our beloved Siyaad Barre. Life as a failed asylum seeker is not what it could be. Twice I had immigration officers raid my house, but I managed to climb out of the bathroom window just in the nick of time wearing only my leopard print kastuumo I got as a Valentine's from a beauty who found someone better looking and better smelling. My elderly white neighbours were in for quite a surprise when they saw a nekkid African hop over their garden fence with the eagerness of a jihadist at a Yazidi bride market. Alxamdulilah, the malaaika are looking out for me.
Another time I was chased clear across town by two kafir officers who wanted to give me a free helicopter ride to sunny climes. I dropped my groceries in the carpark and took off as soon as I clapped eyes on the merciless goons. The one good thing about my looks is that I'm slim. My pursuers were burly and musclebound, but they were not as fleet footed as I am. Even though I've slowed with age, the miracle is that I could outrun these two fit twentysomethings, proof that Allah, the most high and the most compassionate, can work miracles if you ever needed one.
After I zigzagged my way out of one dark alley after another and left them trailing in the dust, I heard the black one yell "Stop! We just wanna talk." I said "talk to your sister. She's carrying my baby." For some reason that did not endear me to them.
So here's my question. Would you marry someone to allow them to stay in the country? Let's face it, all your mothers and fathers, your uncles and aunts, all the folks who came to the West in the post 1991 exodus have forged papers. Any one of them could be busted tomorrow. Don't we need a collective insurance policy against snitches like the who reported me to the police after we had a bad romance?
This could be you in the dock tomorrow. Hell, I would even marry a fag just to stay. If the highest elected Somali in the US can marry her own brother for a green card and still be the object of reverence whilst in the throes of matrimonial incest, surely one of you tender hearted fellas can let me put a ring on your hairy finger.
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