By Ismail H. Warsame
Warsame Digital Media (WDM)
Critical Analysis, News & Commentary – 2025 Edition

From Pride to Putrefaction

Once the cradle of Somali courage and intellect, Galkayo now reeks—literally—of decay. The city that once produced generals, scholars, and entrepreneurs is collapsing under the stench of neglect. The proud “Rocco Littorio” of colonial times, once named after an Italian warship for bravery, has become the rotting corpse of Puntland’s governance failure.

The smell of uncollected garbage and broken drainage systems wafts through the streets, mingling with the acrid odor of dust and despair. After the rains, filthy runoff floods markets and alleyways, forming stagnant ponds of disease. The once-bustling municipality has disintegrated—its trucks grounded, workers unpaid, and officials absent. Galkayo today is a city without sanitation, administration, or salvation.

And yet, as this misery unfolds, the brave and fine soldiers of Galkayo are fighting and dying in the Cal Miskaad Mountains—defending Puntland from extremist threats and protecting the very state that has abandoned their city.

The Return of Clan Vengeance

The rot is not only physical.
The city bleeds from a new kind of infection—revenge killings, spreading faster than any epidemic. Day after day, clan retaliations take lives in a self-perpetuating cycle of grief and retribution. The law has withdrawn, and the police merely count the dead.

Evenings in Galkayo are ghostly. Residents dare not step outside after sunset. Streets once alive with merchants, taxis, and laughter now echo with the hum of fear. In some neighborhoods, gunfire punctuates the night, and every household fears the next knock could be fatal.

Funerals outnumber weddings. Families mourn by day and barricade themselves by night. The thin fabric of social order has torn apart.

Collapse of Commerce and Civic Life

Business—the lifeblood of Galkayo—has flatlined.
Shops close before dusk, wholesalers move their goods to safer districts, and investors quietly migrate to Garowe, Bosaso, or beyond Somalia altogether. Even the once-thriving livestock trade has slowed to a crawl as insecurity makes transport routes lethal.

Market stalls stand half-empty, and currency dealers whisper that circulation has dried up. The economic arteries are clogged, just like the city’s drainage. Galkayo is not merely unsafe—it is economically asphyxiated.

The Administration That Cannot Govern

President Said Abdullahi Deni’s government has perfected the art of inertia.
Puntland under his rule no longer governs—it waits. Ministries issue statements instead of solutions. Every local crisis is deferred to “a later time” that never comes.

The Deni administration does not multitask; it does not even delegate. Authority has become ornamental—concentrated in Garowe but functionally absent everywhere else. Governors act like political hostages; mayors are ceremonial. There is no effective municipal structure left in Galkayo. Even garbage collection has become a private, clan-based affair.

This paralysis has turned Puntland from a model of federalism into a museum of mismanagement.

The Smell of State Failure

Nowhere is Puntland’s dysfunction more visible—or smellable—than in Galkayo.
Open sewers overflow through the city’s arteries. Piles of waste block alleys. Children play beside gutters bubbling with human refuse. The municipality, once Galkayo’s pride, has ceased to exist in all but name.

The smell of rotten decay has become symbolic—a constant reminder that this is what happens when leadership decomposes in office. The physical filth mirrors the moral corruption of a state that stopped caring.

Administrative Vacuum Across Puntland

Galkayo’s plight is only the loudest symptom of a broader collapse. Across Puntland, every structure of governance—education, policing, public works—is either stagnant or deteriorating.
Civil servants go unpaid for months. Districts operate without budgets. Clan militias, not police, enforce security. And Deni’s government still pretends it has control while it actually presides over a slow-motion implosion.

There is an administrative vacuum everywhere, and Galkayo stands as the capital of that vacuum.

The Dystopia of Everyday Life

To live in Galkayo today is to balance between fear and fatigue.
The youth—unemployed, disillusioned—oscillate between revenge networks, extremist recruiters, and smuggling syndicates. Elders have lost authority, religious leaders have lost influence, and women bear the brunt of insecurity as both victims and breadwinners.

When a society normalizes murder, corruption, and filth, it ceases to be a society. Galkayo has reached that threshold.

A State in Denial

Despite these conditions, Puntland’s officialdom continues to issue cheerful press releases about “stability and progress.”
Reality, however, speaks louder:

Lawlessness reigns.

Municipal services are dead.

Economy is collapsing.

People are terrified.

This is not merely a Galkayo tragedy—it is the death rattle of Puntland’s governance system.

Conclusion: The Smell of Abandonment

Galkayo is not suffering by accident. It is suffering because its leaders chose ambition over administration, optics over obligation, and vanity over vision.

The drainage catastrophe, the revenge killings, the business collapse, and the paralyzed municipality all tell one story: a government that has abandoned its people.

If Puntland continues on this path, Galkayo will not be its exception—it will be its future. And the stench rising from the city’s drains will not be just of waste, but of a failed state decomposing from within.

Editorial Note (WDM)

Galkayo’s condition demands emergency governance, not election slogans. Puntland’s ruling elite must remember: when the heart of a state rots, the whole body follows.

WARSAME DIGITAL MEDIA (WDM)
A Political Memoir Essay
By Ismail H. Warsame

Preface
When the Puntland State of Somalia was founded in August 1998, it was more than a political experiment — it was a declaration of organized resistance to national collapse. As Director General at the Presidency, I stood at the nerve center of a new state struggling to balance vision, power, and governance. Those early years were marked by enthusiasm, fear, and fierce debates about Puntland’s role in rebuilding Somalia. Inside the corridors of Garowe’s Presidency, decisions were not just administrative — they were historical. This memoir captures the untold story of my internal and sometimes stormy disagreements with President Abdullahi Yusuf, a man both revered and feared, and my own moral struggles in defending the principles of statehood over politics.

What most people never knew was that I was instrumental in bringing peace back to Puntland after that dark confrontation. In the months that followed, I quietly persuaded both Abdullahi Yusuf and General Adde Muse to open channels of dialogue and consider reconciliation as the only viable path forward. Through discreet diplomacy and persistent reasoning, I convinced Abdullahi Yusuf to re-engage with his former rivals, paving the way for internal stabilization just before the Mbagathi Somali Reconciliation Conference (2002–2004).

By the eve of Mbagathi’s conclusion — which crowned Abdullahi Yusuf as Somalia’s first Federal President in October 2004 — Puntland had regained relative calm and political coherence. Few knew how close we came to losing it all, and fewer still knew of the quiet diplomacy behind the scenes that helped deliver peace back to Puntland — and a national mandate to Abdullahi Yusuf himself.

1. The Arta Conference: To Engage or To Boycott? (2000)

When the Djibouti-sponsored Arta Peace Conference convened in mid-2000, Abdullahi Yusuf’s instinct was total rejection — dismissing it as a political trap by outsiders seeking to dilute the federalist vision of Puntland. I, however, argued that engagement, even through limited participation, could safeguard Puntland’s interests and prevent its isolation. My position was grounded in statecraft: legitimacy is never gained through absence. History proved the point — Puntland’s empty seat at Arta was filled by those who later claimed the title of “Transitional National Government,” rewriting Somalia’s political narrative without us.

To drive my position home, I offered my resignation — not once, but multiple times — each immediately rejected by the President. He would say, “Ismail, you are not leaving me in the middle of this storm.” Yet my conscience was clear: leadership sometimes means standing firm against the tide of unquestioned authority.

2. The Controversial Extension of the Puntland Legislature (Late 2000)

As Puntland’s first three-year mandate neared its end in late 2000, Abdullahi Yusuf engineered an extension of the House of Representatives’ term, and by extension, his own presidency. I stood opposed. It was a dangerous precedent — undermining constitutional order and public trust. The legislative term had expired; renewal required a new political consensus, not decrees dressed in legality. My advice was blunt: “Mr. President, no constitution survives when convenience dictates its interpretation.” His response was equally sharp: “Ismail, politics is not a textbook exercise.” Indeed, Article 34 of the Puntland Founding Charter (1998) was the central legal battleground in the debate over Abdullahi Yusuf’s 2000 extension of both the legislature and presidency. The article stipulated term limits and renewal procedures, intended to ensure peaceful transition and continuity through constitutional consultation — not unilateral decrees or legislative manipulation.

I again submitted my resignation, believing that moral protest is stronger than silent compliance. Once more, he refused to accept it — insisting that “the system cannot afford to lose its thinkers.” It was a paradoxical compliment wrapped in political defiance.

3. The Bosaso Confrontation with Jama Ali Jama (Late 2001–Early 2002)

Nothing tested the integrity of Puntland like the late 2001–early 2002 confrontation in Bosaso. When Abdullahi Yusuf rejected the results of the November 2001 Garowe Constitutional Conference — which had elected Jama Ali Jama as President — he regrouped militarily in Galkayo and Qardho. His decision to retake the port city by force risked plunging the young state into civil war.

I opposed the use of arms, arguing that Puntland’s legitimacy could not be built on fratricide. Leadership demanded restraint, dialogue, and wisdom. But the militarist instinct prevailed — tanks rolled, shells thundered, and the cost of victory was the erosion of unity. It was a tragedy disguised as triumph.

In protest, I wrote a detailed memorandum to the President, reaffirming that the path of reconciliation was still open. I was told to “stay in my lane.” My response was another resignation letter — and once again, a firm rejection. “Ismail,” he said, “you may disagree, but you don’t abandon ship.”

4. The “Fadlan” Culture: Politics of Patronage (1998–2004)

Another source of sharp disagreement was the President’s habit of dispensing public money — euphemistically called “Fadlan” (please) — to appease individuals or groups for political loyalty. I called it what it was: a dangerous welfare populism masquerading as generosity. State resources were not personal property to be handed out in envelopes for political gain. This system bred dependency, inflated expectations, and weakened public institutions. I warned that “Fadlan politics” would one day corrode the very foundation of Puntland governance. Sadly, it did.

When I opposed these disbursements and questioned their legality, I was accused of being “too bureaucratic for Somali politics.” My response was yet another attempt to resign — my way of documenting dissent in a system allergic to accountability.

5. Family Interference: The Silent Cancer of Nepotism (1999–2004)

Perhaps my most difficult confrontation with Abdullahi Yusuf was over family interference in the Presidency. Decisions that should have remained within the professional bureaucracy were often influenced — even dictated — by close relatives. It became a creeping form of parallel governance, where personal relationships trumped administrative order. I protested quietly at first, then formally in writing. My position was simple: a state cannot function when the boundaries between family and government dissolve. Abdullahi Yusuf viewed such resistance as disloyalty; I viewed silence as a betrayal of the public trust. At one point, I left his entourage in the middle of an official journey after witnessing his close relatives interfering with travel arrangements. That moment broke every boundary of institutional respect. My decision to walk away triggered severe anger from the President, who viewed it as insubordination. I was briefly placed under home arrest within the Presidency compound  afterwards— an extraordinary episode that revealed the depth of my disillusionment and the dangerous collision between family power and formal authority.

Each time I pressed the issue, my resignation followed. Each time, it was rejected. “Ismail,” he would say, “you are stubborn — but loyal.” I took it as the highest form of reluctant respect.

Epilogue: Loyalty, Dissent, and the Burden of Conscience

Despite these fierce disagreements, I never abandoned respect for Abdullahi Yusuf’s courage and historic role in the Somali struggle. But leadership is not defined by bravery alone — it is measured by one’s willingness to be guided by principle, not power. In those turbulent years, I learned that dissent is the highest form of loyalty when it defends the truth. My conscience demanded that I speak — not against Abdullahi Yusuf the man, but against the political culture that mistakes obedience for patriotism.

The untold story of those years is not about rebellion or disloyalty — it is about defending the moral architecture of Puntland. History may forget the memos, the meetings, and the midnight debates, but it cannot erase the truth: that building a state requires men who dare to disagree, even when their resignations are never accepted.

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