A Rare Evening at Bar Saqajaan
Back in my boarding school days at Banadir Secondary School in Mogadishu, three of my closest friends and I often slipped away after study hours for a taste of freedom and laughter. The school compound also housed many Soviet teachers—disciplined, reserved, and methodical—sent on secondment to teach English and science. They lived in small, identical quarters that stood in sharp contrast to the chaotic life of Somali students.
Life in the boarding school was tough. The worst hardship, however, was the food. The dining hall was infamous for serving flavorless, nutritionless meals that could trigger both heartburn and homesickness. Our rice dinners were so sticky and solid that we nicknamed them “cement”—you could flip your plate upside down and nothing would fall off.
Given such conditions, a few Somali shillings could mean salvation—enough for a stolen evening in town, a cup of sweet shaah caano leh (tea with milk), and maybe a cigarette to share. But pocket money was scarce, so even small pleasures became shared adventures.
One evening, we managed to scrape together enough coins for four cups of tea and two Rothmans cigarettes. We made our way to a small teashop that our principal, Saleman Gaal—now the Chairman of the Somaliland Senate (Guurti)—mockingly called Bar Saqajaan, a term meaning “the den of rascals.”
Our tight-knit gang of four sat down, ready to savor every sip and puff. Among us, Anshur, the oldest, came from Buhodle in Togdheer, near the Ethiopian border (now in Puntland’s Ayn region). As we shared a cigarette, he took noticeably longer drags than his co-owner. The other complained, “Hey, you’re smoking more than your share!”
Without missing a beat, Anshur replied:
“Let me puff enough to reach all the way to Buhodle!”
The room exploded with laughter.
After the tea and the meager taste of nicotine, everyone was content—except Sharif, from the coastal town of Brava. Back home, he adored bursalid, a rich, oily Somali pastry. Spotting some behind the glass counter, he sighed dramatically—he couldn’t afford a single piece. Then, with mock sorrow, he began to sing:
“Bursalid, nin aan meeso qabin balad haduu joogo,
kama baahi beelee ishu balac ku siihaaye.”
Roughly translated: “A poor man in town can’t help but keep staring at the bursalid.”
The entire shop—customers and waiters alike—burst into laughter. The shop owner, perhaps out of pity or fearing the “evil eye” of Sharif’s longing, brought us four pieces of bursalid on the house.
Sharif’s hunger was satisfied, but his mind wasn’t done wandering. Just then, a hen darted around the corner of the shop. He turned to Anshur and asked, “Anshur, how soon does a hen deliver her babies after conception?”
Without hesitation, Anshur quipped:
“If you mate with it now, it’ll give you plenty of kittens right away!”
Another roar of laughter shook the teashop.
That night, we agreed it had been a rare and wonderful evening—a perfect mix of friendship, humor, and small joys amidst the roughness of boarding school life.
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Warsame Policy & Media Network (WAPMEN) 