Abdourahman Waberi - Transit

IF WE ARE TO BELIEVE Grandfather, the Moon is even rounder in the neighbor's sky, the grass always cooler in the field next door. Be that as it may, you mustn't run the risk of getting your throat cut by the sabers of the madmen who belch out their sayings and skim the city. They have forgotten the injunction the Angel gave the Prophet in a cave on Mount Hira. It said: “Iqrah! Recite!” From this verb comes the word Koran, recitation. At that time, reading, or recitation, was something very different from the present droning of the Word weakened by narrow minds, often bearded. Iqrah , recite and think by yourself, expand your knowledge; seek, in the bottom of your heart, the path that leads to The Unique. According to Muslim tradition, the revelation of the Koran by the archangel Djibril was a long ordeal — they seem to have forgotten that these days — constant, but painful and fragmented, scaled up over more than twenty-three stations with new additions, adjustments, and successive corrections. That long quest, the goal of a whole life, bears its beginnings and endings within it. “Here, Adam remembers the dust of his clay,” says the poet Mahmoud Darwish. Who, better than the poet, can rise to the divine? Certainly not the shouters who claim that monopoly for themselves. “As for poets, they are followed only by those who have lost their way. Seest thou not that they stray distracted in every valley? And that they say what they do not do?” (the Koran).

IF I TAKE PINK PILLS, my head too-too light. And if I see something, I want that thing, I take it right away even if it my mother's thing or president's. Us draftees, we fierce like that. And my poor head it flies all by itself like helicopter. In helicopter you're not so scared, you a little far up in the sky. You can piss on enemy's head. So, you're not scared unless the other guy, he has rocket launchers, ground-to-ground an all that. That the way French army turned over our heads. Tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck Gazelle helicopters went all the time to spy on our positions an then, deal intelligence with enemy. You could even see Mirage Fi's flying by right near us, like this: zzzzzzooooooffff. We didn't say much cause us, we don't have AMX tanks an fast furtive patrol boats (that real correct, I know) to mix it up with French military. French military, we call em FFDJ (French Forces stationed in Djibouti) in professional lingo. So, that the way Scud 2 gained ground after they sign peace with their old buddies in Scud 1. We weren't too mad cause battle our job. But the president, he real-real mad. Scud 2 stronger than Scud 1. Scud 2, they strong like Rivaldo, the midfielder who feeds guys a lot of shots at goal in Spanish championship. Scud brave even, cause rebels now they drive Toyota pickups loaded with antimissile batteries and lot of heavy weapons. We call those bizarre tanks-there technicals (that English, I think). It's Somalians invented that technique, Somalians strong for war like Eritreans, like Rwandese of Kagame (Africans, poor but strong for war, right?). So, Scud 2 they got new weapons, easy to show courage with new terriblific weapons.

President with very-very mad face, he went to France, he went to Soodi Arabia, he went to Switzerland, he went to China, all that to ask for money for top modern weapon an equipment. President, he too-too nervous, gonna die of heart attack cept if God change his heart. On the ground you can feel his big anger cause chiefs don't stop yelling on our back. After that he brought much more draftees into army, even children too young, they children an soldier both, see. These kids they so-so scared cause their chiefs they make em suffer very-very much to obliterate easy life of before. When they go into battle first time, they say: you, kid, go kill off wounded rebel-there, and they give him a pistol to go tockatockatocka. After, they give good hard wash to kid's face with blood of rebel wounded or dead. When little soldier he learns courage and gets fierce, then he can fire bazooka easily at mama papa uncle cousin muezzin an all, believe me faithfully. Little soldier, he too-too dangerous all the time cause he mix up game and battle. He mix life an death with big smile on his face. OK, even with small-small soldiers there, Scud 2 still gaining ground. The goverment they say if Scud 2 winning many battles it's cause French spies gave away plan with lot of information. French spies told em positions, weapons, numbers an all. A goverment like that, debacle they say in military language. Too terrible, even.

ONE, TWO, THREE, WOWWWWW! We're the Mau-Mau, a group of young musicians in love with whirling, turbulent music from the depths of the desert. Blues, guux,* gabay,* and geeraar.* Wowwwwwwwww! We left the city to collect all the sonorities, the overflowing saps, sounds, singularities, songs, noises, tempests, and myths of the country. We went still farther. Alternative rock, reggae, rai , rap, ragamuffin, ska, and sega music hold no secrets for our muddy, moody, and even booted feet. We're the generation who sucked Jamaican music with the milk of our bottle; our birth coincides with the death of the long-haired prince who made the island of the Rastas world-famous. We seek the hypnosis of rhythm, language, song. The art of jubilation. You either are a revolutionary or you'll never be one, said old Victor Hugo. Our greatest reward is when we succeed in making old bodies of forty reel, like our parents, by playing them a piece of salsa, yesterday's pachanga , or a wild rumba, reminding them of the time when they were students abroad. Their tired eyes stare at the corner of a street, a sea horizon, and the unknown that lies at the end of it, a slice of life between Saint-Germain and Montparnasse. Thus we mix generations together — no small deal in this country of ours. We delve far, far down into the mysteries of the past; we bring up yesterday's ashes, delaying tactics and adjournments again and again. We often play stuff from the sixties, seventies, and eighties, old Cuban hits, the Haitians Coupé Cloué, Francis Bebey, or the latest Nat King Cole.

Only yesterday, we met a young Frenchman doing his military service by working abroad in the Coopération, a Corsican from Porto-Vecchio he had us know, who intends to introduce us to the marvels of jazz. With jazz, through the intermediary of a beautiful Steinway piano, he claims we're achieving the democratic ideal so lacking in this country. That jazz ideal is quite simply the emergence of a full, whole individual voice in the heart of a collective voice. We applauded him loudly; we're giving ourselves a few more years to taste and restore the marvels the maestros of jazz have accumulated.

In this cloistered country, we know how, yes! we know how to listen to the melodies of the sea, drink the light, open wide our hearts and eardrums. The goal of all that is to wash the intrigues, rumors, and other nauseating machinations from our fans’ ears. We know how to play the kind of music that dives double-quick into heady bass notes, slips into the meanders of our lead singer's voice, ricochets off the volcanic hills, crosses the Formica seas, dances on the edge of the horizon accompanied by an Affar flute, runs through all of this crushed land, sobs sometimes, alternates onomatopoeias and meaningful lines — putting off till tomorrow the dialectic between business and art — pleases the ear, blurs the eye, and transforms faces to reaffirm spiritual joy through song. One day soon we will succeed in fulfilling our dream: to develop a musical preface to this country in gestation, to herald the time when brand-new knowledge will suddenly burst into bloom. Somehow build a community rooted in the back country of our birth, something like a Rasta retreat camp, an anarchist phalanstery of the kind that existed in 1936 Spain, a pioneer kibbutz, a camp of Zapatistas, a Sufi hermitage, a bivouac under the stars, a Robinson Crusoe island, a cybercafe for immigrants connected to the old country, an Abyssinian monastery like the one near Lalibela, a kraal of Zulu warriors. In short, something unimaginable in the country of our fathers. We will live as rebels, not far from the muffled sound of arms because of this state of neither war nor peace, neither crime nor punishment, neither head nor tail. Perhaps you think we're going off the deep end and abandoning our roots. You are quite mistaken: we're the first band — and the only one to this day — to sing in every language of this place at the same time, and even in the same song, the same breath. We are condemned to bring together all the daughters and sons of Adam, to shed the water of our own sweat to taste the sweat of others, to trade our tears, our saliva, and our rising sap. To unstrap the packsaddle of ignorance that hobbles our fellow countrymen. Believe it or not, we're on the right path, even if it is full of stones. In every village, from north to south and east to west, we're at home everywhere, welcomed warmly everywhere, at ease everywhere, like those iguanas taking the morning sun. As it was in the first days of independence. Our emblem is the tortoise with its repulsive face and age-old wisdom, in contrast to the indolence and emptiness of man. We take over old tunes from history books and make them ours and new again, brilliant and shiny like a four-wheel drive Pajero loaded with options imported from Saudi Arabia. We sample pieces from colonial memory, like this poem from a bard who's both French and Uruguayan: