A day in Mogadishu

08/09/2026

I sit on the chilly balcony of the 3B Lodge in Eldoret. The cold evening air bites softly as I sip my hot milk tea, waiting for dinner.

I scroll through Facebook to pass time. A headline grabs my attention: Georgina Rodriguez ditching her engagement ring to show off a massive £56 million Chopard diamond set at the Venice Film Festival.

My mind immediately starts converting the cash.

£56 million is roughly $75 million USD. What could that kind of money actually do in Somalia? How many boreholes could it drill?

I opened Gemini and ran the numbers. The answer was staggering:

"Injecting $75 million directly into local water and farming projects could turn dry, drought-stricken lands into green, food-producing communities that no longer rely on emergency aid.

By building 1,200 solar-powered water wells and digging 350 kilometers of solar-pumped irrigation canals, this investment would deliver free, sun-powered water year-round to over 6 million farmers and herders. That reliable supply of water would bring roughly 75,000 acres of dry dirt back to life."

This world is wildly unbalanced. One person’s red-carpet accessory is an entire nation’s lifeline.

It brought me right back to the Quran:

إِنَّا جَعَلْنَا مَا عَلَى الْأَرْضِ زِينَةً لَّهَا لِنَبْلُوَهُمْ أَيُّهُمْ أَحْسَنُ عَمَلًا

"Indeed, We have made that which is on the earth as an adornment for it, in order that We may test them as to which of them is best in deed."

The word linabluwahum ("that We may test them") hits deep. Wealth isn't an honor, and poverty isn't a disgrace. Both are just variables in our personal exams.

Lately, I catch myself translating every massive figure I read into real-world local impact. I waste hours calculating player wages.

Take Gabriel Martinelli, who just left Arsenal for the Saudi Pro League. He was making £9.36 million a year at Arsenal, about £180,000 a week. Now Al Hilal will pay him more than double: over €20 million a year.

Looking at those figures, my mind races. What if I opened a football academy in Somalia? It’s massive business. What if I sent one of my boys to an elite academy in Europe?

Then reality pulls me right back down to earth. You’re ambitious, I tell myself with a quiet laugh. You’re working hard just to handle school fees at Ileys Academy in Mogadishu, and here you are building football academies in your head! Ya Allah.

The waiter steps up to the table and hands me the bill.

My daydream ends, and life goes on…

17/02/2026

Celebrating my 5th year on Facebook. Thank you for your continuing support. I could never have made it without you. 🙏🤗🎉

15/12/2025

If you want to understand the realities of the NGO world, this is a must-read.

I genuinely believe that most people who come to Africa to work for NGOs arrive with good intentions. Many studied development, politics, economics or global issues because they wanted to make a difference. They wanted to work for social justice, to reduce poverty, to empower women, children, people with disabilities and those pushed to the margins. I do not doubt that this was the starting point for the majority. But having lived and worked across Southern and West Africa for decades, in Botswana, Malawi, Nigeria and now Zambia, I have watched how quickly those intentions can become diluted, distorted and in some cases lost altogether.

What often happens is that people enter a bubble. The NGO world becomes a parallel society. They all know each other, socialise together, marry within the same circles and move as a group from country to country. In places like Blantyre, where I lived for a time, and now in Livingstone, this bubble is easy to spot. Branded four by fours, the same hotels, the same restaurants, the same social spaces. The people they claim to serve are rarely part of their social world. Africans exist in their lives mainly as beneficiaries, drivers, cleaners or staff, not as friends, equals or neighbours. Work is one thing, real life is another, and the two are kept firmly separate.

This separation matters. It creates emotional distance. It allows people to speak about poverty, vulnerability and empowerment in abstract terms while living lives of extraordinary comfort relative to the communities around them. I am not suggesting anyone should take vows of poverty, but there is something deeply uncomfortable about fighting inequality by day and retreating into insulated privilege by night. Power becomes addictive. Proximity to ministers, donors and international influence brings status. And somewhere along the line, the original purpose gets blurred.

I have heard directly from Zambian friends who worked at senior levels in international organisations, including the WHO, that genuinely transformative ideas were sometimes quietly discouraged. Not because they would not work, but because real solutions threaten the system itself. If a problem is solved, the programme ends. If the programme ends, the jobs disappear. So progress must be measured, but never too much. Enough to justify funding, not enough to remove the need for the organisation. Poverty becomes something to manage rather than eradicate.

This is how well intentioned people slide into white saviourism without realising it. A community of foreigners, from Europe, North America, Australia or elsewhere, with different languages and cultures, but united by whiteness. A blob that exists alongside African society rather than within it. And the tragedy is that this was never most of their intention.

That said, I know there are exceptions, and they matter. I know genuinely ethical organisations and individuals here in Zambia who live in the community, work with people not over them, and build relationships rooted in dignity rather than hierarchy. I can name some, which in itself is worrying because they should not be exceptional. I also know many local NGOs doing extraordinary work quietly, without glossy branding or international applause. And I know white foreigners who actively reject the bubble, who have deep friendships with Zambians, who listen more than they speak and who use their access to amplify local voices rather than drown them out.

Those people exist. They comment on my posts. They challenge injustice alongside Africans, not in front of them. They are allies, not saviours.

The problem is not NGOs as a concept. The problem is what happens when good intentions meet comfort, power and insulation. If you truly want to work for justice, you cannot live in a parallel universe. You have to step out of the bubble. You have to allow yourself to be changed by the place you claim to serve.

15/12/2025

15/12/2025

I was inside the big Hodan Hospital in Mogadishu, right by the mosque. That's where I ran into them: two boys, fast and focused, trying to get my attention. They were shoe-shiners.

​"Shine, sir? Give us your shoes!" they called out.

​Even though my shoes were clean, they wouldn't quit. They needed the money, that was clear. City life is tough, and they were hustling hard. I gave them the shoes.

​After I finished praying, I went back. The shoes weren't ready, so I sat on an empty chair to wait.

​Next to them, two bicycles leaned against the wall. One big, one small.

​"Who owns the bikes?" I asked the younger boy.

​He proudly pointed to the small one. "That one is mine. We ride them every day because we live way out in Tabeelaha—the farthest part of the city."

​He was eager to talk. He told me he bought his little bike for $30, but he needed cash now, so he’d sell it for $20. Life had taught him how to survive. He even offered me a $3 discount if I had kids who could use it.

​Then, I noticed it. A terrible, fresh burn on his hand, bright red and painful.

​"What happened?" I asked, my voice low.

​The boy's face went flat. The story he told was shocking.

​"I was playing last night," he said. "I threw my shoe and it hit a man who was fixing his motorcycle nearby."

​The man caught him. And then, the terrible part: "He grabbed my hand and pressed it right onto the hot exhaust pipe of the bike."

​I felt sick. The cruelty was unbelievable. A grown man hurting a child like that.

​And what happened after? The man just took the boy to a chemist to get the burn wrapped up. That was it. No police, no real consequences.

​Today, the boy couldn't use his hurt hand to shine shoes. His friend was doing the polishing, and his only job was to stand there and collect the shoes from people going into the mosque.

​It broke my heart. This young boy, who cycles across the city and tries to sell his bike to survive, now carries a scar from a grown-up's cruel temper.

08/12/2025

If you walk into the Safari Hotel at sunset, you’ll see him. Dressed in a sharp suit with a perfectly knotted tie, you’d be forgiven for thinking he just stepped out of the Prime Minister’s office. His friends even call him "Wasiir" (the Minister).

​But the "Minister" has no office. He has no job. He sleeps through the heat of the day and wakes up at 5:00 PM to put on his costume of success. His "workday" is sitting at a cafe table.

Over evening tea, Diiriye is the king of the conversation. He has an opinion on everything. Whether it’s the complexities of Somali federalism, the war in Gaza, or why Liverpool is losing in the English Premier League, Diiriye wins the argument.

​He preaches a modern narrative to the younger crowd. "The youth must be free-minded!" he declares, striking the table. "We must move past tribal lines!"

​But the mask slips quickly. When a man across the table questions the competence of a real government minister, noting the official's poor mastery of Arabic during a global discussion, Diiriye’s face turns red.

The "modern" thinker vanishes, replaced by a tribal defender. "You are only saying that because you are against my tribe!" he shouts.

The heated argument is only stopped by the Adhan (call to prayer). As the sun sets, the men rush to the small, crowded washing area, and Diiriye joins the long line.

​By 9:00 PM, his friends stand up to leave, and that is when the real Diiriye appears. "Ahmed, please cover my bill," he says with a smooth, practiced smile.

"You know, things are a bit dry for me these days." He justifies the request with a joke, and his friend pays.

​Once the bill is settled, Diiriye doesn't go home. He heads to a local sports complex where the lights stay on late.

He spots a group playing Ladu and sits down as if he belongs there. He starts supporting one of the players with high energy, even though he knows none of them.

The men at the table look at each other, wondering, "Who is this guy?" But blending in with strangers is a skill Diiriye has mastered. It is his survival tactic in the city.

​As he leaves the game, Diiriye spots Jimcale walking away from the football field. Three months ago, Jimcale lent Diiriye money on the promise it would be paid back in two weeks.

Diiriye has been ignoring Jimcale’s calls ever since. Diiriye quickly hides in the crowd, turning his face away.

Jimcale, exhausted after his game, walks right past him without noticing.

​Diiriye survived today. He kept his suit clean, his stomach full, and his debts unpaid.

But as he walks into the night, you have to wonder: how long can a man survive on borrowed time?

08/12/2025

Mogadishu at 4:00 PM is a symphony of dust, heat, and the persistent hum of three-wheeled taxis. Most people see a Bajaaj and think of convenience or a nuisance in traffic. But if you sit long enough - and in Mogadishu, you will sit - the driver’s seat becomes a confessional.

​Today, I’m stuck at the Sey Biyano checkpoint. We’ve been motionless for forty minutes. My driver is a young man, barely into his twenties, with eyes that seem much older than his face. He grips the handlebars, not out of aggression, but exhaustion.

​"You know what?" he says, staring at the exhaust pipe of the vehicle in front of us. "My wife won’t believe me when I go home tonight. I’ve only made $10 the whole day."

​He gestures to the gridlock stretching toward the horizon. "She doesn't see this. She doesn't know I spent four hours today just sitting at checkpoints, watching the fuel needle drop. And the owner? He doesn't care about the traffic. He wants his $15 daily rental fee, non-negotiable. That is the life I am in. I'm working just to pay for the right to work."

​The conversation takes a darker turn as the heat becomes unbearable. He mentions Tahriib, the dangerous illegal migration toward Europe. It’s a word that haunts every Somali household.

​"Sometimes," he whispers, "I am tempted. But I know it’s not easy. I think of my friend who fell into the hands of the Magafe (human traffickers). His family had to sell the only house they owned, their only shelter, just to buy his life back from the kidnappers. I look at my family, and I realize I can’t put them through that. I’d rather be stuck here than in a cage in the desert."

​Suddenly, his emotional wall crumbles, replaced by the immediate instinct of a city driver. A rival Bajaaj wedges its nose into a tiny gap ahead of us.

​"Ooh, sorry!" he snaps back to the present, his eyes darting to the mirror. "That Bajaaj took our spot. I have to push in; this lane is moving better." He offers a wry, self-aware smile. "You know, we Bajaaj drivers are part of the problem. We create the very traffic we complain about."

​As we finally reached my destination, his story remained unfinished. But as I stepped out, I realized his story is the narrative of an entire generation of Somali youth. They are caught in a cycle of high daily costs, urban congestion, and the desperate lure of migration.

​When we look at a traffic jam in Mogadishu, we aren't just looking at cars; we are looking at young men trying to navigate the thin line between an honest living and the dangerous unknown. Our youth need more than just "hustle" they need infrastructure and economic security that doesn't force them to choose between a checkpoint and the hands of a Magafe.

04/12/2025

The music is loud at Caways restaurant on Maka‑almukarama road.

The place is alive, lit with laughter and the voice of a young girl singing Saado Cali’s timeless song “Liibaan maleh adduunyadu.” Everyone sways with the rhythm, but not Bilal. His silence is heavy, and perhaps we should not blame him.

Bilal carries the weight of responsibility.

He is the eldest in a family of eight. For thirty years, his parents raised their children in the residential quarters of the former Somali National University — Jamacada Umada. They never owned land, only survived through odd jobs, scraping together enough to keep the family afloat.

A month ago, that fragile stability collapsed. The government, backed by powerful business interests, evacuated families from the area. Bilal’s family lost the only home they had ever known. With his father too ill to provide, and no money for rent, they sought shelter with relatives. But space was scarce. Bilal now lives apart from his family, displaced not just from his home but from the closeness that once defined them.

He is a university graduate, yet three years of searching for work have yielded nothing. Hope has thinned. The eviction only deepened the wound.

As the music swells, a friend taps his shoulder: “Bilal, enjoy the moment. Nights like this are what we live for.” Bilal forces a smile, but inside he wonders, how can one enjoy the moment when life’s realities refuse to let go, even for a single night?