The camel in the sky

All over the world, people carry with them the echo of ancestral tales—stories passed from generation to generation, forming a golden thread of collective memory. The Somali people are no exception. In my early years, I remember vividly the captivating stories we children would gather to hear—not just to entertain, but to sharpen the mind and feed the imagination. Among the tales that shaped our understanding of the world were: 

1. Arraweelo and the Defeated Old Man 

2. Dhegdheer (Long Ear)  

3. Ina Xagaa-dheere (Child of the Long Summer) 

4. Awrka Cirka (The Sky Camel)  

5. Cigaal Shidaad (Cigaal the Troublemaker)  
   … and countless others. 

These were not mere bedtime fables. They held entire worlds of meaning—weaving wisdom into fantasy and insight hidden behind metaphor. They transported the listener beyond the visible, into the realm of imagination and abstract thought. In fact, the depth of Somali storytelling rivals—and sometimes surpasses—what modern fiction and contemporary creative writing have to offer in my opinion.  

One intriguing feature of Somali folklore is how some tales are tied to specific clans or regions. In my view, this connection served a greater purpose: to preserve the story, to anchor it in identity and region. In a society where clan identity carries tremendous weight, associating a tale with a tribe ensured its survival. It created both pride and controversy—fueling debates, accusations, and rebuttals. But all of that only added to the tale’s staying power. This, I believe, was a subtle form of social engineering—a clever way to embed oral history deep within the cultural psyche. 

Take Arraweelo, for instance—rumoured to be a woman from the northern Sanaag region along the Gulf of Aden. Not only does she have a story; she has a real marked grave. And tradition dictates that any man who passes by must throw a stone at it—a gesture that’s lasted generations. That’s not just folklore; that’s design. Dhegdheer, a fearsome cannibal, is linked to the Dhulbahante clan. Her base of operations was a specific cave in Dhulbahante territory, known as the Caves of Xargega. Her legend is immortalised in poetry: 

“Watch out for the caves of Xargega— 
The hungry ones get tied up, 
The curious get bound...” 

Mention Xargega, and minds race back to Dhegdheer. Even contemporary artists like Maryam Mursal have invoked her: 

“The caves of Xargega that we fear— 
I, too, have fled— 
It’s at my centre still…” 

Cigaal Shidaad is claimed by the Ogaden clan. Ina Xagaa-dheere, by the Isaaq. 

Then came 1987 a huge year for Somali sport. Somali running legend Abdi Bile won gold in the 1500 metres at the World Championships. Almost overnight, folklore adapted. Around the same time, the Toyota Land Cruiser pickup truck began dominating Somali roads. Its speed and power? Instantly likened to Bile’s. From then on, any such truck was dubbed “Abdi Bile.” And to this day, in Somali memory, a Land Cruiser isn’t just a car—it’s a sprinting legend on four wheels. Even Mo Farah, the British-Somali Olympic gold medallist, recalled the impact Bile had on him as a boy despite his not knowing at the time what Bile was famous for: “I didn’t even know about athletics, but everybody used to talk about Bile.” 

... 

Now comes one of the most wondrous tales: awrka cirka—“The camel in the sky.” This isn’t just mythical tale. It’s layered with cosmic knowledge. It’s a celestial Somali story, deeply rooted in astronomy rivalling the stories from ancient Greece—and a reflection of how seriously Somalis used to take observation of the heavens. 

The Greeks have their “Southern Stars”—stellar patterns (constellations) that resemble creatures or objects. Among them is crux, shaped like the Christian cross, and Musca, resembling a fly. But astonishingly, both constellations lie within the very neck of the Somali camel in the sky. 

Modern records credit a 16th-century Dutchman with cataloguing these constellations. But it seems Somalis—especially the seafaring Warsangeli clan who reside in the northern Sanaag region just opposite Yemen—had known of these stars long before. This story ties the camel in the sky to them: a clan of ancient sophistication, master shipbuilders who navigated the seas using nothing but stars. 

Back then, boats had no motors, no GPS, mariners used the heavens. They named the stars as they watched the sky. Their frequent journeys across oceans, their trade with distant lands, demanded it. 

So imagine their surprise when they spotted a new silhouette among the familiar constellations—a mirage of a camel etched in starlight, nestled near the navigation stars they called Wadaamo-gooyeyaal (the Cutters of Paths), known to the West as the “Southern Stars.” 

The sighting was quickly passed through the community. The Warsangeli, proud and poetic, declared: This is our camel. None shall claim it before us. 

Now, as Somalis do, a decision had to be made. If this was truly their celestial camel, someone had to reach it. 

So they planned a cosmic ascent. They gathered on the tallest peak in the region, one that would later be called Buur Cir—Sky Mountain. Their plan was to reach the camel by building an audacious human ladder. 

One man climbed onto another’s shoulders, who climbed onto another’s, and so on—until a living tower rose into the heavens. The last man, at the very top, reached the camel… but had forgotten the harness—hogaankii! A call was shouted down the chain. Man by man, the message was relayed, all the way to the bottom. 

The man at the base found the harness and tried to pass it up. But in reaching for it, someone lost balance and the chain collapsed. The ladder of men came crashing down. And yet… the man who had touched the camel did not fall empty-handed. As he tumbled, his hand caught the camel’s tail. But the tail broke off in his grip. 

He landed with a thud and said: “Alas! The earth is far… and the reward is gone.” 

Some say that was the first Somali astronaut. 

So while history credits Yuri Gagarin of the Soviet Union with being the first man in space in 1961… perhaps, just perhaps, the Warsangeli beat him to it. Who’s to say otherwise?