Fear and loathing in Mogadishu

Tensions had been rising around Mogadishu for weeks, and everyone knew it. The opposition had grown increasingly vocal in its criticism of President Hassan Sheikh Mohamud’s handling of the electoral process and was threatening mass demonstrations in a city long burdened by chronic insecurity. The government wanted to confine them to a stadium, where it could contain the political pressure in a controlled environment.

Maintaining security was the government’s overriding concern, officials said. But for much of the city—especially those who earned their living day to day—the prospect of protests meant checkpoints, armed clashes, and consumers tightening their purse strings in anticipation of trouble ahead. The risk of injury or death, should events take a violent turn, could never be entirely discounted, a young shopkeeper in the Mirinayo neighbourhood told me.

He said his name was Farah and that he lived close enough to hear the blasts echoing through the night near former President Sheikh Sharif’s residence. Elsewhere in the city, forces loyal to former prime minister Hassan Khaire were clashing with government forces in Howl Wadaag. “There is no work on days like this,” he said, “most young men sit around and try to find a place to catch glimpses of what is happening.” Down the road from where we spoke, a large BMC Kirpi armoured vehicle was stationed, strictly forbidding people from passing. He said an RPG had hit a terrace just above us, which was visibly damaged.

Few people really cared which constitution was in force, as the government rarely follows its own laws anyway. Nor, for that matter, does anyone I’ve spoken to feel they have a real say in the eventual outcome of the constitution that is adopted or any elections. The conversations dominating the airwaves feel distant to many ordinary Somalis in the capital, who often tell me they simply want to get on with their lives. That isn’t to say they are apolitical, of course, but rather that they feel they have little real leverage.

There is a peculiar tendency in a city that lives on the edge; the existential and the mundane collide almost daily. Vendors still need to sell their products; bajaj drivers still need to ferry residents across the city, and the old men who keep the cafés occupied still need to take their seats and put the world to rights. They were all waiting for the moment when it would eventually snap, and it came at around 4pm on Thursday, when months of careful government messaging suddenly fell apart and armed clashes broke out between forces loyal to former prime minister Khaire and government security forces.

A journalist I know who lives nearby had just returned from moving his family to a safer neighbourhood in anticipation of the clashes when, suddenly, the boom of artillery and the sound of gunfire engulfed his neighbourhood. For the hours that followed he sat within the walls of his small villa, listening as months of pent-up tension was released full force on his street, trapping him inside.

The government’s security forces quickly flooded into the area, setting up a series of checkpoints and cordoning off nearby roads. Khaire, who said he was hosting a delegation sent by the president and a group of clan elders—including one of the most senior Hawiye leaders—to mediate the dispute, blamed the government for launching the initial attack. Much later, the government made a counter-accusation, blaming Khaire. But whoever started it, the incident unleashed an inferno that gripped Mogadishu.

Footage began circulating on social media of people fleeing areas near Khaire’s home, alongside reports of shells hitting civilian areas. One of the most dramatic clips showed a reporter holding a microphone, visibly shaken and on his knees, as he tried to explain what was going on. In the background, the sound of heavy fire was clearly audible and apparently very close.

Ugaas Abdirizak Ugas Abdullahi Ugas Hashi, who was in Khaire’s house, released a video saying they had come under attack, amid efforts to build bridges between the sides and bring about reform. As he said they were being hit by heavy weapons, the sound of gunfire also interrupted his message. By that point, it was clear the situation was out of control. Loud blasts could be heard across the city, and large armoured vehicles and technicals were moving through Mogadishu carrying armed men. It was also night-time, and I’ve always had the sense that things which begin badly in the evening tend to carry a bad omen. Whatever you start doing early in the night often seems to set the tone for how it ends. And my suspicion was correct.

A bit later, reports began to spread that the government would also go after Sheikh Sharif Sheikh Ahmed, a former president who commands one of the largest armed guards and has a profile from his days fighting in the 2000s, which means he is more prepared for violence than the others. Like Khaire, he left the secure airport area earlier in the day, ahead of demonstrations scheduled for the following days. For days, at press conferences, Sharif had been saying that he would not accept a government order to hold protests in specific areas it had designated. One official associated with him told me that it would be “more like a concert than a protest.” It was the surest sign that a stand-off was coming. But when he released a video saying he was not afraid to go toe-to-toe with government forces and that, “If I have a single bullet left, any man that fires at me, I’ll fire back at him,” the direction of travel was clear. In no time another front had opened, and government forces were also fighting in Karaan against Sharif’s men.

For the next twenty hours, the city was gripped by terror. Mortars and artillery fire rained in all directions, and gunfire once again became Mogadishu’s ambient sound. Families fled through the night and into the following morning.

I woke up early the following day and tried to get a sense of things. Maka Al-Mukarrama Road was sealed off by security forces, and most shops were shuttered. The women and men near the Arco di Trionfo Popolare—who usually sell everything from khat to sunglasses—were nowhere to be seen, and even the ubiquitous bajaj had been banished. Bakara Market, the city and country’s largest commercial hub, was empty. A few brave shopkeepers showed up, but even they seemed to be asking themselves the point, given that no one could—or would—come.

In a Facebook post, Ali Wardheere, Somalia’s deputy central bank governor, said the losses accumulated during the day were estimated at no less than $3.8 million, while noting that this was not an official figure. That is huge for a country already struggling with inflation exacerbated by the wider war in the Middle East, and a humanitarian crisis that has veered dangerously close to famine in some parts of the country.

In the Hodan district, large crowds of young men, whose means of livelihood were likely disrupted again, came out to see what was happening. We could still hear blasts and explosions, while most of Mogadishu felt like a ghost town. Other than this adrenaline-chasing crowd, there was no one else—just us, fighters in the distance, and soldiers stationed around. “This is like a film,” one young man told me. They were gathered at an intersection leading down to Howl Wadaag, where Khaire was holed up, surrounded by government forces.

People had sadly grown used to this level of chaos. A police officer I briefly spoke to—who reprimanded me for taking photos—said this was what elections brought, appearing to argue that democracy itself produced instability and should, for now, be set aside altogether. “We are not ready yet; our politicians have a power which they don’t use responsibly,” he said.

As we stood watching the young men on the hill leading down to a government checkpoint, more blasts rang out. An elderly woman then appeared, injured, carried through the crowd by a group of young men. They forced her into a bajaj to take her to hospital after what appeared to be a stray bullet struck her leg. Her child was carried by a cousin, who told us they had been unable to leave all night due to the fighting.

By morning, the embassies, who represent the international community, had issued their statements. There isn’t, of course, much else they can do, despite the occasional disappointment with what they have to say. “The violence unfolding in Mogadishu is reckless,” the US embassy said. “Somali leaders on all sides have a responsibility to preserve stability and resolve differences through peaceful means.” IGAD and the African Union called for de-escalation and dialogue. And by late morning former president Farmaajo, who is a more reclusive figure than the other former leaders, warned the government too.

Farmaajo’s statement in particular was interesting. He recalled that a similar incident had taken place in 2021 when he was president, and then-opposition leader Hassan Sheikh Mohamud was campaigning against what would have amounted to an extension of Farmaajo’s term. Mohamud developed new ways to challenge and undermine Farmaajo’s authority—from protests to direct clashes—eventually forcing him to compromise on the electoral model, which ultimately handed Mohamud a victory. Maybe he is aware of what the current cohort of opposition politicians are doing, and that is why he doesn’t want to compromise?

In any case, Mohamud now appears to have taken on a completely different persona from who he was then. Abdirahman Abdishakur, another opposition leader, has frequently pointed out that Mohamud was once alongside them, highlighting how jarring his transformation has been—from a leader who spoke of the need for Somalia to be at peace with itself and the world, to one of the leading instigators of conflict nationwide. The defence minister, Moallim Fiqi, has likened the opposition to the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces (RSF), and all signs suggest that he wanted to deal with them that way. As I was walking home, a young man I encountered said it was Khaire’s good fortune that the clan elders were there, since Mohamud might well have flattened his home.

“For more than 20 hours, Hassan Sheikh Mohamud has directed a sustained and indiscriminate military assault with the apparent objective of killing me, former President Sheikh Sharif Sheikh Ahmed, dozens of respected traditional elders, and other political leaders in Mogadishu,” Khaire said the next morning.

The breakdown of political trust will certainly be one major issue. I always wonder how you get back into a room with someone who has previously tried to kill you—or, more precisely, spent an entire night trying. But I suppose that is an occupational hazard in the quest for power in Mogadishu. Nuruddin Farah, the prominent Somali novelist, in his book Links, once described it as “cloak-and-dagger, man-eat-man politics”. More broadly, you can’t help but feel that the disputes between political figures, and the issues driving them—despite their enormous impact on everyone who calls Mogadishu home—belong to some distant, stratospheric plane. A world where the justice minister, after fighting that literally stopped the city for almost a day, can declare that the “land is at peace” and that there are no rival troops fighting.