My Somali teacher

Aside from reading aloud from dusty textbooks, try to recall a single moment when you added anything meaningful to my life. Never—not once—did you explain why it mattered for a child to even attend school. While I was a student, my constant thought was: “When will I outgrow this stick and this endless scolding?” I comforted myself with a fantasy: that one day I, too, would be a powerful teacher wielding a cane, handing out punishment like justice.

I had already concluded early on that school existed for profit. But for whom? Who actually profited? Clearly not us. The ones who benefited were those who built schools like businesses—and the cane-wielders themselves, mostly men, who bullied and belittled students, crushing our dreams before they even formed. Teaching, in their hands, wasn’t a calling born of love or care—it was just a salary. They couldn’t have cared less what kind of human beings they produced or what roles we would play in society.

I often thought of our teacher Jaamac, the king of insults. It was as if he had graduated from a special school where humiliation was the curriculum. He didn’t speak foreign languages well, yet somehow he knew how to insult us in Arabic, English, Swahili, Hindi—even Chinese and Russian! Hurling those words at us seemed to energise him, gave him confidence, as if cruelty was a source of strength.

Most of the teachers were always angry. And tell me: how can you truly learn from someone who radiates rage? All you can do is fear them. Occasionally, they’d be in a good mood. When I was younger, I didn’t understand what made those days so special. Later, my cousin Abdishakur—who had been at the school two years ahead of me—enlightened me: “It’s payday.” The end of the month. The only time the anger softened.

My only hope became endurance. I told myself: “One day, you’ll grow up and be free of all this.” What kept me going wasn’t dreams of high grades or a brighter future—it was the countdown to turning nineteen, the age I would finally leave this school behind. And calling it a “secondary school” is generous. It would’ve been more accurate to name it The Academy of Shame and Exploitation. And yet, as miserable as we were, we were constantly told we were better off than those who never even made it to a school gate.

Maybe there were better schools, better systems. But I’m telling you about my experience—our reality.

The businessmen

As I grew up, I watched tall, glittering buildings rise from the dust like miracles. At first, I was thrilled every time a new structure appeared—especially in our neighbourhood. A new building meant pride, bragging rights. We’d boast to other kids about the growing skyline in our part of town. Back then, we didn’t see city neighbourhoods as random. Your neighbourhood was your clan in concrete form. These were our people, our blood, simply relocated to the capital.

Later, I learned the harsh truth: the very school I had attended had been “built by our clan.” That explained everything—the crooked walls, the lopsided classrooms that resembled storage sheds more than learning spaces. The windows weren’t placed with care or symmetry. No thought was given to the sun’s glare or the direction of the wind. Sometimes, sunlight would flood the blackboard until we couldn’t see a single letter. Other times, hot summer wind would blast through the door, tossing rubbish inside.

Worst of all? The toilets. They were built exactly where the wind carried their stench straight into the classrooms. Now imagine this: it’s June, you’re stressed over exams, already on edge—and you try to take a deep breath, only to suck in a lungful of sour latrine air. Putrid. You wouldn’t be thinking about solving maths problems. You’d be planning your escape.

The roof offered no mercy either. It was just corrugated metal sheets that turned the classroom into an oven. What could a tired child, sweating beneath that roof, being barked at by a teacher with a stick, possibly learn?

Later, I found out that the school was built “so that the family wouldn’t be shamed, and their honour would be preserved.” Apparently, fundraising had been done abroad—money sent by diaspora members to build this place. I looked into it. The funds were enough to build a fully equipped modern school. There would’ve even been enough left to build a second one with six classrooms back in our village.

So then, why wasn’t a beautiful, functional school built for us, if honour was truly the goal?

God protect the innocent—for I had no idea. But it turns out, men with business motives orchestrated the school project. So what can you expect? These same clan members who are now middle-class businessmen became wealthy from building schools like these ones.

“Even if they did get rich, did they ever give back to the clan that made them rich?” That’s another question that haunts me.

I searched for proof—anything they’d given back to the community. Did they dig wells? No. Build water systems? Nope. Fund new schools? Not a chance. Did they establish farms to produce food and provide jobs? Never. Any factories, workshops, or businesses to employ local youth? Absolutely not.

What did they do? They imported luxury: rice from Asia, expensive furniture, building materials, designer clothes—tailored suits and shiny leather shoes.

After enduring the so-called “education” under that demeaning teacher, some of us—those the system hadn’t completely broken—managed to reach the university built by the same institution. And when we finished? Nothing truly ended. We were simply… done. There was no transformation, no promise fulfilled—just an anticlimax wrapped in borrowed celebration.

What awaited us next? Suits. Graduation gowns.

We had grown weary of the cheap, worn-out shirts we scavenged from second-hand markets. And now we were told: “Dress for your future! Wear a suit to honour your achievement!”

What achievement?

How many of us could even afford a suit?

We were meant to be proud—draped in gowns that mocked the emptiness beneath them. But how could we celebrate when everything we studied, everything we sacrificed, had no value in the world we were stepping into?

Our degrees had no currency. Our knowledge opened no doors.

The suit was just another costume—one final lie in a long play of illusions. Maybe there are honest, noble businessmen out there who do good for their people. But I can only speak of what I’ve seen with my own eyes.

The Somali politician

I first became aware of it when I heard people say, “This year, so-and-so is running for office. Let’s unite behind him—he’s from our clan!”

I used to love attending those campaign gatherings where our kin came together. The food and drinks at those events? I never missed them. In those moments, two vivid dreams often played in my mind.

First, I imagined that once this man our clan had elevated to power took office, we’d all flourish. We’d share the meat, the wealth, the good life. At the very least, when we visited his house, he’d serve us meat and hospitality without restraint! I used to hang on to the promises he made during his speeches. Sometimes I thought he was reading directly from the pages of my own heart—because his words reflected the hunger and hopes I carried. Maybe, I told myself, this man will change my life. What I didn’t realise then was that once he secured the seat, he’d cast us aside like old campaign flyers.

My second dream was that one day, I’d grow up, and the clan would rally behind me like this. And when I took power, I wouldn’t forget my people—I’d prioritise their needs, uplift them, and be different from the ones who came before me.

I often wondered: since most of our people live in the countryside, why don’t any politicians ever talk about improving rural life or animal health—the backbone of our economy?

Later, I discovered why.

Reason one: rural folk are seen as guaranteed votes. They’re expected to support their own clan’s candidate, no matter what. There’s no need to waste campaign effort on them.

Reason two: politicians focus their energy on charming urban voters. Endless receptions. Hollow speeches. Flimsy promises. They tailor every word to whoever sits before them, saying what they want to hear, pretending that everyone outside the hall is a threat. They know how to touch every nerve. And then the showmen come—smooth-talking hype-men who lead the applause, shout slogans, and whip the crowd into a frenzy. These cheerleaders? They’re opportunists—parasites in bed with greedy politicians chasing their next payout.

Soon after, you start noticing a tall concrete building going up in your neighbourhood. Curious, you ask who owns it. Surprise—it’s the very politician your clan helped win the seat! Not long ago, he was broke and living in a rented room. No one asks where the money suddenly came from.

Still baffled, you spot two shiny Land Cruisers near the construction site—one guarded by an armed soldier. You think to yourself: “There’s my uncle!” The man whose campaign feast you attended, who patted your head warmly when he heard you were the son of Yusuf Aden. You try to get closer—but his guards raise their rifles.

You yell: “I’m Yusuf Aden’s son! I’m family!” hoping he’ll call them off.

But he doesn’t even flinch. He’s pleased that people fear him. He enjoys being surrounded by armed men. That’s how he measures his success.

Worse still was the day I told myself: if you can’t reach these politicians or businessmen, maybe connect with their children—after all, they’re your cousins, too. I figured perhaps their kids might be different.

But their children aren’t even here. They’re all studying abroad—Malaysia, Turkey, Kenya, India. They’ll never know our hunger. They’ll never share a classroom with a collapsing roof or drink water that makes your stomach churn.

What I now know is this: anyone with a conscience or sense of public duty never even gets a chance in Somali politics.

Politics here isn’t about service—it’s a marketplace where power is traded like livestock, and the buyers are thieves.

So yes—I will migrate.

Not because I hate my country. Because I need to escape my enemies. Their very faces torment me. They strut in stolen suits, flaunting what they took from me and others like me. And when our hunger becomes too visible, they are the first to exploit it—parading our misery on the world stage to beg for aid.

Those international donations? The foreign food? The medical supplies?

They use us—our poverty—as bargaining chips. And when the funds arrive, the elders who gave them power get a small slice. I realised, belatedly, that the feast I once enjoyed—those delicious campaign meals? They were served on my own suffering. The meat was me. I and others like me—drowning in hunger—are the excuse they use to fundraise across the globe.

Now imagine this: the very politician who prospered from my misery is the same one who, as his term ends, returns to me with rice and meat. He comes smiling. “we’re kin! Re-elect me!”

This is the same man who once stroked my head like I was his own child—not out of love, but because my despair was his payday.

Maybe if I migrate, I’ll finally be free of these vampires. People ask: “why do these youth flee the country? Why don’t politicians do something about it?”

Let me tell you something even more painful: they don’t want to stop it. Because migration is a business now. There’s an entire organisation—IOM—that gets projects and funding based on migrant statistics. Every few months, the numbers must be updated: how many youth left, how many died, how many disappeared. Politicians report these figures to donors and say: “we want to help—but we don’t have the resources.” And then—cha-ching—a new cheque is signed.

It gets worse. Sometimes, these same corrupt leaders even fly to Libya—yes, Libya!—under the guise of rescuing migrants. The very people I fled from show up at the detention centre, pretending to save us. Are they really here to rescue us… or just to collect another paycheque from our pain?

Today, as I write this, I’m on a plane leaving Tripoli. I’m being deported. Back to the very land where my dreams died. The people escorting me off this plane? They are the ones who once feasted on my suffering. They forced me aboard like I was cargo—like I was theirs to traffic.

I don’t know what’s next. This is just the way of the world, I suppose. Maybe you—reading this—are living through the same nightmare. Or maybe you’re one of those who once sat at the table, savouring the meat of my despair.