“That’s what’s wrong with your generation, Abdirahman.”  Adeer said.

“You’ve become globalists and have forgotten your dhakan”

I wonder if it’s ironic he’s speaking to me mainly in English? But we both knew why. Being able to speak English is a high indicator of status in this area.

I got comfortable for my lesson, having similar discussions with other Adeers. The waiter brings our drinks. A perfect time. Perhaps a small pity from Eebe.

He turned fully towards me now. We were sitting on the patio at a café that’s frequented by diaspora. A conversation Swedish over there, courting in German there. And what sounds like Dutch over here.

The sun was finally giving way after a long day, and the cool breeze of the evening was now a welcome relief.

“You don’t even know the troubles that inflicts your own people.” He continued. “You’d just as likely side with Ethiopia, one of our oldest rivals. The ones who would keep us divided and docile.”

I tried to interject, offer some debate; but I was quickly brushed aside. My time in Canada apparently stripped me of knowledge regarding my ancestral home and the complex geopolitical situation ailing our people.

“Do you know how much khat we buy from them? We give them three million dollars a day! A DAY! US DOLLARS! His voice raised with passion and indignation at the prospect of having Ethiopia be our betters and have the ability to dominate us.

“What a waste.” he trailed off as he shook his head.

He took a couple of sips from his tea, smacking his lips each time.

A quick relief from his tirade and reenergize.

I did the same, no longer completely shocked at the incredibly sweet concoction. Perhaps I’ve gotten used to the astronomical sugar to tea ratio of this broadly loved drink.

A friend once joked that making this level of sugar illegal would half the serious condition that’s plagued us.

He began again, the tea working its magic.

“Do you know how much they interfere in our internal affairs! Haa dheh.”

A statement I was simply meant to acknowledge.

“Haye” I meekly said, hoping that was the proper response.

“Giving financial support to one group. Providing intel to another. Quelling the growing influence of the more powerful.”

“Always sowing discord. Constantly Destabilizing. With the idiots falling for it and fighting each other e-v-e-r-y t-i-m-e.” tapping the table with his index finger to each syllable.

“And where is your beloved UN in all this? World governments that are meant to help us? Halkee?”

Another false question.

“Anaa kuu shegayo.”

“They give us food when it rains.”

“Anything they teach and give is to dull our self-sufficiency….”

As he was continuing, a young man in his mid-twenties came to our table. His striped blue shirt neatly tucked under his belt. Crisped, creased, black pants without the tell-tale red sign of someone who walks. Only his shoes giving away his still lowly status of not using a car.

How does he manage to keep all that dust from him? I wondered.

“Adheer, waakan wixi aad rabtay.”

Placing the familiar bundled green plant on the table. His gift acknowledged with a nod.

He looked at me. The cultural convention of acknowledgement in play.

“Sidee aad tahay” putting out his hand for me to shake.

“Waan fiicanaha” I responded as I took his hand.

With a slight smirk, he turned back towards Adheer. My subterfuge apparently ineffective.

“Mawduuci aan ka wada hadalnay, side ayay u socotaa?” Adeer was asked.

“WFP waxaad bilaabeysa Isnintan.”

…”Laakin haan iloobin cidda ku keenay. Ma fahmeysaa? The young man was now asked.

He nodded knowing what that meant.

Adheer took a large sip of his tea and stowed the bundle for later enjoyment.