Salt In The Snow

Inside our gate, the house moved in its own rhythm. Someone was always watching. Someone was always correcting. Someone was always laughing too loudly. I was taught how to read and write at four, by my uncle Abti Ma’ow, a journalist who smelled faintly of ink and paper. My hair was braided by my older sister, Awo, and my ears were pierced more than once by aunt Habaryar Farah, who requested permission only after the fact.

Our home felt like a self-contained small village. We lived in two four-bedroom houses, built side by side, that together held three generations – eighteen people in total. A single main gate connected the houses, opening into a shared courtyard that led to a sunken kitchen and dining area, where our days began and ended.

Morning announced itself before anyone spoke.

Just before five, the adhan from the Uunlaaye mosque lifted the dark, reminding us of Fajr, the first prayer of the day. After she prayed, my grandmother Ayeeyo Khadija lit frankincense, and the smoke slipped through our bedroom windows. Then came the aroma of qaxwo, coffee she brewed with cinnamon, cardamom, and ginger. That smell meant it was time to wake up.

We knew the president’s face. His portraits were everywhere, hanging in classrooms and walls all over the city, often beside images of Marx or Lenin. Bold slogans framed them, promoting his version of “scientific” socialism: “Struggle and Progress.” “Unity, Socialism, Prosperity.” What we didn’t yet know was that he was a dictator, or that there was anything uneasy about the words rising so easily from our mouths. When the songs ended and the diritoor gave a short talk about manners, discipline or exams, we quickly filed into our classrooms.

I loved school. I studied hard, followed the rules, and always raised my hand first. Teachers praised me and my parents were proud of my progress, but some of my classmates called me a “show off.” Others were crueler. Their teasing stung more than I let on.

When I told my parents I wanted to fit in, to be accepted, to have more friends, they were firm. “Stay focused,” Hooyo would say. “I don’t send you to school to be popular. I send you to learn.” “Standing a little apart isn’t bad,” Aabe said matter-of-factly.

“Ignore them. As you grow older, you’ll learn to be okay with people not liking you.”