Masquerade

MOHAMED WA BAILE

Copyright © 2014 Mohamed Wa Baile

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1-50034-596-2 ISBN-13: 978-1-500-34596-9

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated

to the people of Pan-Africa,

in particular to Sira and Ma,

and as always to my daughter Rahima and my son Ayaan.

CONTENTS

Foreword i

1 What Is Written Happened 1

2 What Happened Happened 15

3 What Happened Was Executed 49

4 What Was Executed Was Intended 64

5 Today Is Today 76

6 What Was Intended Had A Reason 108

7 Everything Happens For A Reason 153

8 Every Reason Matters 180

9 What Matters Cannot Be Ignored 201

10 Travel To Learn 227

11 She Flies With Her Own Wings 295

12 There Is No Distance That Has No End 400

Glossary 428

Nobody can teach me who I am.

You can describe parts of me,

but who I am and what I need is something I have to find out myself.

Chinua Achebe

---

Remember, any work you submit in which people look filthy and

miserable will be referred to as the ‘real Africa’, and you want that on

your dust jacket. Do not feel queasy about this: you are trying to help

them to get aid from the West. The biggest taboo in writing about

Africa is to describe or show dead or suffering white people.

Binyavanga Wainaina, How to Write About Africa

---

Man is a yes… Yes to life. Yes to love. Yes to generosity.

But man is also a no. No to scorn of man. No to degradation of man.

No to exploitation of man. No to the butchery of what is most

human in man: freedom.

Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks

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FOREWORD

This story takes place in the 21st century, in Pan-Africa and

Europe. Pan-Africa is a politically and economically unified and

culturally integrated Africa. Only Abyssinia stands apart from a

united Africa. Historical accounts of the birth of Pan-Africa vary, so

here is the true version of the story.

A Brief History of Pan-Africa

Long ago, foreigners captured Africans and sold them as

property, creating the world’s largest trading market in human lives

and labor. Africans were torn from their homelands and forced to

work for their new masters on foreign soil; most never saw Africa

again. Even after Africans joined hands and defeated the slavers, and

the world recognized the barbarity of the institution, foreigners

continued to prey on Africa, and stole the land of the African

peoples. African land was distributed to non-Africans, without

consent or remuneration, and outsiders plundered the continent’s

natural resources, mining for metal, gold, diamonds and oil, in order

to fill their storehouses, fuel their transports, and fight their wars.

There were many fine things that could be found in Africa.

Foreigners wanted them by all means. So they conquered, and killed,

and divided a great continent into tiny, senseless countries. They split

apart families, divided tribes, and destroyed traditional systems of

governance, agriculture, and culture.

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ix

The Pan-African movement formed soon after Africa was divided

among the imperial powers at the Berlin Conference of 1885.

Africans on the continent and in diaspora, from Tunisia to South

Africa, and from North and South America and the Caribbean joined

hands to defeat the Colonial powers and unite the African people.

They fought with a spirit of unity, and created a global movement for

equality and self-determination. Their rebellions, the Babaata, the

Maji-Maji, and the Mau-Mau, were legendary. Their leaders included

Marcus Garvey, W. E. B. Du Bois, George Padmore, and Kwame

Nkrumah. Their politics linked the independence struggles of the

African peoples to the fight for national independence in the

Caribbean, the civil rights struggles in the United States, and

antiracist movements all over the world.

Eventually the movement was successful in throwing out the

colonial powers. By 1994, Africans in all the artificial little

“countries” had taken control of their own lands again. But foreign

powers still exerted economic control over Africa. The only way to

fight those powerful forces was to unite, not just economically, but

socially and culturally. Africa had to protect herself. The Pan-Africans

knew that a divided Africa could never protect herself. Visionary

African leaders erased all those artificial borders and united the

continent, building Pan-Africa.

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How Artificial “Countries” Joined Pan-Africa

Pan-African leaders and supporters lobbied for a referendum, so

the people of Africa could vote on uniting into one strong nation. In

some countries, black rulers did not want to put their thrones to the

test. Before political independence, white people had been the

masters and amassed wealth for themselves. After political

independence, foreigners were forced to share the stolen resources of

Africa with African tribal leaders turned dictators, and who were

sometimes worse than the foreigners had been. In these counties,

African civilians fought long and aggressive wars against the ruling

elites.

In the end, referendums dissolved all those artificial borders

except those of the Banana Republic and Abyssinia, where

referendums were not held. These hold-outs kept to one-party

systems without sound opposition. In other states, opposition parties

joined hands and rallied the people to revolt until their dictators

finally gave up, or their states totally collapsed. Some deposed leaders

fled to their masters in Europe, others fell into their graves at home.

In the year 2000, Pan-Africa hoisted its tri-colour flag of red, black

and green.

Three years later, even the people of Banana Republic accepted

this call: “We share the same history and the same destiny. We want

unity for all continental Africa!” Before it collapsed, the government

of the Banana Republic held its referendum, and in 2003, the Banana

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Republic decolonized its borders and joined the rest of the continent.

Swahili became the official national language of Pan-Africa, though

its people spoke many languages. Africa became a single market, and

declared the Pan-African Birr (PAB) its currency. Africans travel

freely throughout the nation, but still need a visa to visit Abyssinia.

Many religions flourish, from the foreign faiths of Moses, Jesus and

Mohammed, to African religions roots that worship the Great

Goddesses Iset and Orisa.

Governance

Pan-Africa consists of five majimbo (counties). The first rulers of

the five majimbo were respected chiefs elected to the position of

Wajumbe wa Serikali (Chiefs of States): Mjumbe Mandela of southern

Africa; Mjumbe Kenyatta of eastern Africa; Mjumbe Nkurumah of

western Africa; Mjumbe Lumumba of central Africa; and Mjumbe

Gaddafi of northern Africa. Each of the five majimbo has ten baraza

(councils) and The Bunge, its own independent parliament. Members

are elected for seven-year terms, and can run continuously until they

reached the age of 65. Uhuru Party currently has the most

representatives in all five majimbo. The Bunge Pan-Afrika is the main

national parliament, where representatives of all baraza meet. It is at

the centre of African civilization, the capital of Pan-Africa, in the

home of Pharaohs in Kemit, near the world’s first cultural highway,

the Nile River. Here, a president from one of the five wajumbe is

elected every three-and-a-half years.

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The Pan-African Mission

The Pan-African movement focuses on strengthening democracy,

and fights the colonial mentality that still haunts many of African

leaders. It is dedicated to disarming the militias that still plague many

counties like the Haramu group of eastern county, terrorising

civilians in an attempt to gain political power by force. Many Africans

applaud the progress made by current leaders like Robert Mugabe of

Southern County and Adeela Ruhuma Rahima of Central County.

Adeela continues the work of Lumumba, building first-class

infrastructure, which is why she is known as Nkosuohemaa (Queen

of Development), and is also called, “The Flame of Hope.” Africans

honour Mugabe for ending economic apartheid when he took over

from Mandela. Mugabe is known as Umkhonto we Sizwe (Spear of

the Nation) for his important service. Mugabe is the current president

and Ruhuma is the deputy president. Both leaders believe Africa can

prosper without begging for foreign aid. Both leaders maintain Africa

has the potential to feed itself and the world.

But many Africans are weary of negative tribalism, corruption and

poverty. They keep asking: “What’s the use of Pan-Africanism?”

They are tired of WaBenzi (the Big Men of Africa) many of whom

will still sell out their country for a Mercedes-Benz. But Africa is

growing stronger, politically and economically. She is changing for

better. The single market keeps her economically strong, and her

voice is heard around the world, even though many of the ugly

stereotypes of Africans—the ones that depict them as ugly,

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intellectually underdeveloped, and uncivilized—are still in place

inside and outside Africa’s borders.

Political and economic independence has been already won. But,

socially and culturally, Africa must still guard herself. In schools,

young Africans are reading Pan-African history books, including the

UNESCO General History of Africa and the works of Frantz Fanon.

Scholarly books, like those of Cheikh Anta Diop, stress that, from

prehistory, through the Kemitian era, into the Middle Ages, and

beyond, black African civilizations were among the most advanced in

the world, and influenced the development of other civilizations and

later societies. Recovering the history of Africa has taken a very long

time, and there is still much work to be done. When imperialist

interventions stripped Africa of her power, her connections to her

past were ripped away, and must now be reconstituted. Library

shelves are expanding quickly with works by Pan-African historians

and story-tellers. Masquerade is one such story. It takes place in the

Eastern County of Africa, in the city of Kalamu, which was once part

of the Banana Republic dictatorship.

Aluta continua.

1

1

WHAT IS WRITTEN HAPPENED

Stop and think. Reading helps me achieve this goal. I like reading. It’s

more than entertainment. It’s more than watching. I was lucky to have

access to literature. I was also lucky enough to have a grandmother who

was a stimulating storyteller. She was one of my prophets. Every story

I heard from her, or read from a book, gave me a glimpse into other

realities. This is the power of storytelling I believe. Stories give me new

ways of seeing and thinking. Storytelling is my religion.

From Sira’s notebook, 1st of March

Where should I begin? Lililoandikwa lilitokea, what is written happened.

Life is made of tests. Test after test. This is true. That day changed

everything. What happened? First things first. What happened had

happened. No one can change what happened. That is life. She could

not change her life, as she had once wished. For a long time she did

not know how she could live after what had had happened to her.

What happened, happened so quickly that it took a long time to feel

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2

it. She was raped, and this embarrassed her so much she thought for

long time she could never reveal this chapter of her life.

In the end, she wrote her story because she needed to tell it.

There were already many stories to indulge in, out of lonesomeness

or for pleasure. But her story was stranger than fantasy, so she

thought people might think was new. She told the tale of how she

first became a woman, and then turned black, neither by choice. She

wrote it in her strongest voice. This was the voice of a lioness who

lived in a world of savage people in primitive masks.

There is a saying: “Until the lioness tells her tale, the story of the

hunt will always glorify the hunter.” She liked this proverb. But even

telling her story would not restore her. She had lived among children

of violence who wore grotesque masks to uncover themselves. She

wanted to share. Oh yes, she did.

One day, shortly after dawn, a Bob Marley song played.

Good friends we have, oh, good friends we’ve lost

Along the way

In this great future,

You can’t forget your past

So dry your tears, I say

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3

Without warning, nobody knew what was coming. There was

chaos. It was awfully loud. Panicked screams, followed by cracks of

Kalashnikovs. Books thrown off tables. Tables and beds crushed.

Chaos. Angry voices. The noises grew thunderous. Kalashnikovs

cracked like sewing machines. Pause.

No woman no cry

Real life is tough. Her memory played like videotape. Her story

was not meant to be a tragedy. Of course, she tried to keep it to

herself. She tried. But no one could keep such a story secret. She told

her truth, for better or worse. She couldn’t just let go, so she shared

her fears, hopes and dreams. The most painful thing is that it

happened over her body.

“Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t.” She thought she was going to

die. A hairy chest pressed against her back and his thick fingers

clawed between her legs. Gorilla fingers. Oh Iset. His pizzle touched

her. Help me Iset. She was frozen by that gruesome thing inside her.

Life could be this painful. Rape? Mother Iset, have mercy. Too

painful. It hurt to have such a thing inside her. Her heart pounded;

his too. She felt his foul heat and smelled his stinky breath puffing

from his large nostrils, like a sewer. Nothing more. She could not

stop him. He was aggressive. Too aggressive.

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His large arms held her too tight. He was deep and wild in her.

Her skin was tearing to pieces. She felt ripped apart. “Ah. Ah. Ah.

Ah.” He roared and moved faster, pressed harder. “Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah.

Ah.” He roared and the bed squeaked. “Ah. Ah. Ah.” Noisy.

Shaking. Tight. He panted and pushed her madly. “Ah. Ah,” he cried.

He had a bad smell of liquor. He grabbed her buttocks hard. “You’re

so hot you’d bust a thermometer.” But she was not hot. She was ice

cold and frightened to death. She was powerless. Defeated. She

thought she was dying. She could not save herself. She could not take

it anymore. You want to rape me? OK, rape. But I will go away. Sira

stopped fighting. He went on. This was the worst day of her life. She

pressed her eyes closed and left him behind. Aaaargh. The heavens

opened and swallowed her and she was filled with sadness.

I’ll never see my mother again. I won’t even say goodbye to Ma. I want to see

her before I die. She’s the best person in this world. What will Kah think of me?

My exam results, I hope she brings them to my mother. Ma will be alone. Who

will wash my filth away? Where will I be buried? I want to be buried near my

father and sister. There’s space between them. Bury me between Ba and Mara. I

am ready to go back to my Goddess.

Why are you doing this? She looked down at a movie playing, far

below. A huge body danced behind a small girl as if it was possessed

by an evil spirit. This muscled animal body pressed against a tiny

student who leaned with her hands on a bed. She wore black leather

Bata shoes and white socks. His trousers were down, her skirt rucked

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5

up. She was squeezed from both sides. Her body was held tightly;

dominated, possessed. He dug his thick fingers into her flesh. His

claws hurt. He crushed her. A remote control paused the tape. When

it started again she heard him say: “Hot. Ah.” He laughed and curled

against the girl. Exhausted. Satisfied. He was done. Someone hit eject

on the remote control. She could not hold herself anymore and fell

from the heavens.

“You’ve a fine ass.” He sounded amused; she felt sick. He walked

away, without looking back.

Everything happens so quickly, before I can feel it: the words of Rajathi

Salma, the Indian poet.

She let herself down and lay on the cold, ceramic-tiled floor, next

to Kah’s bed. She was terrified. Do you know what you’ve done to my life?

She could be HIV-positive. No! No! This can’t happen to me! The ocean

air was too thick to breathe. Tiny drops of sweat covered her skin.

The dormitory was hot as a frying pan. She was not alone with him.

A man lay on top of Mary. She did not share a room with Mary. The

man and Mary were on her bed on the other side of the room. She

looked at them. Why are you doing this? Mary was motionless. The man

on Mary saw her stare. There was no humanity in his eyes. He had a

monstrous mask on his face. He looked really dangerous. Heartless.

That was how he really looked. A threat to life. Her soul was tested.

Horrifying.

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What would happen if I stand up? What would happen if I just lay here?

What can I to do? I need help. I’ll die here.

“You bitch, don’t look at me,” he said.

She was already in a coffin.

Should I carry on breathing, if I’m not really here? Rajathi Salma, again.

Souls fled far and deep across the forest. Some fled to the

horizons. Some never returned. Everything was quiet. She was dead.

That was what she wanted to believe. The evening breeze from the

sea brushed against her bare feet like a breath.

She should run away. No, no, no. She was calm and distant, even

after the man got off Mary and left. When all the gorillas left in a

clatter of obscenity and laughter, she tried to stand up. She looked

for help. The room stank of alcohol. She got to her feet and went

out. How could this happen? The world made no sense at all. It rarely

did, but still she did not expect this. She thought of her murdered

sister and father. Who would help her? Surely not God, if he or she

existed. They say God is everywhere; if it is so, then God is weak like

a human being.

Why did you do that? Do you know what you’ve done to my life?

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7

What kept her alive? She felt pain. She had seen death. Too weak

to defend herself, she had been robbed of her soul. So much

violence. The blood ran between her legs like the tears down her

cheeks. If only she could drift away, be somewhere else.

Seven years ago, the year she got her period, hundreds of armed

big boys attacked her hometown. She and Ma, and Ma’s friend,

Masha, had gone out of town to visit a relative who gave birth in a

hospital. Mara had wanted to come with them but instead decided to

join her friends at a community building in their town, to study for

her final secondary examination. She and Ma left Mara to study. Ba

stayed at home, surrounded by books. At the hospital, she and Ma

were enthralled by the twins. “Oh, they’re sweet. I would also like to

have twins!” Her eyes were fixed on the baby boy and girl. “But first

it’s important you go to school,” the mother of the twin babies said.

“It’s important to have educated mothers,” Ma said. Suddenly, Ma’s

cell phone rang. “Your daughter is in danger. A gang has attacked the

community building.” They rushed from the hospital without saying

goodbye. Masha drove them home.

The attack was sickening. There had been no warning either then

or today. People went about their lives, and suddenly gorillas invaded

their homes. Girls in their quarter were raped, some of them killed,

and many, many children were abducted. Aw. Her father rushed out

to rescue Mara and was brutally attacked. “Aw, heaven forbid!” She

remembered saying. Aw. Mara was gang-raped right in front of him,

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and both were executed. Ba was shot in the chest. That’s how they do

it. That’s just life, isn’t it? These Haramu thugs raped virgins because

they believed it would cure them of HIV or AIDS. That didn’t make

it right though, did it? The gorillas didn’t give a damn. Trampling

over others was what they did.

Why are they doing this to us? She lay on the cool floor and wished

she had never been born, or that her dead body might simply vanish.

She felt worthless, like trash. Her boarding school was respectable.

The term fee was double that of a year at most schools. She had not

imagined such terrible things would happen to her there. That was

worst sort of surprise. But life is like that, isn’t it?

She lifted herself painfully into a sitting position, where she stayed

for a long while. No one came to help.

The gorillas have disappeared. That was their play, they appeared

and disappeared. Government forces never ever came on time. They

normally appeared when thugs have disappeared. And they also

disappeared before thugs appeared. And Sira was scared of them –

like all other people – as she scared for thugs. If they arrived they

could take away their masks they hide and masquerading themselves

as thugs. They were known to continue the work of thugs. That was

part of their work. And what if they arrived while the thugs were

there? Sira saw no hope in bullet talks. Thugs had better weapons.

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9

When she tried again to stand, she found herself upright. Mary’s

pitch black body lay still on her bed, but she did not look at Mary

closely. She looked only at her already packed luggage as she pulled it

out from under the bed. She also picked up a notebook, a big piece

of cloth and her handbag from the floor. Her pens, papers and other

small things were scattered on the ground. She collected only her

expensive Samsung Galaxy phone and its battery. Her purse was

missing, all her money was gone, but they had not taken the phone.

Where would she go? How! Home was almost two hundred miles

away.

She walked quietly out of the school compound, past her crying

schoolmates. Almost everyone was alone, and not everyone was

breathing. She cried silently, but did not stop. Kah is the lucky one, she

thought. I should have gone with her yesterday. Just one day more and I would

have been gone too.

The attackers were long gone. They left tears, blood, sweat and

broken girls behind. She covered her ruffled hair and part of her back

with her cloth. Slowly, she walked through and away from the noisy

crowd that had gathered outside into the compound. She passed a

huge baobab tree. There were many of these baobabs in the

compound. A sad breeze whispered at her.

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10

She was fit enough to run like a cheetah. And she wanted to run.

But her legs were as heavy, as if she was crossing the sea by foot. She

wished the sea would open and swallow her. She crossed the wide,

busy road that separated the school from the bus station. It took only

ten minutes to walk from the school gate to the bus station.

Man is an animal. Darwin is right.

“My name is Sira, Osira,” she said in Swahili to a woman seated

by the road, selling food. There are hundreds of languages in Africa,

and every ethnic group speaks their own. All of them spoke Swahili.

Sira tried to smile. But it would not stay on her face because she was

so broken inside.

There was silence, except for the motorcars and the loud music

that blared from the matatu. She smelled exhaust and food and

burning charcoal. The seated woman had brightly coloured cloths

wrapped around her waist and draped over her shoulders and head.

She reminded Sira of Ma. Through her tears, Sira asked for fare

money to the town centre.

The woman might have seen those animals coming out of the

school gate. She must know what happened. Only a deaf person

would have missed the gun shots. But no one came to help. Nobody

was willing. When gorillas invaded a place, they damaged anything, or

everything. Brainless. People knew how not to get in their way.

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The woman gave her 5 Pan-Africa Birr (PAB). It was not enough

money to go home, but Sira did not want to go home yet. It was

more than enough to take her to Osei’s family. Sira had never begged

before, but she had to get home. That moment was the lowest in her

life. She was fortunate the woman had a kind heart.

“I thank you,” Sira said. She struggled to say more, but failed. The

woman took her to a waiting matatu and helped her on to the

minibus. Sira wanted to say something before boarding, but could

not. “Take something to protect yourself,” the woman said. She did

not say the word pregnancy, but touched her belly instead. Her voice

was soft. Sira thought about being pregnant. No! No! This can’t happen

to me! Sira looked back through her tears and saw the woman

watching her.

Things happened in life that neither of them understood. The

woman understood her, though. Sira knew she felt her pain. Life was

hard; life was difficult. But you are strong enough, my daughter, to cope with

your destiny. The woman’s heart spoke so only Sira could hear it. What

could Sira do? She could not change what had happened. It was too

late. She had no choice but to cope. How cruel life was.

Sira sat quietly inside the matatu. She was embarrassed by her lack

of underpants, though no one else could see. She sat uncomfortably

while the bus followed its route and delivered its passengers. The

driver turned the music so far up that she could feel Fatoumata

Diawara’s Kèle vibrating in her ribs. Her memory played, like a tape,

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12

back and forth in the packed matatu.

Ba had been called Consul Muntu. He was a member of the

diplomatic network of Pan-Africa, and researched power

consolidation in Pan-Africa, “Uimarishaji wa mamlaka katika uzoefu

wa Pan-Afrika,” after collecting data on all five majimbo. Ba had

travelled all corners of Pan Africa for his work, from Kemit to Cape

Town. He was very busy. Sometimes, when he went only for a day,

he took Sira with him. Those were her best times with Ba. She would

never forget walking hand in hand. When she was tired, Ba carried

her in his arms. Those were the only times he ever spent alone with

Sira.

Soon after Ba finished his dissertation, he was hired as a lecturer

in Pan-African Studies. He worked only for a year-and-a-half before

he was appointed a consular officer. The rest of his life he laboured

to integrate his Banana Republic into Pan-African. “We share the

same history and the same destiny. We want unity of all continental

Africa,” Ba often told his guests. That was Pan-Africanism, the unity

of Africa. Ten years ago, when he was 58, he retired early from the

government, exactly two years after his Banana Republic decolonized

its borders and joined the Pan-African nation.

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13

Ba was a man of the people and commanded the respect of

everyone in his town. His admirers felt there was no problem in the

world he could not solve. He supported anyone who asked for his

help. He wanted to fix everything. And he was loved. “We’re all

human beings,” he used to repeat on many occasions.

Ba’s humanity would be missed. Many people cried at his funeral.

He had no enemies, yet he died from gunshots to his chest. Ma told

Sira that Ba’s spirit was still around because he spent his life helping

people and he died defending his daughter, exactly as fathers are

supposed to do. Almost the whole town mourned him.

“Don’t leave! Don’t go away! Don’t go! Don’t leave me!”

That was how Sira screamed when her father and her sister were

buried. People called Iset’s name. “Don’t leave! Don’t leave! Please

don’t go away!” Sira screamed so long the whole town grew sad from

hearing her voice. “Where is my father? Where is my sister? My heart

is burning!” Ba died. Mara died. She could not replace them. Losing a

father and a sister at this age is too painful. “Why my family?” She

could not bear it. There was no more reason to live. Breathing hurt.

Her heart was on fire. Ba did the work which gods and goddesses

supposed to do. Ba helped them. Where was their mercy? Where was

the mercy of Iset? Where was the mercy of God?

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14

“Worldly affairs, my daughter, Malimwengu my daughter, we’ll all

follow this way.” Ma cried. As Iset’s name was repeated, Ma cried in

one of her favourite songs from Mwana Kupona’s poem. Mwana

Kupona was a composer of Swahili poetry.

Mwanadamu si kitu

na ulimwengu si wetu;

Walau hakuna mtu

ambaye atasalia.

A human being is nothing

and the world is not ours;

Nor is there anyone

who live forever.

Ma cried and cried as mourners repeated Iset’s name. Whenever

Sira thought of this song and that day, her eyes grew wet. She would

miss Ba and Mara forever. She had lost so much.

Consul Muntu’s family was well-known. Sira’s mother was a

religious teacher and had a traditional medicine shop. Their brick

house with the huge veranda was a place for both trade and learning.

Children played outside while the elders held meetings or called

spirits by reciting verses. Elders came to read from the books of

Consul Muntu. Ba loved books. Anyone who stepped into his house

saw that. There were walls of books in all five rooms.

The matatu suddenly stopped and Sira was thrown forward with

the other passengers. This was the way of all matatu. Drivers

suddenly brake in the middle of nowhere or even in the middle of the

road at full speed. The harder the driver steps on the gas, the more

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sudden stops he makes, the more routes he can take, the more

passengers will get in and out, the more money he makes. Sira was so

lost in her memories she almost missed her stop. She jumped out of

the matatu. The fare to the centre was 2 Birr 50 santim.

“Take care, sister,” the conductor smiled at her. He would have

said more but the driver broke in to remind him to concentrate on

his work. The conductor murmured to the driver, his eyes on Sira’s

buttocks. Could he see she wasn’t wearing underpants? The crowded

matatu drove off, taking with it the loud voice of Fatoumata.

MOHAMED WA BAILE

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mohamed Wa Baile was born and raised in Mombasa. He lived in

Cape Town for four year before settling in Switzerland. He holds a

BA in Islamic Studies from the University of Wales, and MAS in

Peace Studies from the University of Basel. He studied English

Literature at the University of Fribourg. He works as a documentalist

for the ETH-Zürich and lives with his family in Bern.