Various thoughts flit in and out of my head. They’re endless, nonsensical, somewhat profound and satirical. I am not sure where to begin or which one to allow to appear first. Perhaps I should shake my head from right to left as I count to ten and then post the first thought that crosses my mind. Here goes..
For no particular reason, I recall using the Internet in the early nineties whilst sitting in a flat with a fellow University student. In a chat room, we met an elderly gentleman living in America who revealed that he studied at the same University thirty years earlier and went on to describe (and enquire) about the various faculties, streets and night clubs in the town. We found ourselves laughing our heads off at this amazing coincidence. We also found it amazing that our written words were no different to those of this man who was even older than our own fathers.
I often remember that incident whenever I find myself interacting with a zit-faced teenager, foolish twenty-year-old or an uppity kid in his/her mid twenties. Perhaps my recollection has been improved with the passage of time. Maybe I too was rude to that old man all those years ago. But that is not how I remember things. I am sure I was ultra polite. I am certain that I was in awe of the elderly gentleman and I even recall asking him if he fulfilled his ambitions, realised his dreams and got the life he visualized when he was a student (like me). So why are the young not as respectful as I was? Why do I find myself wincing every time I see a Clearasil-faced kid insulting A&T? Why do I side with Sayid Somal whenever I spot him arguing with ridiculous young men with haircuts that resemble flower gardens?
Is the Internet a young person’s pastime? Is it like football, athletics or skirt chasing? But, surely it is not. With these things, the mind may be willing but the body (usually) has long given up. With the Net, the mind is as young as a teenager’s stubble and the body as fit as a monkey – considering that you have the right number of fingers that is. Unless, of course, you sadly married your cousin and, fortunately, were born with more than your fair share of fingers.
Could one act their age on the Net? Could one act their age in real life? How? As far as I always knew, acting your age involved deliberate slowness of movement, infinite pregnant silences and the occasional pearl of wisdom. There is also lots of sighing, furrowing of the forehead and a multitude of facial expressions. It is impossible to transform all that into the net. Yet, I never struggle to spot the old codgers amongst us. They’re usually the ones that never participate in topics discussing the good looks (or otherwise) of Obama’s wife. Of course, the older ladies appear to let us down occasionally and would discuss such a trivial topic. But even then, their aim is far from that of the younger ones.
I don’t have any friends in their twenties and can’t imagine having anything in common with that age group. So, why do I feel comfortable interacting with them online? Why do they dare communicate with me? I know and they know that if we met in real life, they would be offering me their seats, shyly keeping their answers short and respectfully taking all the rubbish I throw their way without a single murmur. It doesn’t make any sense.
I feel sorry for the young ones.
For another no particular reason, I find myself thinking about the dogs of Somalia. There is a job there for someone, you know.
I recall a few years back when the war in Congo was raging and the numbers of deaths were rising, a Western organisation issued a statement complaining about the plight of the poor Congolese gorillas. Apparently, that species of primates was facing extinction and the world had to do something to save it. A campaign was organised, money was raised and the gorillas (as far as I can tell) were saved. But nothing was done about the dead children of Congo!
This is why I wonder about the stray dogs of Somalia. Surely someone must know about their troubles. Surely someone must start a campaign to save them. Ok, if not the dogs (for they are well fed as the Somali exclamation tells us), why not the birds, donkeys or the Somali Golden Mole?
As foolish as it may sound, I think someone should approach animal rights organisations and argue the case of this golden mole (along with the dogs, cats, birds and donkeys). Funds must be raised, pressure exerted and awareness programs created. In this way, we will save the poor animals and create jobs for the humans. Jobs that pay in dollars.
I feel sorry for the golden mole (he’s almost blind you know).
I sometimes find myself thinking about president Riyaale and the devils that haunt that poor man. His face and oblivious smile often cross my mind. How could this man have been a spy and why? How does he spend his days as the president of an unrecognised country? What demons bedevil him as he sits and chews his bundle each afternoon?
I find myself picturing him sitting with his macawis on and dreaming about his great rival. At times, his struggle there is parallel with that of Somaliland. Both want recognition - both CRAVE recognition. SL has been independent and autonomous for almost twenty years but still has no recognition. Riyaale has been president for close to a decade but is still no Siilaanyo. Why Somalia? Why Siilaanyo? What can he do to receive universal recognition? He probably thinks that, on the whole, he has done a good job (I think so too), so why the rejection?
I feel sorry for Riyaale.
I almost had a chance to use my first aid skills the other day. Two boys. On a motorbike. Behind a van. Going real fast. Tried to overtake. Crashed into the van. Flew up in the air. Helmet shot past my head brushing my shoulder as it went. Boys on the floor with the bike on top of them. One had a nosebleed; the other was lying still on the floor. I rush across the road with no idea of what to do. The van driver gets out limping (no idea why!). The boys jump up, mumble to each other and start swearing at the van driver. It was their fault but they still swear at him. They limp to the side of the road. I tell them to calm down and check if they have any broken bones. They tell me that they have no licence or insurance and must leg it before someone calls the police. The one with the nosebleed has some pain in one arm (possibly broken). They refuse any assistance and limp, hop and run away. The van driver starts making some phone calls. The brand new bike is left on the floor. The helmet is also lying behind me on the side of the road. I offer my first aid skills to the van driver. He refuses. I walk home quite shocked and dejected.
I felt sorry for myself.
