in meeting Hadraawi

A man of principles who the sun, the moon, the rivers that flow, the magical nature, the heartbeat, and loyalty all bare witness to his words. Even beauty in his presence testify to feeling beautiful, and adjectives are numb as new words ought to be invented for this Somali Shakespearian, this artist with an imagination above all the imagination. But I was sure when I meet him, that I will recite a line of his most famous poem. Baladweyn, or maybe sing Has love been blood-written or read him, his wonderful storytelling about lions, jackals and hyena Or dissolve myself into ink, so I am wrapped up into his writing, or turn into tree in his name, or become his hat keeping his winter hair warm or let his echo voice speak for me, can he read the language behind my eye lids? If anything I would adhere to hand shake etiquette I couldn’t decide how to shake, firm shake or a quick grasp or what is the culture take on legend embrace? I did nothing I said nothing I swallowed my memorised script and a friend with her courageous tongue said, She is a fan of yours, you know! Breaking the silence He listened to her as if listening can obey, and spoke in a way that gave humbleness a new value, and with tenderness behind his jasmine age, with all the emblematical metaphor a man of his status can master, he recited a prayer – I will wake up in the middle of the night, and pray for you in a way I have never prayed before I stayed there in that line until we exchanged amen and for once I was in love with everything again