Warlords, Islamists and Organized Crime
atto
As I sat by the candle,
cross legged on a carpet with a compass,
waiting for a whistle from the tea kettle,
listening Mohamed Moghe sing in my head,
watching fireworks rage inside my brain,
and the sirens wailed in the distance.
While from his ghetto blaster,
my neighbor raved to the holler of a sermon
about heaven and hell-fire.
I was thinking about the absurdities of life when thousands of miles
from me, beneath the mountains of Switzerland where Physicists shaman-
ized on the God Particle, in a flash of blue haze and daze the Large
Hadron Collider came to life - piercing a hole through the fabric of
time, snuffing the flame out of the candle, pulling the carpet and
compass under my bottom, and opening up a pulsating door by the
calendar on the wall: last quarter for the year 2009 - as I rode a
beam of light, two decades into the future, taking me to the year
2029.
Of all the places I could go, for reasons I cannot predict, chance
took me to the Hague that day, by the gates of the International
Court, where thousands of Somalis gathered, to demand for a harsher
punishment to the men on trial that day.
Upon landing on this crowd, I immediately attracted some attention
cause of my outfit or hairdo, obviously twenty years behind the times,
but was mistaken for a cool hipster retro style.
Then when I asked what was going on, they all laughed at me and
wondered..., now this being the Netherlands they must be thinking I
must have been stoned.
I protested I did not smoke in twenty years! Only that I was a time
traveler who came from the year 2009, and suffering from all that time
lag, and in need of some quick information.
Now when they heard what I say, they whispered at each other:
‘ ha ha ha..., quick information? What he need is quick medication..’
Most of the Somalis in the Hague that day, twenty years from now in
year 2029, did not speak a Somali you could understand,
But I did find a history buff who upon quizzing me about 2009, did
conclude I could be a real deal and told me about what was being
tried, saying they were Crimes Against Humanity, committed in Somalia
during the long years of turmoil, by warlords, islamists and organized
crime.
She went on to tell me about what happened in Koyama, an island just
south of Kismayo, where one night in the year 1999, aboard a yacht in
that blue ocean a secret meeting took place, and a hideous conspiracy
was concocted against the youngsters of Somalia, by warlords,
islamists and organized crime
That night under the cover of darkness, from all over the corners of
Somalia, warlords and islamists came by the plane loads.
They were then taken aboard a luxury yacht that was anchored near the
island, where they sat with men from an organized crime that traded
in human organs.
The logic behind this heinous trade was later justified by a shady
religious loophole that permitted in times of Jihad, the monetizing of
the sacrifices of the martyrs.
The girl in the Hague of 2029 showed me a video in holograms, at that
time played all over the world, about a staged gunfight in Mogadishu,
where a young man who did not know that his organs had already been
sold and now belonged to somebody else, but brainwashed to believe
that he was fighting for a holy cause, was shot in the head by a
sniper fire, his corpse hauled in an ice box, then taken by the
bearded men of the fake Red Crescent hats, to a ship off the coast of
Mogadishu, where on the operating tables clients waited for their new
organs.
After the organs were removed, his gutted remains returned onshore,
now with a frozen grin stamped on his face, then taken to the city
morgue, but not before blasting him with a grenade, and then give the
cause of his death, as resulting from a trauma inflicted by an
exploding ordnance.
This ghastly affair went on for years, indeed a well orchestrated play
on the minds of the Somali youngsters, who have now become like a
flock of livestock to the warlord and islamist, who organized them in
Blood Types then corralled them in militia camps, providing them with
food and medicine to keep them fit and fat, for the slaughter on
demand.
This was a grand theater of illusions, where deadly skirmishes were
staged in the streets of Mogadishu, and the selected ones always died
with clean shots through the head, but then buried in mangled pieces.
I asked her about the names of the men who were on trial at the Hague,
but she said she could not tell for fear of interfering with the case,
and suggested instead that I first travel further in time to the
future and learn their names in that way, then travel again to way
back in time, before they were even born, and do something to change
the course of their grandmothers’ lives.
The skies of the Hague that day were filled with people flying in
colorful and silent motorized para-gliders, that were powered by a
battery and were here as legit as riding a motorcycle, to be flown
over the tulip farms, or anywhere else in beautiful Netherlands.
We were about to enter a cafe when I heard the whistle from the tea
kettle reverberating all over the world, and saw the pulsating door
again, but before entering for return home back to year 2009, I
remembered I did not know her name, which she said was Idil, and then
added:
- This being the country of Spinoza and Ayaan Hersi, she too is an
author in her time, of a book with a title and contents, that may not
be suitable for the sensitive minds of year 2009.
That M Moghe song still playing in my head,
fireworks still raging inside my brain,
while sitting cross legged on a carpet with a compass
as the needle trembles with mind control.
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This story is fiction, all resemblances to real people, places or
things are purely coincidental.
By: dayib atto