The African Mother’s story is as distressing as it is typical. Assaulted from all sides, right and left, the African woman is the epitome of suffering. If hardship had form it would be the African woman. No other African story, however, equals in absurdity, horror or dimension, as that of the Somali woman. At home, the Somali woman is a castoff, hungry, and displaced; abroad, she is a begger, a refugee. The Somali woman is a woman alone, a wife without a soul mate, a daughter without a father figure; a sister without a real brother, a mother without real sons, she is a ghost without national pride. This is a woman denied the most basic of human rights. Her very existence is yanked from under her feet by the very people who were supposed to take care of her. And she sees nothing but darkness all around her; buried alive by the same primitivism that buried young girls alive in the pre-Islamic era. But then just when she thought, well, this is it, a whiff of fresh scent dilutes the thick air of desperartion and a brotherly embrace holds her close, if only for a few moments. Through the lines of ‘My Dear African Mother’, the African mother is lifted up from the doldrums and whisked into an ambience of melody and symphony; a trip of joy extraordinaire; a most wonderful sojourn whereby she casts off her troubles and drinks from the rivers of love and remembrance. Abwaan Mohamed's pen has produced an elegant discourse of creativity and eloquence. And the African mother emerges from these pools of gratitude and reverence, sparkling like the pearl she truly is, honorable and precious; a rare experience these days for the African Mother.
On behalf of all African Mothers, I salute Poet Mohamed Abdikader Daud and thank him for shining the limelight on this most deserving human being.