The Somali camel has left the countryside. It is a city camel now. It wears blue jeans, Costco brand, Kirkland Signature. It wears tacky brown shoes with the same stitching as the jeans. It wears a black belt, fading around the edges. It tucks its faded shirt into its jeans, its jeans into socks, its socks into shoes. It is out of place, out of time. It is an aberration, a statistical anomaly. It does not fall in line with the laws of physics. It does not question its motives. It simply moves, as dromedaries do, with a bob of its neck. It smiles a closed lip smile. Its smile is more of a grimace than a smile. It’s black, though you wouldn’t know by its insides.
It is a Republican, from rags to riches, dragging its family through the sticks and twitches and thatches and gnats and gaps of understanding still. It is wearing glasses; it is a software engineer and needs for you to know that. It is high-powered, hiding behind a screen. It congregates around coffee shops, talking of NGOs in Africa and how to resell them for profit. It has an important meeting to attend — there is always a meeting to attend. It has no time for its son because of these important meetings. The meetings most often take place a coffee shops; how important are these meetings? More important than family. It leaves a trail of disappointed offspring, throwing money in the face of each one who comes to it for advice. Its parenting style is an absentee ballot.
It’s difficult for a camel to force its body sideways into the doors of a cafe. In Somalia, a male camel is the standard bearer; the blue flag on its back is active camouflage. In Somalia, as in America, the female camels do all the work, bear the children, produce the milk. The male camels are only needed to help the females get pregnant. They are sold to the highest bidder after that; male camels are interchangeable, replaceable. I see camels, old and young, trying to be anything but what they are. They scream “I am Okapi – half zebra, half giraffe!” But they are neither. They are camels in denial.
I am surrounded by camels who refuse to sit. Their bellies grow distended with memories of youth. The money they consume, the sugar highs, frothing milk atop their lattes, frothing foam around their lips, spittle flying from between their orange-stained teeth, orange from all the years spent yelling in cafes, from sitting on mats under the African sun, chewing the green narcotic leaf, the Khat, talking of all the things they’d do once they reached America. The camels have been in America for decades. There is very little to show for their presence.
A young camel sits in a coffee shop disparaging the older generation with his written words. It’s an interesting endeavor, watching a camel type, because camels do not possess fingers. Camels bang their padded, cloven hooves on the keyboard until the laptop is destroyed. It’s an interesting endeavor, watching a camel cafe, because there is only enough space for one camel in any given coffee shop; and yet, 17 are crowded around this one table. This is camel pandemonium. This is Camelonium.
A wise camel once told me, “Keep a camel in your back pocket and don’t let them see you coming.”
I asked him who ‘they’ were, and he responded, “Camels, of course. Don’t ever trust another camel.”
I blinked my long camel eyelashes in disbelief. I opened and closed my camel nostrils. There is no sand in this American desert, but my instincts lead me towards self-protection. This is the life of a camel out of place. This is what it means to be Somali in America.