Kalabaydh

I’ve never told this part of my story. You may know that I lived in Somalia for 3 years, but what I never mentioned is that I was on antidepressants for a good year out of those 3. After I quit smoking weed (Alhamdulillah), I got really manic and couldn’t sleep.

My body is really sensitive, so anything I put into it has a great effect on me. Looking back, it makes sense that I would have such a strong reaction to a drug that doesn’t affect most people that way (although I’m not advocating for its use – it’s against our religion for a reason. Took me damn near a decade to quit). Anyway, at the time I thought there was just something wrong with me, that I was broken. 

We were living in Borama at the time, my family and I, so we asked around for where I could get some treatment. There was talk of a mysterious doctor in Kalabaydh, about halfway between Borama & Hargeisa. He was said to be a miracle worker, that he’d be able to tell what you needed just from a blood test and a short conversation. I was in need of a miracle – could barely sleep more than an hour a night, wasn’t eating, high energy; mania, basically. 

My mom and I got in a Town Ace Noah, the preferred van used to ferry people between major cities in Somalia & Somaliland. It took us about an hour to get to Kalabaydh, a little tuulo in the middle of nowhere. It was sparse; a few small shacks littered the corners of a 3 way intersection. One road came from Borama & led to Hargeisa. The other, intersecting with the first road to make a T, led to Wajaale, Ethiopia. 

We got off the van and I kept my head down. Headphones in, I was listening to whatever could soothe me – Quran, rap, you name it. Obviously my mom preferred I listen to Quran, but she was ok with whatever helped me not freak out in broad daylight. And by freak out I mean break down in tears.

We passed the cluster of Somali women selling camel milk to passing cars and made our way the Pharmacy/Clinic with SHAAFI emblazoned across the front. I looked back at those women and wondered how hard of a life they must lead, standing in the sun all day, rushing any car that stops to sell the same camel milk as every other vendor in their group. But, I’m sure there are many parts of their experience that I can’t know. Either way, Somalia isn’t a place for the faint of heart. I could feel my heart knocking erratically with every step.

We walked into the building and took a ticket. We waited, paid to be seen. They led me to a blood taking room. The blood was took. The doctor eventually called me in. He sat on the floor, I sat in a chair. He asked me a few questions- does the light bother your eyes, do you find yourself getting into arguments with people, is it hard to sleep at night. I was like yes, who told you? 

He scribbled In his notepad. Prescribed two pills and an injection. Take these every day for 6 months, then come back. We have rooms here, you can spend the night to make sure everything is going well. Ok, I said. My mom and I left his room, got checked into our room. There were two flat mattresses on the ground. That was it, that was the room. I went outside for a cigarette. Mellowhype’s song P2 came on my headphones. Hodgy Beats started his first verse: “We were kids when we first met…” and I started crying. I imagined the lyrics to be about me & my pain – we were, indeed, kids when my troubles came.

Later that night, someone in one of the adjoining rooms died. They were diabetic and apparently made some dangerous mistake with the insulin – something about their blood sugar being too low, taking one too many shots, or something. I can’t remember the details, I just remember that someone died in the room a few doors down while I was trying to save my life.

I ended up taking Olanzipine for the next 10 months. Eventually, I reached a conclusion that the meds weren’t helping me. They turned me into a zombie – I could barely think, I felt like I was living in my body but my mind and soul were trapped under a frozen lake. I knew something had to change. Eventually I decided to take myself off the meds. My parents freaked out – they thought I would have another breakdown. 

I told them that it was most likely the weed smoke that caused that breakdown, and other substances that caused every other breakdown before it (hindsight is 2020 but Alhamdulillah I was right – I’ve never needed to go on meds since making that decision & I’ve been clean/sober for 6 years. Writing and prayer have been all I’ve needed, all I ever needed). I said I believe in myself and I want to try making it without any drugs – illegal or otherwise. 

I said I need to live my life, because this is no life at all. Living with my family in Africa medicated with no responsibilities while you send money every month- no, I have to make a life for myself. As much as I appreciate what you’ve done for me, I need to spread my wings and see if they still flap. To taste the skies. 

They reluctantly agreed, may Allah bless them with heaven everlasting. I know that you’re supposed to taper off psychiatric meds, but this was Africa – that wasn’t an option. I had to go the cold turkey route and damn was it painful. For the next 48 hours I didn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, was in constant pain. I felt extreme dissociation, like I wasn’t even in my body – or maybe I was finally returning to my body. Either way, it was more terrible than I can describe. 

Eventually, my brother went to a pharmacy and got me some type of sleeping pill. It was popular with ppl who chewed too much jaad and couldn’t go to sleep. Drugs got me in this mess, so I guess drugs would have to be part of the exit plan. I was hesitant because I didn’t want to risk coming even remotely close to addiction ever again- but I needed to sleep – so I made a one time exception.

Alhamdulillah I eventually started feeling better the next few days. I started getting active again and going to the city. I planned out what I wanted to do for my life – something, anything. Going back to America wasn’t an option – I’d watched the Ferguson riots on Twitter from Africa. The place was still hell for Black folk. 

I asked my family and they said your uncle is part of a company in Mogadishu. They do logistics for the UN, very prestigious work. I said that’s it, that’s the ticket. Call him and see if I can work with him. I’ll do anything, I don’t care joe entry level, so long as it provides me an opportunity to earn an honest living and not rely on my family’s generosity. I need to prove to myself that I can be a man. That I can handle responsibility without breaking down. That I am NOT broken and weak. I need this.

They agreed and made some calls and we eventually came to an agreement with my uncle. Come on down, we’ll find something for you to do. I know what you’re thinking- isn’t that nepotism, aren’t you still depending on your family? Yes and no.

In Somalia, there’s pretty much no other way to get a job. You have to be related to someone. Same thing goes for the government sector. It’s all about blood ties. An unfortunate reality, but I was willing to accept that reality so long as I got the chance I wanted – to keep living in the motherland, to enter a new line of work, to make a man out of myself with my blood sweat and tears. And Alhamdulillah I did all of that + more. It was a crazy experience that changed me in so many ways. 

But it all started with this receipt, with that doctor in Kalabaydh. And with the endless love and support my parents have always provided me, no matter what I went through in my life. Fi Jannah, Insha Allah.