Chronicles of Somalia

Episode one: Birth Of Ambassadors.

Please don't go: huh? Those are everyday Joes that you have walked beside, you've eaten with, and you have shared memories too. They are self-appointed diplomats of truest dedication, highest caliber, and greatest character. Walking among us, they would jeopardize their lives in times of crisis by exposing their true identity. I was fortunate beyond statistical probabilities, for I have had the pleasure of coexisting with not only one, but TWO of them at a time. It all started when I could no longer find my * underground England boots.

Perplexed, I started looking, but with no success at all. The only remaining explanation, combing both the power of Physics and the basic understanding of human's nature, has led me to the conclusion that my lovely boots were stolen. Down, I have reached the depths of my desolations for these boots meant so much. Call me gay, or in touch with my feminine side, but the very fact that it was the last pair out there (am so taking the words of the people working at the shop for it) was magical. When I wore them I felt like superman; guys wanted to be me, and ladies wanted to be with me. The earth would tremble beneath, the stars would glitter above, and my soul would shine from within.

Now, I was faced with a trauma! Superman's custom was stolen by one of his own kind! A fellow Muslim has committed this unforgiving sin. WHY? I have asked. When my lifelong friend looked around, pulled me to the side whispering:"we need to talk" and boy oh boy, we sure did!

To Be Continued.