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water. It took her four days to find us; she walked across the desert carrying the newborn baby while she looked for her husband.
    Of all her children, though, I always felt I was my mother’s special favorite. We had a strong bond of understanding between us, and I still think about her every day of my life, praying to God to take care of her until I’m able to do the job. As a child I always wanted to be near her, and all day I would look forward to coming home in the evening when I would sit next to Mama and she would stroke my head.
    My mother wove beautiful baskets, a skill that takes years of practice to achieve. We spent many hours together as she taught me how to make a small cup that I could drink milk from, but my
    attempts at larger projects were never like hers. My baskets were raggedy and full of holes.
    One day my desire to be with Mama and my natural childish curiosity drove me to secretly follow her. Once a month she left our camp and went away by herself for the afternoon. I said to her, “I’m so determined to know what you do, Mom what is this thing you do every month?” She told me to mind my own business; a child in Africa has no right meddling in parents’ affairs. And, as usual, she told me to stay home and watch after the younger children. But when she walked away, I hurried behind her at a distance, hiding behind bushes to stay out of sight. She met with five other women, who had traveled long distances also. Together they sat under a huge, beautiful tree for several hours during our siesta, when the sun was too hot to do much else. During that time the animals and family were all resting, so they could spare a little time for themselves. Their black heads gathered close in the distance like ants, and I watched as they ate popcorn and drank tea. What they talked about, I still don’t know, as I was too far away to hear. Eventually I decided to risk revealing myself, mainly because I wanted some of their food. I walked up meekly and stood next to my mother.
     
    “Where did you come from?” she cried.
    “I followed you.”
    “Bad, naughty girl,” she scolded.
    But all the other women laughed, and cooed, “Oh, look at the cute little girl. Come here, darling .” So my mother relented and let me have some popcorn.
    When I was this young age, I had no conception of another world different from the one we lived in with our goats and camels. Without travel to different countries, books, TV, or movies, my universe simply consisted of the sights I saw around me each day. I certainly had no conception that my mother had come from a different life. Before Somalia’s independence in 1960, Italy had colonized the southern region. As a result, Mogadishu’s culture, architecture, and society were full of Italian influences, so my mother spoke Italian. Occasionally, when she was angry, she’d spew a string of Italian cuss words “Mama!” I’d look at her in alarm. “What are you saying?”
    “Oh, that’s Italian.”
    “What’s Italian? What does it mean?”
    “Nothing mind your own business,” and she’d wave me aside.
    Later I discovered for myself-like I discovered
    cars and buildings that Italian was part of a broader world outside our hut. Many times we children questioned Mama about her decision to marry our father. “Why did you ever follow this man? Look where you’re living, while your brothers and sisters are living all over the world they’re ambassadors and what have you! Why did you run away with this loser?” She replied that she’d fallen in love with Papa, and made her decision to run away with him so they could be together. Yet my mother is a strong, strong woman. In spite of everything I watched her go through, I never heard her complain. I never heard her say, “I’m fed up with this,” or “I’m not doing this anymore.” Mama was simply silent and hard as iron. Then without warning, she’d crack us up with one of her silly jokes. My goal is to someday be as