?Good singers must always express the feelings of the people'
Binti Omar Ga’al, 40, is a well-known singer
I became a famous singer in 1980 after winning a singing competition in Mogadishu. My father played trumpet; he was in the police band. My mother sold tea.
I sang in the school choir in the late 1970s. “You have a sweet voice. You could be a professional,” schoolmates and teachers said, and this inspired me.
But when my mother heard the story she took me out of school. She shaved my hair and chained me. Back then, it was taboo for women to sing publicly.
A famous Somali composer came and convinced my mother to release me. In 1980, I entered a singing competition and came first. I was awarded 200,000 Somali shillings -- a lot of money then.
My parents argued over my singing. My father said it would bring him a name while mother said it was shameful and she demanded an immediate divorce. I bought very expensive clothes and a villa for my parents which placated them for a while.
I joined the Hobalada Waberi band and continued singing love songs. My famous love song which is even now most liked is “Let me be in trouble if I cry for you again”.
I was expressing the problems of ladies who lamented after the men they loved. The government used to pay every singer 500 shillings a month. It was good money but I never needed to take it. I was singing for wealthy men at their homes and earned thousands of shillings a day.
Later, a relative to the dictator president tried to force me to join the military band. He jailed me when I refused. There was nepotism in every department and not all singers were allowed to be famous.
Eventually I was freed. I continued singing for my favourite band but after seven years my father moved out of the house I built for him. He said he did not want anything bought from singing. I continued my work.
In 1990, we, the singers, sang in a campaign to oust the dictatorship. We could not tolerate how he bombed his citizens. Good singers must always express the feelings of the people.
“Down with Siad Barre,” we chanted. Our aim was to tell the people to oust that regime and then form a better one, but what happened was we ousted a bad government and failed to form even a similar one. We regretted it then and still we regret it.
The dictator regime was ousted in 1991 and the bullet replaced the guitar. Music was no longer wanted and singers faced a tough life. The wealthy ones fled. Our lives were in danger.
Three singers were killed in the civil war -- I always remember them. They were not involved in the conflict but when clans fought, each clan killed the most important people of the other clan -- it was barbaric.
After some years the civil war died down and we started singing at wedding ceremonies and were able to earn a living. Most of the singers and musicians fled the country. But I stayed in my house and often sang with other musicians privately.
Four of my kids died -- two remained -- and I have three grandchildren. My parents died years ago. My husband and I also separated sometime back. The world is like that -- people depart in the end.
As I was going to a wedding ceremony in 2002, I came across militia killing a man who killed one of their relatives in a family feud. More than 13 bullets hit me. My legs were broken and I was taken to Keysane hospital.
A local woman's NGO paid for my operation. But the problem was hospitals were run by militia and doctors were paid very little, so they killed patients unless they were bribed to save you. The doctor operated on my right foot and killed the nerves in it.
We hid guitars and trumpets and locked ourselves up in rooms in 2006 when the Islamists came to power. To them a singer was not a Muslim and so deserved to be killed. This was the worst period in the last two decades.
The information minister has done us a favour recently. He has starting bringing together us musicians and singers. He pays us $100 a month -- may God bless him. This is not enough but it is better than nothing.
There are some musicians and singers who sing for national television. But I and Abdi Tahlil, another well-known singer, just take the $100. I can walk with the help of my stick but Abdi Tahlil cannot walk. He's in his house, paralyzed.
I've been coming only to this hotel, the Sahafi, for all these years. I'm sure you always see me sitting here. I chew khat just to make me forget the past -- that is is how life is.
As told to Abdi Sheikh in Mogadishu. Photo by Omar Faruk
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