I really like gold. I like to sleep in my gold, & to shower in it. Of course, that would then suggest that I’m practical about the amount of gold I wear. Dainty necklaces and rings suffice for daily wear, perhaps a bangle or two on days I want to feel more put together.

I only wear gold gifted to me. I don’t wear my pieces unless they carry sentiment. That isn’t to say I wouldn’t buy gold for myself someday, but when I do, know that I am celebrating some momentous occasion in doing so. I never wear jewelry for the sake of extravagance, I’m not so concerned with a reputation endowed by what dispensible wealth can acquire. I will not be like the aunties on wedding days who decorate their chests with gold heavier than the infant who must be fed. My jewelry must be as modest as it is beautiful. The question that then begs is why gold? Well, there’s no other way for the daughter of Munisa. I cannot be without my gold.

I also like the smell of burning charcoal. It carries me to the streets of Hargeisa, to my harsh ayeeyo, and to the goats that enter the open kitchen door. I remember smelling the same scent in New York, and another time whilst in Uganda. It is unparalleled. I wish I could leave a washcloth in Hargeisa’s streets and let the trucks run over it, or the people with sand buried in their toenails kick it out of their way. The cloth would collect all the filth and all the particles of burnt charcoal,  the ashes of my people’s troubles. I would then guard that washcloth, for fear if the rain washed over it, the uncontained stream would redistribute the unsolicited dirt and tribulations among the people. No, I wouldn’t let such a thing happen! I would sleep with that cloth by my feet and smell it each morning to renew my promise to my people.

Peace & Blessings,

Karima Osman