It has been a whole year, my heart!

Today is the anniversary of Nomadic Intuition. I first started this blog whilst sitting on a wooden bench in the hall of the plaza building, waiting for my psychology course. I was  40 minutes early to class, which is not unusual for me. I didn’t even look forward to the class, I taught myself the material just fine and could do without showing up. But in a way I don’t have the words to articulate, I am submissive to the time of myself and others. It’s deeper than where I have to be or whom I have to see, it’s about the maker of time itself.  If I am not exceedingly early, I am late, and consequently, anxious. I will not be foolish and induce my own anxiety, so I must be early. To anything and everything.

I have not posted many posts in the last year, but I have posted enough…what I do here will always be enough for me. I will never promise weekly uploads if tomorrow is not guaranteed. And even if tomorrow were certain, whose to say my creativity is? Inspiration comes to me as a fleeting fly that escapes before I can catch it, and like the fly, on the rare instance I calculated where to clap so that even if it tried to fly, it flew into my hands,  I realized I killed it. My curiosity. I gave up on eagerly trying to trap it, the self-imposed pressure to write kills it.

On more fortunate days, inspiration is whole and clear, it comes to me as the old man I see smoke both a cigarette and blunt on the train platform, alternating between the two, never had I seen a thing like it. I then wonder if cancer or choking on the smoke will kill him first. I figure the latter, he smokes like he knows his genes work in his favor, so he focuses on other issues, wanting them to dissipate like the smoke that leaves his mouth. But even on a fortunate day, night comes, and just as so, inspiration becomes as blurry and free as the smoke the old man puffs out, not wanting to be seen, spreading so that it becomes fainter and soon, forgotten. Thoughts not summoning into a clear sentence, they do not want to be put down on paper, and I will not force what is not meant to be. Creativity. Gone.

The fleeting nature of my creativity is why I may never finish the many short stories I have already started. My Aaba always could sense from the beginning that I became a burning flame just as quick as I would then become the burnt shrub that remained. He says I develop a liking for many things too hastily and don’t have the patience to see them through. It is why after I confess my love for a new instrument on this day, or talk about the idea I must patent on another, he always concludes our conversation by reminding me that I am just like the ones in his family that came before him, always dreaming of many things, but at risk of never waking up because I do not choose which dream to manifest. I dream more than I do.

I end this by saying thank you. Thank you for letting my words walk alongside the seconds of your time. The occasional messages I receive in response to my words make my heart smile. If you’re reading this, thank you for helping me defy the ways of my ancestors, I’m a dreamer, but some dreams I will not depart from. Writing is for me, and for the one who cares to know me. Here’s to one year of my blog! Alhamdulillah!

Peace and Blessings,

Karima Osman

My 2 ¢ on Music & its Relation to Thy Heart

Music is the reflection of a spirit. A composer’s condition steers their art, so the composition will thus take the form of the individual’s love, melancholy, rage, etc. From the composer’s standpoint, the production of music is medicinal as it enables them to be expressive and practice translating their sentiments into communicable sound.

It is the listener who must be wary!!! For a listener has access to the music, but may not have knowledge of the composer’s condition when they produced it. Without a full understanding of the composer’s intentions, one can only draw from their own experiences in their interpretation. While this may seem inherently positive on the grounds of free thinking, it is in this space where music can manifest into a harmful tool.

If one knew the condition of the composer’s heart when crafting their music, they’d perhaps refrain from indulging in the work. For example, If an artist wrote a dis track about another individual on a fallacy, I for one wouldn’t know the dis was a lie without knowing the artist’s condition, and secondly, I’d have listened to another individual backbiting someone else for banter, which inevitably pollutes the soul.

Conversely, If I were listening to the lyrics of ‘Peace Train’ by Cat Stevens (now Yusuf Islam), I’d develop an urge to pick flowers from an untamed field and distribute them to elderly folk, even the ones who didn’t believe I belonged in this country, for a good hearted song will make you rise above the occasion.

Be selective in the music you listen to, as the ears are an inroad to the heart.


Peace and Blessing,

Karima Osman

The beauty in Intermittent Sadness, My Mentor’s divorce, idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, and Sushi!

What is the summer time for but nice weather and dress shopping for weddings? To finally have a break with more time than I know what to do with? Yeah, no, I don’t know what that’s like.

I haven’t really had much of a summer since graduating high school. Each year since has been packed with an array of commitments. That has to be your reality if you’re trying to make moves…if you’re trying to be someone. I quite like it if I’m being honest. If I ever binge on tv/movies you ought to be concerned about me, because that’s not my typical choice in the field of procrastination. If you see me on a bench somewhere talking to myself or sitting alone in my car for a suspicious period of time, then keep calm and carry on, for this is typical behavior for me. I rather procrastinate by doing nothing than being chained to superficial entertainment. I’m talking about those clickbait YouTube videos and poorly scripted TV shows. Blah. I’m good without it. I’m better off sitting in silence and doing nothing—fostering a boredom that inevitability makes room for my creativity. People don’t appreciate boredom like they ought to. Children in particular need to be bored from time to time. It is vital to their imagination and creative development. The eyes and ears are inroads to the heart and spirit, so I consciously seek to be more selective about what I allow inward, for inevitability, exposures will leave an imprint on who I am.

As introspective as I can be, sometimes it can be overbearing. One would argue that you could never be exceedingly introspective, and while that hastily seems sound, It’s not so simple. Everyone’s introspection looks entirely different. If I’m not careful, the deep stages of my introspection drain me—leaving me empty and suddenly disinterested in the people/events around me. I love to think deep, but I really ought to keep busy in order to pace my introspection. I’m aware of myself and my needs. I’ve recognized that I have a higher disposition in feeling sad. This is not inherently negative! No, don’t pity me. In fact, it serves me well in moderation as it is the emotion that has enabled me true access to my deepest self. Unfortunately, some people are elevated in their tempers, and some in their skepticism—fueling their inability to trust. Therefore, I have no problem with my nature of being sad. It’s in my opinion, the most powerful emotion to dance with, so long as it doesn’t spin one for too long in the tango. The immediate sadness we feel when someone shares their tribulations welcomes forth our empathy. It is feeling sadness that brings us to write in our journals about the atrocities of this world, of children being separated from their parents at the Mexican border. Sadness is the precursor to other emotions as well, to passion, to anger and so forth. This sadness is often at the root of our advocacy, whether for our own affairs or our communities. I could go on and on.

But as I was saying, sadness is beautiful, we need it, but we mustn’t let it, or any emotion for that matter, fully consume us. I don’t function well when I don’t have structure or consistency, so I try to keep busy. My main summer commitment has been bench research. I’m working in the pulmonary department every day, 9-5. But of course, my weekends are free. They better be, I’m trying to turn up for all these summer weddings, best believe! Anyhow, I literally have THE best research mentor ever. This women deadass has a heart of gold. Last week was Eid but I couldn’t take off work, there was too much to do. Despite having a load on her own plate, my mentor put her work aside in order to help me finish my tasks so that I could get home early to my family. It’s people like her that make this world go around. ❤

Just today, she really opened up to me about finding love again after her divorce. Not gonna lie, when I first met her, I immediately imagined that she had a perfect life with a perfect handsome husband and perfect children. This assumption wasn’t based on her appearance, (She’s surely a cutie) but rather on her energy. She exudes such positivity, so I only imagined her reality to be a manifestation of her inner beauty. But woooow she told me some real shit today. We talked about deception and how her entire reality was turned over. She and her ex-husband and had met right out of college. He was a ton of fun, but not much more. But they were young and in love, and at the time, that seemed like the only prerequisite for marriage. Years later, with emotional pots spilling over in resentment, she realized she needed better, a real partner. Love is rather simple, and for that same reason, it can be so unpredictable. We can fall out of it just as quick as we fell into it. Beyond love, a compatible partner requires oh so much more! She told me she never imagined getting a divorce, it devastated her and everything she’d come to imagine love to be. She said she never saw herself remarrying and became frustrated once dating soon after—dealing with men who were emotionally unavailable and grossly egotistical.

She said,
“You attract what you are, and I was so emotionally damaged that I was attracting emotionally damaged men. I had to call the quits on dating for some time to really get to know myself and the peace in solitude. Once I did that, everything change. We as women tend to lower our standards thinking that we can change a person or that a person’s traits that aren’t compatible with our preferences can be overlooked. They cannot! You let that stuff slide now, and in 5 years from now, you won’t even be able to face that person in bed. The resentment will eat you alive and take away from the person you are. When you’ve had to relearn your values through hardship and age, you realize that you have no time to waste. I have children and if someone can’t meet my standards, I will do just fine raising my kids alone as I have been doing. Oh gosh Karima, I have so many books that you should read, they’re not just about relationships with one person, but really helpful for navigating relationships in all areas of your life, family, friends everyone! Are you familiar with the love languages?”

– Yes! I am, acts of service and giving/receiving gifts I’d say are my top two.

“Acts of service was mine.” she laughed as she centrifuged her cells.

– Was? Why is that?

“I’ve come to realize that your love language changes with different people. So, with my ex-husband, I really needed acts of service from him. When I’d come home, if laundry needed to be done, I’d do it. If dinner needed to be made, I’d do it. We were both working professionals but I’m telling you if I had a dime for every time I pulled up into the garage betting with myself that he was probably sitting on the couch watching TV! So, because he was lazy, I obviously appreciated the few times he would go out of his way to do something without being asked, I was settling. My husband now is totally different. In his previous marriage, he was the responsible one. He’s financially responsible, he loves to cook for me, he’s French so he’s a good cook too, he’s also incredibly tidy! So, with a person who excels in that regard, I started to evolve in my love language, because something better was within my reach. For me now, physical touch is the love language. When I come home after work, we can just sit together and be like literally stuck to each other, it feels like home”

– That’s honestly so beautiful that you’ve found that. It’s unfair and draining to have to seek out the basics in a partner. They’re not even a partner if they aren’t fulfilling those primary grounds. People can’t really feel elevated in their love if they’re stuck in financial incompatibility and strict roles of who ought to do what. Things shouldn’t be a chore in love. Wow. I love that you have this now. Where did you two meet?

“Haha you’ll laugh if I tell you, but Match. Com! I don’t have time to interrogate a person over occasional dinners over the span of two weeks when I can just look through their profile in 5 minutes and make a decision on if they’re worth my time”

– HAHA wow, I love how sure of it you are, I feel that. The internet really is how people nowadays connect. For better or worse.

“Exactly! My mom and older family members think it’s absolutely bizarre but look, I’m able to lay out exactly what qualities I want in a person, figure out if we’re compatible, and from there on, just focus on establishing a friendship through the activities we have in common. It’s just more practical for me. One of my girlfriends found her husband on there and another one found her partner on there too, it’s really good stuff!

– Haha oh wow, that honestly great, I’m happy for you guys!

“You just have to always keep your list intact, don’t alter your standards for anyone and you will attract what you deserve”

– I totally agree. When I was 13 I was so sure of who I was. I matured really young. I remained so sure of myself up until about 19. Then all of a sudden, I really went through some changes. It’s crazy, they say you change the most in your 20’s and I refused to believe it. But damn it’s true, when I hit 20 I literally woke up a different woman. I want different things now, and there’s nothing wrong with it, because in my case “different” just meant better. I’m really coming to understand my worth and the value of my time. But ahh dating is a no go for me right now, it’s just draining and I’ve been really happy ever since I decided to rededicate my time to myself.

“You know it’s interesting you say that. When we’re younger, our realities are so shaped by the influence of our parents. I read once that every truth you’ve been told is a lie. Because we can’t see the truth. And the minute we try to define it, we take away from its fullness. Truth can only be felt. So, when you get older and spend more time away from your parents, you inevitably begin to live in your own truth, that’s why we really change. It happens when you leave your parents and it’ll happen once again when you have children. That’s why so many marriages fail after people have kids, because when people say, ‘oh you’re not the person I married’, it’s true, children really change people, and if the other partner doesn’t change along with the one that has changed… well, that’s just a wider gap in their incompatibility. It sucks but it happens a lot, and it happened with me”

*** this blog is getting a little long. I’m gonna end this here. Our conversation went on and on. Talking with my mentor is like talking to my older self! She’s very into holistic, and meditative practices. She’s calm and an absolute blessing to be around.
Funny fact though! As we were having this chat, we were doing a cell isolation with a diseased lung we had donated to the laboratory. Is that not symbolic dude!?!? People often say ‘love is like fresh air’, or ‘I can’t breathe without you’, or other really corny stuff that I would never ever say, too cringe mate! But anyhow, I’m a sucker for parallels. We were talking about divorce while working with a lung that failed in breathing efficiently. We were doing science so that down the road, lung treatments can hopefully be enhanced…then too, speaking of ways to love ourselves and love others better… ways to breath better.
We’re getting sushi with her old college roommate today. Geez, I see this woman staying in my life for quite some time. She’s a gem.

Peace and Blessings,



Do you see this green stem?

How can they reason that the water from the soil travels up,

If they can’t believe that we too, will one day ascend?


And do they not know that the rain that comes down

brings with it, the whisperings of the dead?

Acid rain to warn us of repeating our ancestral mistakes.


Do you see how the sheep does not fear the pious farmer

as he brings forth his sharpened tool?

The sheep knows well what is to come,

& even when the flock runs, and the sheep has its chance to escape, it stays.

For the prayers recited before its slain will stretch themselves into a string of words on judgment day.

&  even the sheep know what route is best to follow.

What is death ordained by the pious farmer, but a life simply tracing its destiny with the ink of honor?


Look at me. No, not with your eyes.

Don’t you recognize me from a past life?

Nothing of our circumstance is convenient.

But if a river didn’t flow steady, I wouldn’t drink.

& if the ocean always drew closer to the sun in her waves,

the people on boats would grieve.


Born of different garments but of the same cloth.

Colors of your wisdom are in harmony with the patterns of my complexity,

laying themselves on the ground for those who will walk after our time.

What greater thing to share in common,

than the thread that sews our carpet?

& like the one in my mother’s living room,

It possesses the beauty that invokes dreams of sand and bottles of incense perfume,

for the soldier who touches it in Burma,

& the maid who sweeps over it in Khartoum.


When tea with sugar is offered to you, remember me.

You are bound to no one, so live freely, but you’re a person of their word,

and it is you who proclaimed that

 the sun doesn’t shift from its axis.

So until you recite otherwise, I will trust it–

anticipating the day when the sun meets the ocean in the decreed sunset.


Self-Care is Revolutionary

I woke up this morning having dreamt of all the things I needed to get done this weekend. All the things that would overflow my planner, all the things that wouldn’t be checked off—premature failures. I felt a cold coming too, everyone around me is sick and this week is not the one honey.

I woke up tired before the day had even begun. But I am currently refreshed and revitalized as I write this in the bookstore on 16th street.

I’m a member of a Diversity and Inclusion Council mostly comprised of professors and university administrators. We meet on Thursdays and discuss grant proposals, faculty awards, and how to tackle the right-wing extreme conservative club brewing on campus. It’s important stuff.

Anyhow, I mention all that to say that aside from myself, there’s another black sister on the council. Her unapologetic authenticity motivates me to be visible in circles of academia and leadership without having to shapeshift into a different kind of woman, an easier to deal with type of woman, a straighten your hair & don’t wear braids for the interview, make sure you talk like them kind of woman. God no. Anyhow, for the record, I straighten my hair when I want to because I choose to do so for myself. It is one thing to be conscious of people that may be ignorant and prejudice about your natural features, but it is another (& fatal to thy identity) to care about the response of the misinformed and change yourself to cater to the undeserving.

I’m striving to not let the fear of an external response steer my intrinsic motivations and best-intents. I’m working to refine my intellect and character so that there is no room to discuss the physical aspects when the inner workings of myself overflow in their offerings.

This sister on the council reached out to me Thursday (my favorite day of the week btw) to let me know of an event she was putting together for black women. I had never been to nor considered going to anything like it before. When I see events of this sort, there’s a little voice in my head that whispers, “Why just black women, what about all women of color? What about all women in general? Doesn’t this exclude other sisters by including only a subset?” Usually, that voice gets the best of me. Usually, I do feel guilty for primarily thinking of the struggles of those that look like me. BUT WHY? Of course, I have a heart for humanity at large, but I shouldn’t be scrutinized for seeking the company of those who can understand my venting without the bridge of cultural difference. It shouldn’t be wrong for me to seek circles in which I am understood without having to speak.

So I went to her event. Best decision ever.
There were about 10 of us in the room. We started off with mindful meditation with a view of the city as Jill Scott, Badu, Maxwell and many more sung to get us in the mood & guide us through. We burned incense and stretched our bodies out to occupy the space to our heart’s content. In doing so, our hearts became full.

We journaled. We envisioned ourselves on a beach, walking to the pier and seeing a wooden bench. There was someone on that bench, someone familiar. The person was ourselves. Not in physical resemblance, but it was us in our essence. In meditation, we all spent time with our individual essence’s, asking whatever questions were necessary for self-liberation, answering back at ourselves. It was powerful. For the answers are already within us. confronting our innermost selves requires time, requires that we slow down, that we breath. We don’t often prioritize that in our seemingly busy lives. Self-care is revolutionary, it is necessary.

We then went downstairs into a different room and seated ourselves in a circle. We spoke of what we wanted. A sister spoke of needing strength as she persists in her fight with breast cancer. Another sister spoke of being held, how she seeks a space in which she can unapologetically be held, be still, and be heavy.

Heaviness. Too often I hear the emphasis of the desire to be light after meditation. The longing for being elevated and one with air. But wow. To just be heavy? It got me thinking. To find a space or person to hold you and your heaviness. Your overthinking, your energy, your inclination to resist. To find that container to let you be fluid and void of the need to resist… because when they move with you in their acceptance of you, there is no longer anything to even resist. You’re peacefully able to just be. We all deserve that.

A Secretive Presence or A Safe Space


Growing up, my mama was like a worn brush—upon first glance, she seemed contained, but when drawing closer, one could see that the worn bristles of her existence were frayed in different directions. She was physically there, but her spirit was elsewhere, not there for me to shelter myself under. This was all I knew, and I never expected more from her.

When I grew older, I began to notice that mama seemed happiest around people like the cashier at the marketplace, or around my past teachers at school conferences—these distant people never worked for her smile. What gave them dominion? I sensed that it was those outside her home who possessed the ability to remove her from her personal worries…the trauma and suppressed infliction that she was reminded of in the eyes of her children—the extensions of her.

As a young girl, our relationship had been tiring. She and I are of polar personalities & both with a fiery need to debate and defend our stances. We argue quite often, but we love the same.  As I’ve grown to experience more in life, the advice of friends my age only could scratch the surface of my voids. I needed the words of a woman who has seen and lived a life to help me guide my own. I began to confide in my mother.

My mother can listen. While she does not share much of her past, she is a space of no judgment. It is almost as though because she doesn’t speak much of herself that she holds a greater capacity to rest my worries in the creases of her palms– giving them warmth as she closes her hand to keep what I share a secret from my father, from her sister, from everyone. If there is gossip to run through vines, her daughter’s name will never be among it. She is my keeper and validates my truth.

I’ve spent prior years resenting my mother’s reservation, for my love language is in the exchange of intimate stories, & I only wanted to know her more than anyone else did. But in gaining the emotional intelligence to see her unspoken love for me, I learned to love her better.

I don’t mean for this to be any sort of lesson, but really tho, try to think of a loved one that you simply can’t understand or reach depth with. Rather than battling with this shortcoming in your relationship, try to love them from a different angle, it will transform how you communicate with them, and in turn, shift the way they interact with you. Manifest the change within and witness the transcending power to change those you connect with.

Sometimes, love is to see someone for who they mean to be, & not for how they seemingly seem.

Peace and Blessings,

Karima Osman

Eschatology | Sufism | Black Panther

I spoke with a kind sister earlier this morning. About travels and love. About the afterlife.

She told me that Ancient Kemet (Egyptian for the land of the blacks) were concerned with the preparation of the afterlife. On her journey, she had noticed and asked about broken stones near the pyramids. She was told that the people of that African civilization did not build their houses strong because they were meant to stay behind and perish along with their bodies. It was the pyramids they built strong because that is where their being, their soul, would be preserved in the next life.

I told her that I am confused by people that have no sense of the afterlife. For if I were to not believe in the next realm, I would live each day with a dim purpose and anchor of sorrow keeping me in bed. This life is not meant to serve our expectations or calm our soul. While there are many beautiful moments on this earth, the blessings are in doses, and the reality of this life was not designed to sustain the mortal.

The concept of an afterlife is cross-cultural. It is religious and it is spiritual. In any believer’s mind, the awareness of an afterlife makes struggles endurable and the blessing feel like glimpses of the greater reward. Knowledge of the afterlife allows one to detach. Ali Ibn Abi Talib said “Detachment is not that you should own nothing, but that nothing should own you.”

*( Side note, the study of the afterlife is called eschatology, and eschatology also happens to be the first word I’ve said that my dad did not previously know. He reads a lot so he was quite shook that I was teaching him a new word lol. I think we were eating breakfast and it must have been a Saturday morning or something)*

My deity is not anthropomorphic. My religious guidelines are not facilitated by another human. This journey towards truth is from an innate hunger. It is out of longing for a better understanding of myself through an understanding of my creator.

I’m going to be very real. My five daily prayers have been quite hard for me as of lately. For those who don’t know, Muslims pray five times a day because each prayer is an opportunity to gain repentance and mercy. We are born sinners, go ask J. Cole. It is not about being perfect, it is about constant reflection throughout the day. “The five daily prayers provide expiation for whatever occurs in the time between them. Imagine a person has work and there are five rivers between their house and their workplace. They would go to the workplace and work as much as Allah willed, becoming dirty. Then, whenever they came to a river, they would bathe, what would remain of their dirt? It is like this with prayer; whenever one commits a sin, they supplicate and seek forgiveness, so they are forgiven for whatever has preceded it.” (Al-Bukhari and Muslim)

The daily prayers are not time-consuming. Definitely, do your research if you’re intrigued by its etiquettes. But back to my point, I have been missing some and slacking and it’s really not OK with my standard of self.  In response to this struggle, I’m trying to explore the meaning of the words I recite and the love that surpasses the fear I have of the one I pray to, God. I am trying to be more fearless about praying in between bookshelves in the library and not giving a care for any passerby who notices my forehead in prostration on the red winter coat I lay on the floor in front of me (your girl is not putting her face near that gross dank college library floor, oh no honey lol).

I’ve been attracted to Sufism, in its essence. Not the cultural adaptations that have been made to it. Not the men who spin in circles and beat drums, not the singing in prayers. None of that. Respect to that, but that’s not the Sufism I am referring to here. The way of a Sufi is the way of the companions. It is a way of detaching from the material and worshipping out of love. It is a way of discipline and a way of beauty. There is a distinction between the Sālik, one who observes Sufism, and Hizb-un Halak, one who belongs to a sect that will perish. I am not one for sects that deviate from the word of God. I don’t believe in manmade divisions. However, when I speak of the Sufism, my close ones confuse if for a sect of Islam, or for an entirely different practice. No, the way I see it is the way scholars I trust teach it. Sufism is a science within Islam, a lens in which to see Islam through. It emphasizes on learning through experience, learning through the personal connection in prayers late at night. Truly, the Sufism I’m talking about is not distinct from Islam, it is just an element of it. The only reason I bring up the term Sufism is that I am starting to identify with the ideology of learning through dhikr itself.

The theologian Imam Al Ghazali, born 1058 in Iran, used the metaphor of honey to highlight the authenticity of experiences and good company.  “If somebody asks you what honey tastes like, the best way to help him understand is to give him a spoon of honey. You can describe it as being sweet and not like sugar or fruit, but that it is distinct. The best way to ‘taste’ an experience, is to be in the company of its people.”

On another note, I saw Black Panther some hours ago. First off, beautiful film. It was incredibly inclusive of how strength and intelligence were portrayed. The chief general was a woman, and so too were the king’s warriors. Representation is so critical, not just for the young children who are nets to the contents of mass media, but to the 20-year-old women like myself. I loved princess Shuri. With her incredible intelligence and forward thinking, she practically built the civilization as it stood. Not to mention that Nakia’s desire to serve others is a reminder that we must always take what we have in our left hand, pour some into our right hand, and share it. Love Love Love. Spoiler alert, but my favorite LOL line was something like “Say one more word and I’m going to feed you to my children *the character laughs* joking I’m vegetarian” I literally LOOOOOled.  If you’ve seen it, lol you know which scene that was from. If you haven’t, go to the theater and support. The film took the “savage” image painted of the African people, wrapped it in a glass bottle, and shoved it down the oppressor’s throat. Every character had class and dignity. The historical reflection was integral and not sugar-coated. I can appreciate a good script, but I can love an honest film. Wakanda ❤

If I’m going to somehow create some common thread between my comments on Sufism and my takeaways from the Black Panther, it is this: I want to love through experiences and remember what connects a people before I think of what divides them.

Peace and Blessings,

Karima Osman

A Song to be Sung

There are different languages in love and the ways in which we give and like to receive such a thing depends on if we like to listen or sing

Stories are songs, and every day my Aabo came home from work I would run to his feet to be seated front row at his memory lane symphony

I was nine

He told me if ever saw a lion, he’d wish for a gun to shoot it because he remembers the nights he slept in fear, makeshift tents in the countryside, he remembers when the lion took her life, screams of his habaryaro’s death cry.

He speaks with his hands and I fear for the lion that doesn’t know my Aabo

He’s a man that can make water from sand, allowing a desert to flow from nothing by command, not in the way God Almighty does, but with his God-given gift for entertaining, orchestrating language into a choir or choreographing his stories to dance into paintings of my motherland

For a man to have five daughters and no sons is no accident, he is the chosen one

He once told me he used to smoke as a child, he was seven when his father who served for the British in WWII died, so selling them was his way to get by, he had to provide.

He would tell me time and time again of his coming to America story, and if you asked me to tell it, I’d tell you I rather not because each time my Aabo tells it, I’m reminded of a detail I almost forgot

He says, I was 15 and trapped in the boarding school my mother had sent me too. Education is freedom, but with the lack of resources, those teachers didn’t know more than whom they were teaching. So I bought seeds with the few shillings I had and planted them on the outskirts of the building & if the vines grew I would pack my bags and go, but if they didn’t In this destitute place I would stay, and the conditions were against my odds because in Somaliland it hardly rained

But if the beloved prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him,  did not study language and yet could suddenly read, teach and recite the holy words that even the scholars and masters of poetry could not recreate, then I needed to have faith. And by the will of God, my plants grew and covered the walls of the school

Oh my daughter, In my journey, I was alone through the nights, alone in the desert but not alone in life

It was as though death became my neighbor several times, but not fulfilling the unlived dreams of my father would be a war crime, and the laugh of my mother needed a home. She once told me that as a baby she put me on the camel and walked alongside, but the camel started running, yet miraculously, while I was still sleeping, I slid down the shawl my mother had tied to the camel as though it was a rope, I was unharmed, death was friendly, and I became my mother’s miracle child.

Stories like this would leave me with so many questions. How could you have been asleep, you really slid down that easy, you didn’t even cry, well Subhanallah by Allah’s mercy Abbo you really are a miracle child

Home is in the discoloration of my father’s teeth, in the mole on his left cheek, and I like to say that to say that mine, although much smaller, is part of is, I took his nose too and his principle for how you must always pour in a cup too full of love when you cook food. Home is in the way he smiles and how he has the name of every enemy or friend I’ve had since pre-school memorized. Home is in the warmth of his voice and only through him can my multi-hyphenated identity rejoice

It is him that makes me look to the opportunity and not inequality

I ask Allah for sons because I want them to be like my Aabo, the chosen one

peace and blessings,

Karima Osman



You gave me a seed and I took it and gaurded it.

You later asked me where the tree was and I told you I never planted it.


You were offended that I preferred the idea of a tree and it’s shade rather than the physical being itself.

You did not see the parallel between how I acted and what I was intending.


& I wish you could see how I only wanted to guard the seed,

I wish you knew my language of love and what safeguarding means.

Sorry I do not do things in the way you seek


Peace and Blessings,

Karima Osman

The Goat & ᎒ & The Ball of Yarn


Although your thumb is not green,

you still love the plant for whatever the circumstances bring.

Dead or alive

You saw the crop for what it could provide.

Whether browning at its leaves or blossoming in the spring,

You did your best to give it what it needs…but your thumb is not green


᎒”Típico, where are you, my friend?” Said the goat


The blue tin door was left open. The shop owner Burhaan left for Asr, the afternoon prayer. Believers in the town would leave their shops to congregate for worship at the masjid. In their hearts, they knew that God would guard their shops and that praying on time would bring them a better business. The city thieves themselves couldn’t hold the guilt that came with roaming a marketplace that had only the wind as a witness. The seeming emptiness made God’s presence evermore prominent, and so the thieves rested under trees or collected sand in their hands to dump into tin cans. Such pastimes allowed them to be momentarily neutral with the angels who record deeds.

Burhaan was an old man with only one son in Yemen. He knew not of his son’s health or if he had children of his own, but he knew his son was alive. When the war broke out 26 years ago, Burhaan could only afford one ticket to Yemen. He arranged for an old friend who lived in Yemen to watch over his young son so that he could work more in order to afford his own ticket.

The old man had his plans, but so did his maker, the one above.

With the morning birds outsung by gunshots, the turmoil of war turned Burhaan’s handknit sweaters into a forgotten luxury. Before the instability, his sweaters were for the people—priced for the shoe shiner but fit for a king. But the war did not know between the humble cobbler or the indebted banker. It destroyed all that was material—leaving only the condition of the heart and fate of the soul untouched.

Before his son left for Yemen, Burhaan spoke with God.

“Ya Allah, watch over my sweet Moses. If I cannot hear from him or see him soon, let me know of his circumstance through the omens. If my business goes bad may it only mean that he is prosperous? If I fall weak, may it be that he is strong? Allah, you have gifted my son the knowledge of your earth. By your mercy, no one could care for the flowers and crops as my boy Moses could. I, on the other hand, could not sustain a flower for more than a week. The gift is not in me my lord.”

Burhaan took a deep breath and pressed one bead of his tasbih (prayer beads) firmly with his thumb. He stared at his thumb and felt a chill.

He then continued, “Oh Allah, if suddenly I am able to care for plants with his green thumb, then let that be a sign of his death. Please, oh the most merciful, do not ever give me a green thumb.”

Each week, Burhaan would buy a new flower pot, and each week, the plant would die. He’d celebrate the loss with ginger shaax (tea) and a visit to Hawa’s shop to buy more yarn for making sweaters. The sustenance of his business relied on the death of flowers, and therefore the livelihood of his only son.


The goat watched for Burhaan from the corner of the shop. She knew his face well, but to him, she was just an Eid al-Adha sacrifice.

When Burhaan left his shop for prayer, he always propped the blue tin door open with a large stone. He surely was a believer—too trustworthy that God would forbid the entrance of a thief. But did he forget about the goats? Surely, he was ignorant.

The goat entered through the blue tin door and gave a loud call.

᎒ “Típico, my friend! I saw so much today and want to share! Come out let’s chat.”

From the third shelf on the five-shelf bookcase, the yellow ball of yarn rolled from behind the stash of wool blankets so it could see and be seen.

“Why do you always call me Típico, it’s very annoying you know. Burhaan doesn’t even give me a name and he is my owner.”

᎒ “Don’t be silly Típico, you have no owner, you belong to yourself. When that old man sews you into a sweater and sells you to a customer, even then, you will still belong to yourself. You may look very different and may have different companions, but you are always your own.”

The ball of yarn began to laugh—rolling from side to side as balls of yarn do. The ball of yarn could not take a poetic goat seriously, especially not this one. This goat would say the other goats were too limited in their thinking and so she preferred to distance herself from them. And how was a ball of yarn any less limited? Either way, the ball of yarn enjoyed her unannounced visits.

᎒ “I see you find me amusing little Típico”

“Stop, why do you call me that, what does it even mean?”

᎒ “Ah if you must know, one day as I was walking along the Boosaso coastline, some men on a boat preparing to begin their voyage said the word Típico. I, of course, could not understand, and so I asked another goat from Kismayo, who was more familiar with the boatmen, and he told me it’s how the Portuguese say typical. And then I thought of you because you’re sort of bland and boring, even if you’re bright yellow, you’re still not that much fun. But I sort of like it. There’s a predictability to you. I can count on you to be stuck wherever I saw you last.”

“Well that’s not very nice, but I’m not offended. In my opinion, you move around too much and don’t know your place in life.”

᎒ “You would move around too Tipico if you knew how nice it felt to live without planning.” The goat gave a wink.

“To live without planning? What exactly do you mean?

᎒ “Look Tipico, the only reason you stay where Burhaan puts you is that you abide by the expectation that he should find you where he left you. Do you not think for yourself?

“Well, I never really gave thought to the thought of thinking for myself.”

᎒ “Oh Tipico, Just imagine the potential. Unlike my limitations with four legs, as a ball of yarn, you can span longer distances at once, if you only you’d learn to unwind on your own accord. Look little one, your life would be at your dictation if you learned to challenge the culture.”

“The culture?”

᎒ “Yes, Tipico, the culture! The construct, the guidelines. You ever question it?”

“Well no, not really.”

᎒ “Then you don’t have a love for it. A citizen to a place or belief system is not loyal if they are not critical. You can’t contribute to an environment unless you question why things are as they are. Question matters like why you stay on that shelf rather than on the floor where you can comfortably travel.”

The ball of yarn stared at the goat and fell silent. Challenge the culture? Disloyal if not critical? These were new prophecies and the ball of yarn needed to think tirelessly in order to extrapolate meaning from such propositions.

᎒ “What is wrong Tipico, goat got your tongue?” The goat made herself laugh.

The ball of yarn was dumbfounded. “No, I uh, I just.. I, I want to come down from this shelf. But how?”

The goat’s eyes twinkled in bemusement at how ready the ball of yarn was ready to risk his ingrained culture, his unquestioned normalcy of being shelf-bound. She initially thought it would take more convincing, but this was easy.

᎒ “With my help, of course, nothing anyone does is achieved alone!”

The goat left and returned with a pillow from Burhaan’s couch—placing it at the foot of the bookcase.

᎒ “Jump Tipico!”

Without hesitation, Tipico rolled off and landed on the soft pillow. He had already jumped in his mind before his body saw to it. He thought his freedom into existence.

With the ball of yarn on the Turkish embroidery pillow, the goat started dancing and gave Tipico a congratulatory kiss.

᎒ “Look at you! You’re like a king on your cushioned throne! You’re not so typical anymore my friend, but we won’t change your name, it must serve as to remind you of where you came from.”

The ball of yarn was so happy to see the world from his newly acquired perspective. He had a new excitement to span greater distances and learn new things.

᎒ “How does it feel Tipico?”

“Like freedom!”

᎒ “Ah, this is only the beginning my friend.”

“Did I challenge the culture?”

᎒ “Unconsciously, yes, but consciously no.”

“Tell me more about culture and how I am to consciously challenge all that I’ve ever known, ” said the ball of yarn with teary eyes and a yearning for a new truth.

᎒ “Ah ok my dear Tipico, let me awaken you to the paradigm shift of your identity.


End of Part I.

Peace and Blessings,

Karima Osman