I was born in Mogadishu, Somalia, which a long time ago was known as the Horn of Africa because of the way it proudly protrudes from the rest of the continent. I spent most of my childhood growing up in the capital city, Mogadishu, but during my summer holidays I would visit my aunts in the dry, arid semi-desert land of Galkayo in the north or my uncle in the lush vegetation of Biadoa in the south.
The stories from these two parts of my childhood were a world apart and they were totally influenced by their geographic opposites: roughness and delicacy, beauty and grit. Tribes on our continent have storytelling in their blood, yet each one is different from the other. Storytelling in Africa, like most of our traditions, are ways to be connected to spirit and soul.
Storytelling provides children with flights of imagination, a code of morals, and the adults with an extensive oral tradition. It’s like mothering … it’s creative nurturing.
In my homeland it was not only mothers or women who were the storytellers. In our house my father was the designated storyteller.
The security I felt in my father’s lap at the bewitching storytelling hour of early evening in Africa has sustained me throughout my adult life. Those stories, like stars, illuminated my path when I was lost. They have given me warmth when I felt cold and connected me to my motherland when I moved to the West.
Miraculously, through the Gogos’ storytelling, these stories continue to exist and are passed on. As with modern tribes today, this book is a reminder of the power of wonder and a symbol that personifies a group unity in our families, communities and the world at large. Share it and pass it on.