Let us paint a picture, dear reader, of a city that has become a human pinball machine for geopolitical chaos. Mogadishu, that charming seaside capital where the only things more explosive than the local gossip are the AK-47 rounds ricocheting off the parliament walls. Yes, the election crisis has reached a crescendo so loud that even the British Embassy has decided to play oyster and clam up tighter than a politician's expense accounts.
Reports filtering in suggest that heavy gunfire has turned the streets into a percussive symphony of despair, with the election dispute acting as the conductor of this cacophony. Candidates are throwing allegations like confetti at a divorce party, and the only thing being elected today is the most powerful warlord. The UK Embassy, in a show of solidarity with the concept of safety, has locked its doors and told its staff to hug their passports.
One imagines the ambassador, a man whose blood is probably just short of being 50% fortified wine, looking out the window and muttering 'Not again, Mogadishu, not again.' Let us not forget, this is a city that has seen more improvised explosive devices than proper urban planning. And now, an election crisis that has everyone from the speaker of the house to the local tea-seller reaching for their flak jackets.
Meanwhile, the international community is wringing its hands with the vigour of a laundromat full of overworked washing machines. Statements are being drafted, resolutions are being proposed, and somewhere in a secure room, a man in a suit is asking 'Is this the one that finally brings Somalia to its knees?' The answer, of course, is as predictable as the quality of airport gin: No, because Somalia has been doing the splits over that particular pothole for decades.
Let us examine the absurdity, shall we? Here we have a country that has been without a proper government longer than some of its citizens have been alive. Elections become a bitter, violent joke played out against a backdrop of famine, piracy, and a self-confidence that borders on the delusional. The candidates, if one can call them that, are more interested in securing their own power base than in providing running water. And we, the global audience, watch from our armchairs, tutting and shaking our heads whilst sipping our cups of Kenyan blend.
But the British Embassy? Oh, they are taking no chances. The lockdown is a statement, a physical representation of 'We are not getting involved in this mess.' Bulletproof glass is being lowered, safe rooms are being stocked with tea and condolences, and the exit plans are being dusted off. The embassy staff, brave souls that they are, are probably drafting messages home that say 'Dearest mum, the garden is lovely but the neighbours are a bit noisy. Send biscuits.'
And so the situation remains, a stalemate with bullets as the only real currency. Mogadishu bleeds, the election goes nowhere, and the UK Embassy sits tight like a swan on a pond full of piranhas. I would offer some profound insight, some path to resolution, but I suspect the only thing that will resolve this is a change of channel. For now, I'll have another gin and tonic, hold the misery.
