“She is cracking jokes … about men,” he answers.

As the plane taxis out of the apron at the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, the butterflies increase in my stomach. I am not a particularly religious person, but I find myself murmuring some old Catholic prayers from my days an altar boy. You see, I am headed for Mogadishu for a two-week assignment.

When I told a relative of mine that I would be going to Mogadishu, she looked at me, hands raised half way as if to say, “Man, now I know for sure that you are nuts!”

Yet people who had visited the city in the recent past had assured me that the place was okay, and that all I needed to do was take basic precautions like avoiding crowded places. And if I could also ignore frequent gun shots, so much the better.

“You will love it. Trust me, you will most certainly be looking to returning there… I would rather be there than in Dandora during the day or night…,” a colleague had assured me enthusiastically. “They don’t bomb everywhere or just anyone on the streets.”

He had been there many times, but I was not convinced.

EASY CALM

Anyway, we are soon airborne and overflying the wasteland that is north-eastern Kenya.

I dismiss my fears by comforting myself that we are about 150 in the plane, all headed to different parts the war-weary country.

It is quiet in the cabin. The fellow seated next to me is lost in thought, his forehead creased. He seems to be nursing a bad hangover.

“Ever been to Mogadishu before?” I hazard a question.

First, he throws me a silly-man-mind-your-own-business-look at me. Then, after an unexpectedly long time he straightens up and says, “I work there…that’s where money is.”

“Really!” I exclaim.

In response he gives me a quick lecture on the economic situation in Somalia.

“Life is inexpensive. The country is slowly returning to normalcy. And there is business.”

“What about the insecurity?”

“If you are in the wrong place at the wrong time, then too bad. The thing is, you must know which places to avoid,” he says, shrugging and going back to his thoughts.

I look down to the wilderness of north-eastern Kenya. It is just shrubs, acacia, and sand. Very little human settlement. The brown, scorched earth below is simply not inspiring.

Time passes quickly. Kenya’s barren north imperceptibly fuses with Jubaland barely 30 minutes after take-off. We have entered Somali air space. The plane cruises towards Mogaadiso, as Somalis call their capital.

Soon, a river appears below the openings between the woolly clouds. From the little geography I know, I can tell that it is the Jubba River. It meanders like a huge snake and before I know, another huge river appears. This must be the Shabelle River. Lush vegetation lines both sides of the river. Down there, I have read, are some of the most fertile soils in Africa.

“We will be landing at Adan Abduale Airport, shortly,” the pilot announces before long.