‘We came [from Baidoa] to a place called Hanti-Wadaag in Qoryoley [around 1991]. We were there for such a long time and the drought had started. People were without food and starving. People were weak and dying, and that is how I lost my parents […] in Qoryoley. I was then living with my aunt for some time. She was poor too, and I decided to leave Qoryoley before I died of starvation. I left and went to Merca […] My siblings had died too. I am the only one left of a family of twelve persons. Merca was under the militant group – the USC [United Somali Congress] guerrillas. They were shocked at how I looked – long and shaggy hair, torn clothes. I was dirty and they gave me a small amount of money and a blanket. I was homeless and sleeping outside. I was there for about two months and decided to leave for Mogadishu where my uncle was. He was 83 years old at that time. The life in Mogadishu was very challenging too. I could not find my uncle and the security was even worse. I joined the street boys, started using drugs and was a shoeshiner. There I met Idris, we were from same neighbourhood [in Baidoa]. I don’t know whether he is alive or dead. He was working in a restaurant, he asked about our family and I told him that they had all died. He was so nice and was giving me the leftovers from the restaurant. I was sleeping in the streets where gangs hurt me many times. I asked Idris to help me find a room to rent to live in while I was working as a shoeshiner. The life was hectic and the sound of gunfire was normal. You would hear “so and so” had died, or was robbed, or was raped.’ (Hanad, Bosaso, December 2017)