Friday August 1, 2025
By Deqa Abdullahi Moalm
It
was August 2, 2024, on a Friday evening at around 10 PM. My sister and I were
lying on twin beds, chit-chatting about a host of family issues, including her
pregnancy. My phone rang. It was my aunt. I could sense panic in her voice.
"Did you hear the loud explosions?" she asked, checking whether we
were safe. Explosions are common in Mogadishu and are sometimes massive and
deadly.
"We are safe," I responded calmly, not knowing where the attack had
taken place.
“It happened on Lido Beach and was a catastrophe—bodies were lying on the
beach,” she continued.
Knowing we were safe, our aunt calmed down and ended the call. My cousin’s call soon followed. He was asking about my brother, Abdikani.
With a PhD in Soil and Water Resources Engineering, Abdikani had recently authored a report on Somalia’s water resources commissioned by the Heritage Institute for Policy Studies, and was invited by the same institute to present the report during its Somalia Development Forum held in Mogadishu.
The Tragic News
"Where
is your brother?" my cousin asked.
I immediately had flashbacks of past explosions and began shaking and
trembling.
"Has something happened to my brother?" I asked loudly on the phone.
"I don't know, but I have been trying to call him and there’s no
answer," my cousin replied.
"Has something happened to my brother?" I asked loudly. I had flashbacks of past explosions.
I learned that the attack had happened at Lido Beach, a popular beach frequented by young people and at its fullest capacity on Fridays, when schools and work are closed in Somalia.
My
heart was pounding as I called my brother’s number, but it was switched off. I
was shaking but tried to calm myself so as not to scare my expectant sister.
"Is he okay? Please tell me,” she asked, tears in her eyes.
With more calls from friends and family enquiring—and some confirming—he went to Lido, I jumped into the nearest Bajaaj and rushed towards Lido Beach.
Darkness enveloped the scene at Lido, with the rapid exchange of bullets illuminating the night as if it were day. I could hear anguished cries, the wailing of ambulance sirens, and desperate shouts of those searching for missing loved ones.
The
entrances to the beach were blocked by the security forces.
"My brother is missing—let me in to check on him," I pleaded.
But the security forces were also frightened, confused, and firing recklessly. A hot, empty bullet shell fell on my face while I stood in front of a soldier firing a PKM gun, begging him to let me in.
Other family members soon joined in the search. We divided ourselves—some going to the hospitals to check, while others remained on standby at the beach.
Breaking the news
The
most difficult calls were from my mother and my sister-in-law in London, who
was also pregnant. They were on the phone almost the entire night.
"Tell me the truth," my mother repeatedly asked. She thought I was
hiding some bad news.
A
short while later, I received a call from my brother-in-law. He was at the
beach and asked me if I remembered what my brother was wearing.
I told him he was wearing a grey shirt and khaki jeans.
He then asked, “What about his shoes?”
“Grey sneakers,” I replied.
He cried and said, “To Allah we belong and to Him we will return.”
I felt completely numb. I didn’t hear what he said after that. I was frightened and in tears. He kept asking me not to move.
As
I hung up his call, my mother’s call rang. I could not dare to pick it up and
break the news.
Sensing that her son was no more, she called my cousin, who was with me.
“Is my son no longer alive?” she asked.
"Yes," said my cousin with a shaking voice.
Although my mum ordered him to take me home, I pleaded with my cousin to take me to Dolphin Hotel, where my brother's body was taken. As we approached, the medics pointed us to where the body was. In my heart, I had hoped the body wasn’t his. But after getting closer, I could see him. He seemed asleep, with beach sand on his front teeth.
"He seemed asleep, with beach sand on his front teeth."
The
medics asked me if they could now take the body to my dad’s house.
"No," I protested, with tears trickling.
I could not allow my expectant sister and our small children to see his lifeless body. Instead, we took him to the mortuary at Yardimeli Hospital, planning to bury him in the morning.
I was worried about breaking the news to my dad. After all, he had aged a lot, and leukemia had made his body weak. The news of his son's tragic passing would surely shatter his heart. I asked the other family members accompanying me to go ahead and keep dad company.
As
I came home around 2 AM, I saw my ailing dad sitting on the sofa with all the
lights on. I could see his eyes watering, resisting the tears. I couldn’t stop
crying, seeing how devastated he looked.
"Calm down," he said. "We will all die one day. It’s just that
this time, it was his call to go."
The Last Xalwo
Early that day, Abdikani had promised to take Dad to the dentist—a promise he did not live to fulfill. I could not sleep that night. After all, Abdikani was just with us at Dad’s house that same day after Friday prayers.
He came home with Xalwo, a Somali dessert he fancied a lot. So much did he crave it that he couldn’t wait for lunch to be served. He requested coffee, and we enjoyed the Xalwo with him before lunch.
After
our late lunch, we talked about Somalia’s endless politics, family matters, and
our dad’s health issues.
“Dad’s condition is serious,” Abdikani whispered. He had recently attended one
of Dad’s clinical follow-ups in London.
After evening prayers, we parted ways with plans to return home later that night to spend the night at our dad’s house.
“Lucky You”
Abdikani was not the only person killed in the Lido Beach attack. At least 35 other innocent people lost their lives.
Roughly two weeks after the tragedy, we received a call from the Somali Disaster Management Agency (SoDMA) to attend a meeting organized for the families of the victims.
As I entered the hall, I saw young mothers with infants—children whose fathers were killed in the attack. Parents mourning their children.
When the meeting started, SoDMA said it would distribute $2,000 to every victim's family as a gesture of solidarity. As the names of the victims were called, many cried. After all, no amount of money can bring back our loved ones.
One woman apparently received $4,000 because she had lost two brothers in the attack.
Another
woman, sitting on my right, was calming her weeping mother. She asked who I was
to the victim.
“He was my younger brother,” I said.
“Did he leave any children behind?” she asked.
“Yes, he left a son, and another child was on the way.”
“Lucky you,” she said. I politely asked, “Why?”
She answered softly, “The victim was my teenage sister. I wish she had at least
left behind one child who would have kept our memory of her alive.”
More Than Just a Brother
Abdikani was more than just my younger brother; he was my closest friend. I enrolled him in college in Islamabad and later helped him get admitted University of Agriculture Faisalabad, where he studied Agricultural Engineering.
He would often call me and my husband, engaging in thoughtful discussions about politics, development, and especially his area of expertise. He passionately shared his dreams to help Somalia’s agricultural sector recover as a pathway to peace and prosperity.
His ambition was to transform our agricultural sector into a highly profitable industry. He deeply believed in the richness of our land and its immense potential.
After completing his studies, he worked as Senior Advisor of Water and Irrigation at Somalia’s Ministry of Agriculture and Irrigation. He was a shining star—but his life was tragically cut short, so short that he never met his second child, a beautiful baby girl.
He was humble, kind, and brilliant. A loving son, a devoted husband, a happy father, and a caring brother. The youngest in our family.
Our parents have not been the same since. My mother, in her grief, often calls her other sons by his name. Our hearts remain broken. But his memory lives on—in his work, in his values, and in the children he left behind.
A year has passed since the loss of my brother, yet the pain feels just as raw.
May Allah have mercy on his soul and all the souls lost that day. May He grant them the highest place in Jannah.
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The author of the article, Deqa Abdullahi Moalm,
can be reached at [email protected].