ISNIINO, A LITTLE SOMALI GIRL is inspired by a real life story that happened to a little Somali girl with a big dream.

It vividly tells the story of a little Somali girl who was kidnapped from the safety and comfort of her home, her family and friends to live and work as a maid in one of Somalia’s growing towns. It tells the story of an internally displaced child who was stolen in broad day light by abusive people so that she could work and earn money for them as a garbage collector.

This book describes the harsh reality of what it is like to live as a displaced child in Somalia today. It gives first account narratives of it means to be displaced in one of the major cities of Somalia. Why and how are people displaced in their own homeland to begin with? This book unravels Isniino’s story of her long journey from a life of poverty and the aftermath of war, battling heat, fear, hunger, thirst, abuse and discrimination. It illustrates how because of Isniino’s bravery, she is finally re-united with her family.

Sahro Ahmed Koshin is an Author and Poet based in Garowe. ISNIINO, A LITTLE SOMALI GIRL is her 5th book.

The books also contains poems such as the ones below;

For Isniino & Other Little Girls With Big Dreams: Let Me Not Lose It.

Let me stand strong, tall and wise.

Let me not be a broken arrow.

Let me not wallow in despair.

Let me not be harmed in any way.

Let me not lose my innocence.

Let me be a child, I beg.

Let me gain significance.

Let me not lose it.

This strong part of my heart.

The stronger part of my will.

The strongest part of my dream.

Let me not be a weakened soul.

Left to whimper alone.

Let me not shed tears under a stream.

Let me not fall down and mourn alone.

Let me gain eloquence.

Let me not lose it.

Let me overcome obstacles.

Let me rise up to see the dawn of a new day.

Let me shine among the great.

Let me be confident always.

Let me be wise always.

Let me not lose it

The Motherless Somali Girl-child

For all the little girls brought from their homes each day to work for the rich as maids and as garbage collectors. I have seen some of these girls abused and broken. Dead. In and out.

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The chill that sets in freezes her frail body so.

She sits in the kitchen that has become her only home and hides in the warmth of sorrow.

She turns to the heavens high above and remembers the faces of those she loved.

A child of eight she may be but can she handle all this labour and abuse?

She asks for answers of how and why:

What is life without a living for me? What is happiness without laughter?

All this talk of human rights without protection for me? What is humanity without mercy?

What will I do without my mother, my soul provider? Is life ever full and complete without a mother?

What is a day without a night? Reflection without face?

Friendship without friend? A universe without sympathy and generous sharing?

What is life without a living? An equal living for you and I, the motherless girl-child in Somalia?

She hears the silence pass her by.

Tears roll down her dirty face.

As she glances one more time about the place.

The kitchen that has become her only home.

Dusty and black walls of charcoal stones.