Diriye Osman

“I love you because no two snowflakes are alike, and it is...

Sun, 19 May 2013 18:30:12 +0100

“I love you because no two snowflakes are alike, and it is possible, if you stand tippy-toe, to walk between the raindrops.”

- NIKKI GIOVANNI

(Diriye Osman photographed by Ellie Gillard)

MAGNOLIA IN MAY BY DIRIYE OSMAN

Thu, 16 May 2013 21:24:51 +0100

MAGNOLIA IN MAY

BY DIRIYE OSMAN

When I’m not writing, people morph into the most puzzling...

Tue, 07 May 2013 09:13:21 +0100

When I’m not writing, people morph into the most puzzling enigmas: basic interaction becomes a giant jigsaw with too many missing pieces. But when I’m at my desk, human behaviour is akin to a detailed but decipherable map. Writing allows me to comprehend complexity whether it’s underlined by kindness, cruelty, empathy or hypocrisy.

- Diriye Osman (photographed by Boris Mitkov).

FAIRYTALES FOR LOST CHILDREN (Original artwork) Dear...

Fri, 26 Apr 2013 09:31:52 +0100

Watering The Imagination

Tell The Sun Not To Shine

Fairytales For Lost Children

Shoga

If I Were A Dance

Pavilion

Ndambi

Earthling

Your Silence Will Not Protect You

The Other (Wo)man

FAIRYTALES FOR LOST CHILDREN

(Original artwork)

Dear reader,

This is the original artwork for my book ‘Fairytales For Lost Children’. The book is a collection of short stories about young gay and lesbian Somalis navigating issues of immigration, identity, family and faith as they tumble towards freedom. I love illustrated books so even though ‘Fairytales’ deals with very adult issues I wanted the collection to have the visual charm of an old-school children’s gift book.

The illustrations were created with ink on paper and I coaxed my cousin into translating each title so I could incorporate Arabic calligraphy into the design. They were a serious labour of love and I’m very proud of them. I hope you enjoy them too.

Yours,

Diriye Osman

You can get a sneak preview of ‘Fairytales For Lost Children’ and pre-order it here.

FAIRYTALES FOR LOST CHILDREN (Author’s Note) Dear reader, Five...

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 14:32:44 +0100

FAIRYTALES FOR LOST CHILDREN

(Author’s Note)

Dear reader,

Five years ago I sat down to write my first short story. It was a 2500 word narrative loosely modelled on my own life. Although I had previously written two unpublished, structurally messy novels, this one piece of short fiction altered my life in ways I couldn’t have imagined. This particular story was about a Somali teenager who had immigrated to the UK and although discouraged by the unforgiving weather and poverty had found a great deal of solace in exploring his sexual identity away from the prying eyes of his parents and community.

As we mature and grow wiser, our perceptions shift and we begin to fully comprehend the risks we took in our youth and see them not as perilous acts of recklessness but as necessary rites of passage. That is the thrill I felt after writing my first short story because I knew it was the most honest representation of myself up until that point. I was gay and deeply closeted but this small act of putting pen to paper and telling my story freed me up, allowed me to push open the closet door and greet the world outside.

Since writing that piece many things have happened. I came out to my family. I lost my family. I fell in love. I fell out of love. I made new friends, I went to university and I kept writing. In short, I became an adult. It was a stressful way to grow up for sure but each challenging experience was character building, vital to where I am today.

My book ‘Fairytales For Lost Children’ is a chronicle of what it means to be young and endure struggle. It’s about being different, revelling in that difference and forging forwards despite the constant curveballs that life swings in our direction.

At a time when the youth in our collective global community are losing their lives to homophobic abuse and hateful dogma, it is important to remember our shared humanity, the fact that we all ultimately have the right to be who we are, regardless of our gender, sexuality, religious affiliation or racial makeup.

I hope you enjoy reading ‘Fairytales’ as much as I did writing it. And I hope it offers you solace and comfort in the same way that it did for me.

Yours,

Diriye Osman

‘Fairytales For Lost Children’ is available to preorder here

GAZE - A MODERN REVIEW BY DIRIYE OSMAN LGBT magazines that focus...

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 18:20:00 +0100

GAZE - A MODERN REVIEW

BY DIRIYE OSMAN

LGBT magazines that focus on rigorous intellectual debate as opposed to superfluous lifestyle choices (where the emphasis is placed on over-priced threads and high-end facial care) are hard to come by. There is nothing wrong with glossy mags but they do not define the full spectrum of the LGBT experience.

Which is why publications like Gaze are important and necessary. Although I’ve only read one issue of this outstanding magazine I’ve been deeply encouraged by the elegant writing and the humane stance of each contributor. There are articles that discuss internalized homophobia within the gay community: there are poignant essays on the deadening effects of online dating as well as pieces on the rights of the trans community. There is a beautiful appreciation of the cultural impact of David Bowie and an imaginative and sensitive debate about Islam and homosexuality in the UK.

At a time when publishers are struggling, it’s wonderful to see a new LGBT magazine that offers something new and vital. Do support this brilliant publication.

You can purchase Gaze here

FAIRYTALES FOR LOST CHILDREN BY DIRIYE OSMAN (An excerpt) Once...

Tue, 05 Mar 2013 22:49:31 +0000

FAIRYTALES FOR LOST CHILDREN

BY DIRIYE OSMAN

(An excerpt)

Once upon a time in Lavington there lived a chica named Kohl Black. She was plumpness personified: thick thighs, lips, Afro. Her eyes were the colour of coffee. Her skin was darker than liquorice. Kohl was supuu but her stepmother Immaculate considered her subhuman, ‘a walking, talking whale.’ Immaculate, as her name suggested, was obsessive. She obsessed about her size and skin-tone, about her home and hygiene. She bathed in milk even though there were shortages around the country. She nourished her skin with eggs, avocado and bleach. She wore shoulder-padded blouses and wigs made from the finest horsehair. Immaculate was a dem that made Princess Diana look pedestrian.

Every week a herbal doctor came to cure her ‘ailments,’ which ranged from disputes with her dead husband’s relatives, who insisted that she killed him (a claim she always denied), to fights with fanya-kazis who accused her of being an abusive employer (again, a claim she denied, although she relished whupping her maid Purity’s ass).

The daktari’s diagnosis was simple: ‘Envylitis.’ Anyone who wished Immaculate ill suffered from this sickness. So he prescribed ‘medicine’. Her dead husband’s relatives soon took their kelele elsewhere and Purity put a stop to her nonsense (although Immaculate still enjoyed klepping her).

The doctor didn’t tell Immaculate that she too suffered from ‘Envylitis.’ Immaculate always asked, ‘Daktari, daktari, who’s the finest of them all?’

The doctor had sense. ‘Ni wewe tu. You, madam, are the finest of them all.’ If he didn’t say so, Immaculate would hire snipers to take out her competition, thereby diminishing his client base.

One day, while Immaculate and her doctor were sipping tea, Kohl sashayed into the sitting room. She wore a tight kanga. The doctor nearly spilled his tea. After grabbing her textbooks, Kohl sauntered out.

‘Haki, I’m housing a small elephant,’ sighed Immaculate. ‘That girl eats her body weight in githeri. No wonder our fanya-kazis are so malnourished: she eats all their food!’

‘That girl is bodacious,’ said the doctor. ‘Fullness is fineness.’

‘Ati?’ snapped Immaculate. ‘You mean to tell me Kohl is the finest of them all?’

‘Err…’ the doctor started sweating. ‘No, of course not.’

But Immaculate knew the truth.

‘Then it is your job to remove her. Otherwise all the juju in the world won’t save you.’

‘Sawa sawa.’

But the doctor didn’t comply. On his way out, he saw Kohl reading on the veranda and warned her.

‘Ngai,’ said Kohl, ‘I knew that mama was insane but not Mathari-asylum insane. What should I do, daktari?’

‘Kimbia to Kawangware. She’ll never find you there.’

So Kohl ran to Kawangware. Clad in only a kanga and a pair of slippers, she felt underprepared. As she entered the slum, she closed her nose. Sewage flowed everywhere. Flies buzzed around piles of faeces. A mtoto had stuck flowers in some manure –

‘Miss Mumbi! Miss Mumbi, please come to my office.’

Miss Edna, the English principal, cut Miss Mumbi’s story short. We were so jazzed by the fairytale that we all cried, ‘Aww!’

‘Worry not, watoto,’ said Miss Mumbi as Miss Edna escorted her out, ‘I shall finish the story of Kohl Black and the Seven Street Boys.’

The class cheered, but all I could hear was Miss Edna hissing, ‘Not if I’ve anything to do with it.’

“If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into...

Sat, 19 Jan 2013 11:45:14 +0000

“If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive. “

– AUDRE LORDE

Diriye Osman photographed by Boris Mitkov.

“The beautiful thing about being gay is that you grow up as an...

Sat, 22 Dec 2012 13:56:09 +0000

“The beautiful thing about being gay is that you grow up as an outsider and I really believe our levels of empathy as a collective global community are extremely high because we know what’s it like to not be offered a seat at the proverbial table. We know what’s it like to be discriminated against and I think that fortifies our sense of injustice. So I appreciate that level of humanity.”

- Diriye Osman, Beige Magazine Interview. Read the full interview here http://bit.ly/TfcBvv

“There will only be loveOn tongueAnd lipAnd in heartAnd...

Sat, 01 Dec 2012 15:07:00 +0000

“There will only be love
On tongue
And lip
And in heart
And thought.”

- URSULA RUCKER

Diriye Osman photographed by Boris Mitkov.

“Love takes off masks that we know we cannot live without and...

Sun, 25 Nov 2012 00:14:00 +0000

“Love takes off masks that we know we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.”

- JAMES BALDWIN

Diriye Osman photographed by Boris Mitkov.

AT THE ALTAR OF IMAGINATION BY DIRIYE OSMAN An illustration...

Thu, 22 Nov 2012 18:45:00 +0000

AT THE ALTAR OF IMAGINATION

BY DIRIYE OSMAN

An illustration about valuing our own imaginative power.

The Hebrew verse reads: ‘I was asleep, but my heart was awake.’

The Arabic verses which are by Sufi poet, Ibn ‘Arabi read:

I believe in the religion

of Love

whatever direction it’s caravans may take

for love is my religion and faith.

‘Africans didn’t walk around Africa being black and proud, they...

Mon, 19 Nov 2012 01:06:00 +0000

‘Africans didn’t walk around Africa being black and proud, they walked around being proud.’

- SAUL WILLIAMS.

Diriye Osman photographed by Boris Mitkov.

‘Art is man’s constant effort to create for himself a different...

Sat, 17 Nov 2012 10:48:00 +0000

‘Art is man’s constant effort to create for himself a different order of reality from that which is given to him.’

- CHINUA ACHEBE

Diriye Osman photographed by Oliver Hickmet.

‘My spirit is too ancient to understand the separation of soul...

Fri, 16 Nov 2012 21:56:00 +0000

‘My spirit is too ancient to understand the separation of soul & gender.’

– NTOZAKE SHANGE

Diriye Osman photographed by Konstantin Suslov.

Image credit: Ananda Nahu. ‘The dream is to make everyday a...

Fri, 16 Nov 2012 16:16:00 +0000

Image credit: Ananda Nahu.

‘The dream is to make everyday a productive and happy one. To push against personal limits and test one’s own parameters. To go forward when the strongest impulse is to turn back. That is the dream and the most powerful thing we can do is honour it.”

– DIRIYE OSMAN

‘All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get...

Thu, 15 Nov 2012 22:40:00 +0000

‘All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.’

- TONI MORRISON.

Diriye Osman photographed by Boris Mitkov.

‘Love does not begin and end the way we think it does. Love is a...

Thu, 15 Nov 2012 17:32:00 +0000

‘Love does not begin and end the way we think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.’

- James Baldwin.

Diriye Osman photographed by Boris Mitkov.

FAIRYTALES FOR LOST CHILDREN BY DIRIYE OSMAN FAIRYTALES FOR...

Tue, 30 Oct 2012 11:33:00 +0000

FAIRYTALES FOR LOST CHILDREN

BY DIRIYE OSMAN

FAIRYTALES FOR LOST CHILDREN is narrated by people constantly on the verge of self-revelation. These characters – young, gay and lesbian Somalis – must navigate the complexities of family, identity and the immigrant experience as they tumble towards freedom. Set in Kenya, Somalia and South London, these stories are imbued with pathos, passion and linguistic playfulness.

PRAISE FOR FAIRYTALES FOR LOST CHILDREN

‘There is nothing more humbling than good writing except when the author is fiercely beautiful and ferociously generous of heart. That Diriye Osman should possess so much talent is only fair in light of his goodness. Read this book.’

– MESHELL NDEGEOCELLO

‘The characters in these fairy tales are displaced in multiple, complicated ways. But Osman’s storytelling creates a shelter for them; a warm place which is both real and imaginary, in which they find political, sexual, and ultimately psychic liberation.’

– ALISON BECHDEL

‘East Africa. South London. Queer. Displaced. Mentally Ill. My excitement over Osman and his writing comes, in part, out of delight at the impossibility of categorisation.’

– ELLAH ALLFREY, THE TELEGRAPH

Available from Team Angelica Books in September 2013.

MY ROOTS ARE YOUR ROOTS BY DIRIYE OSMAN Korfa likes braiding...

Thu, 18 Oct 2012 03:19:00 +0100

MY ROOTS ARE YOUR ROOTS

BY DIRIYE OSMAN

Korfa likes braiding marigolds in my dreadlocks because he says they remind him of home. He carries home in the way he walks: an elegant, loose strut. He wears home on his neck in the form of attar, a delicious perfume that makes me dream of Somali coastlines, places where children play football amidst colonial ruins, and young men like Korfa flee in darkness on boats to Yemen and Kenya, determined never to look back.

***

In those sticky summer nights in South London our windows stay open and our tiny apartment becomes our secret garden. The magic of the secret garden is that it exists in our imagination. There are no limits, no borderlines. The secret garden leads to the marigolds of Mogadishu and the magnolias of Kingston and when the heat turns us sticky and sweet and unwilling to be claimed by defeat we own the night. We own our bodies. We own our lives.