A Woman of Firsts

I was delighted to learn that my cousin Gracie from Djibouti would be spending the summer with us. She was only eight months younger than me and we’d been close at school, so I loved reconnecting and catching up on all the news of Aunt Cecilia and the rest of the family. Having had unlimited freedom in Britain, I was even more independent than before, so Gracie and I went out on our own, as carefree and unescorted as if we were living in London or Djibouti. I was careful not to upset my mother and knew my behaviour would raise eyebrows among her friends and family, but I also knew how important it was to remain true to who I was. In fact, I was hardly ever at home because of all the invitations I received, many of them from the British because of my father’s status, but also because the authorities wanted to be reassured that they hadn’t wasted their money sending me abroad. They were relieved to find a young woman who dressed like them and spoke their language, and pleased to know that I was doing well.

The reaction from the Somali women couldn’t have been less encouraging, however. Everyone voiced their opinion and my mother’s cousins, neighbours, friends and aunts continually reminded me that as a woman I didn’t need to learn how to be anything. The rest of my family was chiefly focused on the honour of the tribe and were quick to warn me I was jeopardizing myself and the rest of the clan. ‘If you carry on working and living like a Westerner, you will never be considered worthy of marriage,’ I was informed. ‘This will reflect badly on the women in our family, especially your mother who’ll be harshly judged for having brought you up unprepared for a life of marriage and domesticity.’

I was so committed to my studies by then that nothing anyone could say would put me off. As far as I was concerned, my only decision was to choose between nursing and medicine. This dilemma arose after the completion of my first year of pre-nursing training when Colonel Crook called me in for a chat. After closely studying copies of all of my grades and supervisors’ reports, he told me, ‘Look, Edna, you are getting good grades, your teachers respect you, and everyone is very happy with your progress. Given your performance, you might want to know that we would consider changing your scholarship from nursing to medicine.’

Goodness, I was only a teenager and my brain was still growing. I seriously considered his offer but told myself, ‘Medicine? That will take me six or seven more years. My God, I’ll be so old when I finish! It is too long. I’m going to stick to nursing.’

Colonel Crook advised me to think about it and I suspect he hoped that I’d discuss it with my father when I went home. My instinct told me that Dad would say: ‘Medicine, of course’, and I didn’t want that pressure on me, so in the end I didn’t even ask him. When I got back to London, Colonel Crook asked, ‘What’s it going to be then, nursing or medicine?’

‘Nursing,’ I replied decisively.

‘Are you sure? Have you discussed this with your family?’

‘I don’t need to discuss this with anyone. This is my life and it is my decision. This is what I want to do.’

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