I first travelled to Buna in 1973. I vividly remember leaving Wajir aboard a government Land Rover, stopping briefly at Giriftu before finally arriving in the historic settlement of Buna.
At the time, Eldas was little more than a vast, desolate plain. Along the journey, I witnessed several powerful dust whirlwinds sweeping across the open landscape. They buffeted our vehicle so violently that, on more than one occasion, it felt as though the Land Rover might overturn.
Within my first few days in Buna, I met friends who would leave a lasting impression on my life—among them Abdisamet Bulle Osman Sololo and Mwalimu Ali Suley. They took me on a climbing excursion to Buna Hill, the town’s most prominent geographical landmark. That friendship has endured for decades, and to this day I remain an honorary member of their family and clan.
Another enduring memory from that period was how sparsely populated the region was. Government presence and public services were almost non-existent. From Bulla Barwaqo all the way to Buna, the area was predominantly inhabited by the Ajuran community. These were simply the observations of a curious young man eager to understand the land and its people.
My second visit to what is today Wajir North came during the 1979 national census. Our team was assigned to the Ajawa–Gurar area and was accompanied by the local chief and a couple of Administration Police officers armed with vintage .303 rifles.
Looking back, I doubt we managed to enumerate everyone. We remained largely stationary, expecting the pastoral communities to come to us—an approach that was clearly impractical given their nomadic lifestyle.
One unforgettable experience occurred when we were hosted by a pastoral community near a water pan. They welcomed us with remarkable warmth and generosity, serving us generous amounts of fresh milk and roasted meat.
Unfortunately, after our feast, some members of our team carelessly discarded partially eaten meat and bones near our campsite.
As evening descended and the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, our hosts entertained us with stories of the area. They warned us that hyenas were common around the water point and that lions were occasionally sighted nearby. Taking no chances, our security officers gathered large quantities of firewood and kept a roaring campfire burning throughout the evening.
Later, our hosts treated us to another delicacy—Itutu milk—which I tasted for the very first time.
Just as we were settling down to sleep beside the warmth of the fire, a soldier sleeping at the edge of our camp suddenly leapt up in panic, frantically slapping himself and everything around him.
When the corporal demanded to know what was happening, the soldier shouted one word:
“Ants!”
Our campsite had been invaded by safari ants—army ants—attracted by the food scraps we had carelessly left behind.
There was little sleep that night.
We were forced to relocate our camp in the middle of the darkness. As inexperienced urban youngsters, we were already unnerved by the eerie laughter of hyenas echoing from the nearby thickets. Moving away from the reassuring glow of the fire into unfamiliar darkness made the experience even more frightening.
I returned to the north again during the 1983 elections alongside the late Senior Chief (Inspector) Khalif Mohamed.
Our journey began in Giriftu before passing through Buna and Ajawa to Bute, which even then was already a well-established settlement. There, I met Yusuf Noor Haji, a neighbour from Wajir.
Even in those days, Bute stood out as the jewel of northern Wajir.
Our visit was brief, centred on political activities and observing the elections before returning.
My next journey along the same route came in 1991 when I was travelling to take up a posting in Marsabit.
By then, Korondile had grown remarkably and served as my only stopover.
This visit revealed a changing reality. Insecurity had increased significantly, making armed security escorts a necessity for travel. The population had grown considerably, yet the neglect and marginalisation of the region remained painfully evident.
Despite everything, I had developed an inexplicable affection for northern Wajir. There is something about its people and its landscape that has always drawn me back.
It genuinely pains me to see the region continue to be overlooked and left behind. I feel deeply that Wajir North deserves far greater attention and investment. A region with such immense potential should never be allowed to remain on the margins.
For that reason, I salute the area’s Member of Parliament for consistently and courageously raising issues that seek to improve the lives of the people of Wajir North.
The north has waited long enough. It deserves better.
