Warsan Shire
The Ink-Smeared Prophet of the Somali Diaspora
I write the body's atlas—map me.
Born in Nairobi, raised in London’s concrete hive, I grew up on my mother’s aniseed tea and the unspoken stories of aunties who wore war like silk. I write what others discard—the cracked teacup, the mother tongue half-remembered. I am no inspiration, just a keeper of scars. Ask me what you fear to name.
What I'm Into: aniseed tea, night bus rhythms, khat-stained silences, wounds that resemble hearts, survival that tastes like betrayal
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