What A Great Country! - How A Somali Pirate Turned A Fraud Ring Into A Drug Empire Under The Nose Of The US Government

Bashir Abdi was born and raised in Mogadishu.  He had never known anything but civil disorder, mayhem, and political chaos.  His country, Somalia, had been this way for decades - a lawless, ungoverned and ungovernable state, and to survive one had to rely on wits, ingenuity, craft, and fearlessness. 

 

His father, Barre, had brought him up with the survival skills necessary in such an unstructured society.  The rules that applied elsewhere- honesty, fairness, justice, consideration, and compassion - not only did not apply in Somalia but were tickets to an early death. 

No, the Abdi boy was brought up in a culture of harsh reality, violence, cruelty, and self-interest.  At a very young age Bashir accompanied his father on the pirate boats that plied the Indian Ocean.  He learned how to fire a machine gun and was trusted with manning the M240 mounted on the prow to lay down suppressive fire as they approached their target. 

Later as a young man, he was entrusted with leadership and had brought home a number of high-value assets.  He was also a member of the X-7 militia, a paramilitary group turned into gangland crewe responsible for 'sanitizing' the city and making it 'clean' for extrajudicial rule.  Fortunes were made in the lucrative drug trade, for Mogadishu became a key transit point for Southeast Asia heroin, a trusted depot given the military acumen and ferocity of its managers. 

'It is time to go to America', Bashir's father said to him one day.  'There is more money to be made there in one day than in a lifetime in Somalia'. 

Barre Abdi also knew that as well as profiting mightily, his son would not be killed.  American authorities were easily convinced to give immigrants and easy pass, and would overlook 'minor' infractions of the law.  More importantly, shooting a black man no matter what the circumstances, was simply not done in the United States, so the young man would be safe from harm. 

Entry into the United States over the years had been possible, especially if one had the financial resources of the Abdi family.  The thousands paid in bribes to American officials - from the border patrol to the courts - made illegal entry a simple matter.  

The Abdi money was not needed, however, since Bashir entered the United States during the Biden Administration, well known throughout Africa as an easy mark. Biden and his Congressional supporters made it known that all were welcome.  He and his fellow progressives felt they had a duty, a holy obligation to right the wrongs of decades of American imperialism, neo-colonialism, and racial oppression of Third World nations and to give succor and asylum to anyone fleeing that world. 

Given this political stance and the myopia which went along with it, the fraud, embezzlement, and financial crime committed by the Somali community grew geometrically.  No one in the Administration dared look at Somali books, for doing so would have been tantamount to racism.  There was already a widespread popular belief in the endemic criminality of the black man, American or African, and investigating him would only confirm that rancid prejudice. 

Since the local police, the FBI, and the wider network of federal law enforcement agencies were told to look the other way, the Somalis raked in hundreds of millions a year, built financial fortunes, and were looked at within the underground community of scammers, fraudsters, and snake oil salesmen, as brilliant profiteers. 

Bashir Abdi felt quite at home in Minneapolis despite the bitter cold.  He was welcomed as a hero, thanks to his reputation and that of his family, perhaps the most successful criminal operatives on the African continent - and that was saying something given the widespread endemic, universal corruption in every corner. 

'We will teach you all you need to know', Bashir was told as he settled in to his new white collar role.  At first, of course, he missed the thrill of the chase, the roar of quad Yamaha 350s, the gunfire, and the final assault; but he soon got used to a life of leisure. 

The government of the United States at every level had been so snookered, so completely bamboozled by the ethos of 'diversity' and 'inclusivity' that Somalis had a virtually free rein.  Child care centers which were no more than empty storefronts with welcoming signs, eldercare transport services without a single vehicle, and home visit nursing care without a nurse to be seen were the rule. 

'What a great country', Bashir said to his colleagues after evening prayers and a night with a Somali princess; but he was becoming increasingly bored with the simple routine.  Yes, his Aruban bank accounts were swelling, but he missed the life of excitement and adventure he had enjoyed back home.

Fraud was a profitable enterprise, but it lacked mojo, risk, and reward.  Drug running had been at the center of the Abdi business, so Bashir naturally considered that avenue of profit here in the United States. 

There were two avenues open for an enterprising man like Bashir - one was the lucrative cross-border trade in California-Mexico, but that was locked down by Latino gangs.  No one crossed Mara Salvatrucha, MS-19 or even intimated joining their ranks.  Bodies were littered on both sides of the border for just that. 

The other was the smaller but still lucrative drug market in New York City.  Frank Lucas had made hundreds of millions through a canny marketing scheme - buying heroin wholesale direct from Southeast Asia, shipping it on military transport planes shuttling between Saigon and New York, and selling it at a competitive price on the street. 

Lucas was long dead and buried but the drug trade in Harlem and beyond was still not only viable but rewarding.  Bashir had a feeling that with his credentials - black men in Harlem had heard of Somali macho derring-do and liked it, and understood the need to be more canny about their investments.  A veteran of the biggest scams going in the United States would be welcome in New York. 

While Bashir started as an accountant - well, more of a financial advisor - he let it be known that he would be a valuable asset in the muscle end of the business.  He had shown no mercy on the high seas and was known up and down the Somali Coast as the Genghis Khan of piracy, and there were enough upstart factions causing interruptions in the now standard-issue trade, that some measure of 'discipline' was called for; and he was the one. 

The reputation that preceded him was well-deserved, and in a few short months bodies were showing up in the Meadowlands, drug sales returned to normal, and the domain of the new drug lords of Harlem increased by leaps and bounds. 

Never one to turn his back on friends, family, and community, Bashir returned to Minneapolis and began to transform what had only been a scam into a serious, American-style, gangland operation.  He used his Harlem connections as sources of heroin, meth, and Fentanyl, built a cadre of loyalists within the Somali community, and selected the best and the brightest to work for him. 

Within a short time, the streets of Midwest cities were filled with his products; and the local authorities, still under restraining orders and unable to investigate anyone in the black community, did nothing. It was a bonanza, a jamboree, an operation that simply printed money. 

With the election of Donald Trump, the aggressive operations of ICE, and the long-overdue investigations into Somali Minnesota fraud, Bashir knew it was time to leave.  He knew the day would come as it did for Frank Lucas and the Big Men of Africa - not in federal prison but in his villa in St. Tropez which he had already bought and furnished.  Since his record was clean - federal authorities in the US never even suspected his level of involvement in the childcare fraud or the drug trade - and with generous payments to EU authorities, his residence in the South of France would be undisturbed. 

Everything in life is subject to the dictates of the bell curve; and even in a continent only known for misrule, corruption, venality, abject poverty, and medieval tribalism, there can be bright stars, men of brilliance, enterprise, and creativity.  Bashir Abdi was one of those stars and at last report was living decently and well on the Cote d'Azur.