As a young boy, Ali Bashir lived within the confines of a simple, austere life—grounded and distant from the trappings of modernity. His world revolved around the family homestead, the village soccer pitch, and an informal Qur’anic school in the rural Somali town of Cadaadley. It was a sheltered upbringing, shaped by basic needs and supported by a strong sense of familial responsibility. Today, Ali—known across the Horn of Africa and among Somali diasporic communities as “Ali Dhaanto”—remembers that childhood with a blend of nostalgia and candor.
“It was a hard life,” he reflects. “Droughts, hunger—we had seen it all. But there was also a quiet contentment. The kind of contentment I couldn’t find even in Europe.”
Today, Ali Dhaanto is a household name, his music synonymous with a revival of traditional Somali dance and rhythm, artfully fused with modern influences. But his road to stardom was anything but predetermined.
A Worthwhile Detour
As adolescence faded, Ali relocated to the larger town of Goday, where he became immersed in the vibrant culture of nighttime gatherings with local youth. It was there he discovered the collective joy of dhaanto, the traditional Somali dance, though he never imagined a future career in music.
Later, Jigjiga—the capital of Ethiopia’s Somali Region—became his new home. The city, alive with cultural revival and intellectual energy, introduced him to new friendships, laughter-filled urban tales, and pivotal experiences that shaped his youth. He pursued a formal education there, but it was an unexpected twist of fate that propelled him into the world of artistic performance.
“I didn’t wake up that day thinking I’d become an artist,” Ali recalls, describing the morning everything changed. “I was on my way to register for a technical program in water engineering. I’ve always been good with my hands—technical work suited me best.”
But fate had other plans. The technical school had no space for him. Disappointed but still curious, Ali followed a friend into a nearby cultural center where auditions for a music ensemble were underway. On a whim, the two signed up without hesitation. Ali’s talent stood out almost immediately among the applicants.
By the end of the selection process, Ali was no longer merely a young man with engineering ambitions—he had become a musical contender. Ironically, that same morning, he had also considered attempting illegal migration out of Ethiopia. With school behind him and no job prospects in sight, he saw little reason to stay. Instead, he stumbled upon the journey he never knew he was meant to take.
A Reward I Couldn’t Believe Was All Mine
As Ali began performing across the Somali Region, nominations, accolades—and absurd anecdotes—chased him into stardom. One such tale unfolded when the late Ethiopian Prime Minister Meles Zenawi was scheduled to visit Jigjiga. Ali was tasked with training high school students in dhaanto to perform for the welcoming festivities.
After days of rigorous rehearsals, he was told he’d receive a “reward” for his services—a process as opaque as it was amusing. He never thought to submit an invoice or specify his expectations for payment.
“One day, someone came up to me and said, ‘Come to the municipal office. We’re distributing the compensation—but they’re keeping half of it,’” he recalls with a childlike laugh.
Ali had no idea how much he was owed. When he was finally handed 3,300 birr in Ethiopian currency—nearly 20 times his monthly wage of 170 birr—he was stunned. “I was in shock. I couldn’t move. I thought they had made a clerical mistake.”
For three days and nights, he could barely sleep.
“I kept thinking: Can I buy the Commercial Bank of Ethiopia? Or maybe even the entire performance hall where we host the music shows?”
He adds, tongue firmly in cheek, “Whoever gave me that money clearly had no concern for my physical and mental well-being.”
Of Massage Armchairs: When Hospitality Hurts
Not all adventures were as lucrative—or as welcome. Some, like a fleeting visit to Addis Ababa, left his troupe both dazzled and physically sore.
While en route to the northern city of Mekelle for a performance, the Addis Ababa mayor extended a last-minute invitation to host the group. They were treated to luxury accommodations in a grand hotel outfitted with what Ali calls “spaceship-like” recliners—well-padded, motorized, and utterly foreign to their Jigjiga-hardened bodies.
“We had never seen chairs like that,” he says with a chuckle. “We spent the whole night experimenting with them. We were massaged to our fill.”
By morning, none of the performers could stand up straight.
“The chairs wrecked us,” he laughs. “We were supposed to travel the next day, but nobody could move. I told everyone, let’s just go sit in the chairs again—maybe it’ll fix us for good this time.”
Morning Prayers and a Mother’s Voice
Amid the humor and the hustle, Ali holds close the memory of his mother, who passed away years ago.
“My mother used to wake me for Fajr, the dawn prayer, every morning,” he says, his voice growing soft. “I hated rising so early—after playing football until late, it was the hardest thing.”
He recalls one morning in particular, still half-asleep, murmuring, “Mama, I’ll pray later. Please don’t let me and God be on bad terms, but I just need a bit more sleep.”
It’s a memory that humanizes this famous icon—a reminder that even Somali music’s most recognizable face was once a drowsy village boy, pleading for five more minutes as he slipped back into slumber.
Ali Dhaanto’s story is a testament to life’s unpredictability. There was no master plan. No childhood prophecy—just an unplanned series of missed opportunities, chance auditions, and the strange allure of chairs in a five-star hotel.
Ali Dhaanto spoke to Somali Stream’s Kamil Ahmed in a sit-down Podcast Episode.