Baidoa’s Housing Mess: Renting Feels Like Renting a Ghost, Buying Feels Like Buying a Dream With Paper Walls

i showed up in baidoa thinking i’d find cheap rent and a steady rhythm. instead, i found a city that breathes dust and silence in equal measure. the last rain was in may. the market? fractured. the landlords? quiet as monks who’ve seen too much.

i slept in a room that smelled like burnt figs and old sweat for 70,000 shillings a month. not bad, right? until the water cut out for 11 days. the guy upstairs-I think he was a goat trader-yelled at the sky every night like he was arguing with god about his overdue phone bill.

renting here feels like holding your breath while someone else holds the door. you pay, you get a room, you learn which wall to lean on so the ceiling doesn’t sigh louder than your neighbors. some places come with a fridge (if you count the microwave-sized box that hums like a dying mosquito). others come with a pet scorpion. disclaimer: i didn’t see the scorpion. i heard it. from the bathroom. it was judging me.

buying? laugh. you’d need $40k just to put a finger on a plot that doesn’t have someone else’s name carved into it. and good luck getting a mortgage here. banks don’t lend-they watch. and the only thing they trust more than money is silence.

i chatted with a guy who claimed he "owns his compound"-means he built a single wall around three rooms and convinced the local clan he’s been there since 1997. no title deed. just a handshake, a goat, and three empty kerosene cans he calls "evidence."

> "you think the gov regulates property? brother, they regulate who gets to sleep under a roof after sunset."

> "my cousin bought a house in 2021. they sold the land under it last month. he’s still living there. the new owner? he says it’s a rental now."

> "if you want to buy, bring cash. and a gun. or a sheikh. preferably both."

here’s the data, served cold like last night’s tea:

the weather? imagine your eyelashes collecting dust and your coffee tasting like the inside of an old boot. the sun doesn’t rise here-it injects. every morning, it hits like a slap from a priest with a rotten pamphlet.

i asked a chef at the only open grill spot (500 shillings for a piece of meat you hope isn’t from last week’s goat) why anyone buys here. he didn’t answer. just poured another cup of bitter coffee and said: "the land remembers who touches it. not who owns it."

today, i’m renting. i’m okay with that. because owning here means signing a contract written in invisibility ink. you don’t want to be the guy whose name’s in the registry and on a militia’s wanted list.

still-people try. families pool money. diaspora send remittances, and someone, somewhere, starts building.

link to local chatter: r/BaidoaResidents - someone posted a fake mansion. it was a parking lot with a sign. 247 upvotes.

link to traveler’s log: TripAdvisor - Baidoa Accommodations - 8 reviews. 7 say "don’t." 1 says "it’s fine if you bring your own water."

link to mystery: Yelp Baidoa: Gaasho Café - a single star. "great spice. cold room. no electricity. also, the guy who owned it died. his brother is here now. same chair. same coffee."

i’m not here to sell you hope. i’m here because the rhythm of this place is somehow music. and i haven’t figured out the chorus yet.

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