I’ve always believed that stories are like vinyl records—each scratch, each groove, holds a piece of someone’s soul. Growing up between cultures, I felt those grooves in my bones: the ache of not quite belonging, the pulse of defiance in carving out my own space, the hum of resilience that kept me moving forward. That’s where LIBAAX: Grow Your Roots Where You Land was born—not just from my own journey as an immigrant, but from the countless voices I’ve heard in the vibrant, gritty streets of Detroit. Writing this book wasn’t just about telling a story; it was about spinning a mixtape of lives too often left unheard.
Cedric Muhikira’s Roots – A Storyteller’s Beginnings
My name is Cedric Muhikira, and I’m a storyteller, though I haven’t always called myself that. As a kid, I straddled worlds—different languages, different customs, different expectations. I was the boy who could slip between accents but never quite felt at home in any of them. Those early years taught me to listen closely—to the silences as much as the words. When I moved to Detroit, I found a city that mirrored that in-betweenness. It’s a place of raw edges and warm hearts, where people rebuild from the ground up. That’s where I met the real-life versions of Ayaan, the heart of LIBAAX: young immigrants scrubbing dishes, dreaming big, and remixing their cultures into something bold and new.
LIBAAX – Ayaan’s Story of Resilience
Ayaan’s story came to me in fragments, like a half-remembered song. He’s a Somali immigrant, a civil engineer by training, who lands in Detroit with a suitcase of memories and a heart full of grief. By day, he washes dishes; by night, he spins records, blending Somali qaraami melodies with trap beats as DJ Ayaan. His journey isn’t the glossy triumph or tear-soaked tragedy you might expect from an immigrant tale. It’s messier, more human—full of late-night motorcycle rides on his beloved Libaax, fleeting romance with a bartender named Isabeli, and friendships with people like Ahmed, a reformed pirate, and Maria, a law student with her own battles. Ayaan’s story is about finding rhythm in the chaos, about growing roots where you land, even when the soil feels foreign.
Cedric Mu’s Writing Process – Building Bridges
Writing LIBAAX was like building a bridge between my own experiences and those I’ve witnessed. I drew from late-night talks with first-generation youth, former refugees, and dreamers who’ve learned to dance through displacement. I wanted to capture the moments that don’t make headlines: the sting of mispronounced names, the quiet pride of a well-cooked meal, the way music can stitch together a fractured identity. Detroit became more than a setting—it was a character, with its pulsing underground music scene and its stubborn refusal to give up. I spent hours wandering its streets, listening to trap beats and qaraami mixes, trying to weave that energy into Ayaan’s world.
Crafting Ayaan’s World in LIBAAX
One night, while writing the scene of Ayaan’s first DJ gig, I locked myself in my apartment with a playlist of Somali classics and Detroit’s finest hip-hop. The air smelled of coffee and possibility. I wanted readers to feel the sweat on Ayaan’s palms, the thump of the bass, the way the crowd’s energy lifted him from a nobody to a narrator of his own story. That chapter was my favorite to write, but it was also the hardest. I wrestled with staying honest—not romanticizing the struggle or glossing over the loneliness. I wanted Ayaan to feel real, like someone you’d meet at a corner store or a dimly lit club, someone who’s flawed but fiercely alive.
A Favorite Line from Cedric Mu’s LIBAAX
“He wasn’t the guy who fumbled slang or froze at Kroger’s endless aisles. On Libaax, he was elemental—a streak of fire painting sagas on the asphalt.”
This line, one of my favorites, captures Ayaan’s transformation. It’s not about becoming someone new but about reclaiming who he’s always been. That’s the heartbeat of LIBAAX: the idea that immigrants don’t just survive—they create, they remix, they burn bright. The book explores displacement, identity, and the search for belonging, but it also celebrates the poetry of everyday resilience. It’s about the friendships that anchor us, the music that carries memory, and the courage it takes to be vulnerable in a world that often demands toughness.
Why LIBAAX by Cedric Mu Matters
I wrote LIBAAX for anyone who’s ever felt like an outsider, but especially for those who’ve crossed borders—physical or otherwise—and had to rebuild themselves. It’s for young adults, educators, social workers, and anyone who loves stories that pulse with emotional depth and cultural richness. Unlike other books on immigration, LIBAAX doesn’t dwell on trauma or assimilation alone. It’s lyrical, raw, and unapologetically poetic, blending urban grit with the soul of Somali tradition. It’s a story that invites you to listen closely, to feel the beat, to see the beauty in becoming.
Cedric Mu’s Vision for LIBAAX
My hope is that LIBAAX does more than entertain. I want it to spark conversations—about immigration, yes, but also about the universal search for home. I want readers to walk away with deeper empathy, to see immigrants not as “others” but as neighbors, dreamers, storytellers. For those who see themselves in Ayaan, I hope they feel seen, too. This book is my love letter to them, to Detroit, to the stubborn beauty of starting over.
Join Cedric Mu’s LIBAAX Journey
If you’re curious to dive into Ayaan’s world, you can find LIBAAX: Grow Your Roots Where You Land on Amazon or learn more at cedricmuhikira.com. I’m thrilled to share that I’ll be hosting digital readings on Zoom, visiting book clubs, and holding a book signing at a Detroit indie bookstore this fall. These events are a chance to connect, share stories, and keep the conversation going. Follow me on social media for updates on dates and how to join.
Cedric Mu’s Final Note
Writing LIBAAX has been my own journey of growing roots. It’s taught me that stories don’t just reflect who we are—they shape who we become. I hope Ayaan’s rhythm finds its way into your heart, just as it did mine.