I was sixteen when I first realized stories could carry you across borders. Growing up between cultures, I’d sit cross-legged on the floor of my aunt’s cramped apartment, listening to her weave tales of Mogadishu’s bustling markets, the scent of cardamom lingering in her words. Those stories weren’t just memories—they were lifelines, stitching together the fragments of a life left behind. Years later, in the gritty pulse of Detroit, I found myself chasing that same thread, trying to capture the raw, unspoken truths of immigrant lives in my debut book, Libaax: Grow Your Roots Where You Land. This is the story of how I became a storyteller, and why I believe immigrant voices deserve to be heard, loud and unfiltered.
Writing Ayaan’s Story in Libaax
When I started writing Libaax, I wasn’t thinking about book deals or bestseller lists. I was thinking about Ayaan, my protagonist, a Somali immigrant who lands in Detroit with a civil engineering degree and a suitcase full of dreams, only to find himself washing dishes in a diner that smells of grease and regret. Ayaan’s story isn’t mine, but it’s born from the same soil—conversations with first-generation youth, former refugees, and dreamers who’ve known the ache of being almost understood. I saw their resilience in the way they laughed too loud at corner store jokes, or the way they’d remix old qaraami melodies with trap beats in basement studios. I wanted to write a story that didn’t just mourn displacement but celebrated the stubborn beauty of becoming.
Capturing the Rhythm of Libaax
Writing Ayaan’s journey felt like spinning a record. Each chapter had to hit the right beat—grief, joy, isolation, defiance—all layered like tracks in a mixtape. There’s this one moment in the book where Ayaan, now DJ Ayaan, steps into his first gig, the air thick with sweat and anticipation. I remember writing that scene, my headphones blaring, trying to catch the exact rhythm of his transformation. “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.” That line poured out of me because it’s what I saw in the people around me: immigrants who, despite every odds, found ways to carve out space, to become elemental in a world that often tried to shrink them.
Cedric Mu’s Challenges in Crafting Libaax
The process wasn’t always smooth. There were nights when the weight of these stories—mine, Ayaan’s, and the countless others I’d heard—felt too heavy. How do you write about migration without slipping into clichés of tragedy or triumph? How do you honor the dishwashing jobs, the fleeting romances, the friendships that become chosen family, without romanticizing or pitying? I wrestled with those questions, pacing my tiny Detroit apartment, the city’s hum seeping through my window. Detroit, with its cracked sidewalks and soulful pulse, became more than a backdrop—it became a character, a witness to Ayaan’s remixing of his Somali roots with the city’s gritty beats.
Why Libaax Stands Out
What makes Libaax special, I think, is its refusal to flatten the immigrant experience. Ayaan’s story isn’t about “making it” or falling apart—it’s about the in-between, the messy, poetic rhythm of survival. It’s about music as memory, motorcycles as freedom, and friendships with people like Ahmed, a reformed pirate with a wicked sense of humor, or Maria, a law student who sees Ayaan’s fire before he does. It’s about masculinity that dares to be vulnerable, about belonging when home is a moving target. I wrote it for the young adults who see themselves in Ayaan, for the educators and social workers who want to understand their students, for anyone who’s ever felt caught between worlds.
Cedric Mu’s Vision for Libaax Readers
I hope Libaax does more than tell a story. hope it invites readers to see immigrants as fully human—funny, flawed, fierce, luminous. I want readers to walk away with empathy, yes, but also curiosity, a hunger to ask questions and listen to the answers. For immigrants and their children, I hope they find mirrors in these pages, reflections of their own grit and grace. For others, I hope they hear the pulse of lives too often pushed to the margins.
Join Cedric Mu’s Libaax Journey
This journey’s just beginning. I’m thrilled to share Libaax through digital readings on Zoom, book club visits, and a book signing at a Detroit independent bookstore this fall. These events aren’t just about the book—they’re about building bridges, sparking conversations about migration, identity, and the power of storytelling. You can find Libaax on Amazon or learn more at cedricmuhikira.com, where I’ll post updates on events and ways to join the dialogue.
Cedric Mu’s Love Letter to Immigrants
Writing Libaax taught me that stories don’t just preserve—they amplify. They take the quiet moments—the dishwater hands, the late-night rides, the laughter over shared meals—and turn them into something resonant, something that demands to be heard. This book is my love letter to every immigrant who’s ever dared to grow their roots where they land. I hope you’ll read it, feel it, and carry its rhythm with you.