There is something profoundly amusing about the concept of 'sovereignty' when applied to the Horn of Africa—a region where the term is less a legal reality and more a polite fiction maintained for the benefit of international diplomats who need a reason to keep their per diems flowing. The latest installment in this long-running farce features the United Arab Emirates, a collection of glass towers and sovereign wealth funds pretending to be a nation, and the government in Mogadishu, a collection of hopeful bureaucrats pretending to have a country. Mogadishu is currently vibrating with a brand of indignation so performative it should come with a playbill. They have accused the UAE of 'undermining their sovereignty.' It’s a bold claim, coming from a central government whose writ often struggles to extend beyond the blast walls of its own offices, but in the theater of global politics, the script demands a certain level of unearned confidence.

Let us deconstruct the players in this tragicomic ballet. On one side, we have the UAE, a Gulf monarchy that has decided its primary hobby is playing a real-life version of SimCity with other people's coastlines. They don’t just buy influence; they install it like a new kitchen counter. Their interest in Somalia isn’t about 'development' or 'stability'—those are just words used by PR firms to sanitize corporate expansion. No, the UAE is interested in ports, specifically those in Somaliland and Puntland. By dealing directly with these semi-autonomous regions, the Emiratis are effectively treating the central government in Mogadishu like a redundant middleman. It is the geopolitical equivalent of a teenager bypassing their parents to negotiate a curfew directly with the cool uncle who owns a yacht and a private military company. The UAE’s strategy is simple: why buy the whole car when you can just rent the wheels and leave the engine to rot in the sun?

Then we have the Somali government, which is currently clutching its pearls with a ferocity usually reserved for Victorian widows. Their 'wrath' is as predictable as it is hollow. To Mogadishu, sovereignty isn’t about protecting the interests of the people—who are, as always, an afterthought—but about maintaining the monopoly on who gets to sell the country's assets. They aren't angry that the UAE is meddling; they’re angry that the UAE isn’t paying *them* for the privilege of meddling. Every time a port deal is signed in Berbera or a military base is discussed in Bosaso without Mogadishu getting its cut of the 'administrative fees,' the central government suddenly remembers the sanctity of international borders. It’s a tiresome cycle of performative outrage that serves only to highlight the utter impotence of the state. If you can’t control your own territory, complaining about someone else controlling it for you isn’t a defense of sovereignty; it’s a Yelp review of your own failure.

The irony, of course, is that both sides are operating with the moral compass of a loan shark. The UAE portrays itself as a benevolent bringer of infrastructure, while its real goal is to turn the Horn of Africa into a series of logistics hubs that serve the whims of Dubai’s shipping titans. They are the epitome of the greedy, moronic right-wing fantasy where everything—even a nation’s soul—has a price tag. Meanwhile, the Mogadishu elites play the role of the victimized global south, using the language of anti-colonialism and international law to mask their own inability to provide basic security for their citizens. It’s a match made in hell: an expansionist petrostate meets a fractured kleptocracy.

Historically, this is nothing new. The Horn has always been the playground for whatever power currently has the most shiny beads or cold hard cash to offer. Yesterday it was the Europeans; today it’s the Emiratis. The only thing that changes are the logos on the shipping containers. The tragedy isn’t that Somalia’s sovereignty is being undermined; it’s that the concept was never more than a hallucination to begin with. In a world where money dictates borders and power is measured in terminal capacity, Mogadishu’s cries for 'respect' are like a man screaming at the tide to stop coming in. It’s loud, it’s annoying, and it’s utterly irrelevant to the physics of the situation.

We are witnessing the natural evolution of the modern state into a corporate franchise. If the UAE wants to buy a port, and the locals in Somaliland want the money, the central government’s opinion is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. The 'wrath' of Somalia will continue to burn until the next check clears, at which point sovereignty will miraculously be restored—at least until the next bidder arrives at the auction house. Until then, we can all enjoy the spectacle of two sets of grifters arguing over the rights to a house that’s already on fire.