Web Page For The Young Ethiopian Professional. Volume I   Issue X


 

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Note from the Editors

The Mail

Top Ten

My Story

Bawza

Addis Rhapsody

House of Pictures

Life Diaries

CHilot Part 2

My Ethiopia

The HellHole Diaries

SELEDA Salutes

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"Diary of an Mm-hm-HMMM-Perfect Journey"

By: Sza Sza Zelleke

Dateline: Addis Ababa

"Where all the ugly people at? Where they at??" OR "MmhmHM Iskemechay?"

There is a game that Ethiopians in the Diaspora play. It's called "Spot the Ethiopian". Played with varying degrees of intensity depending on the location and length of time the player has lived outside Ethiopia, it is an almost involuntary and unconscious gambling game automatically played by the eye and in the mind...

"Abesha new?? Abesha Nat?? Ayedelem/new...nat/aydelechim".

I remember, in the early days, the mid seventies, I just couldn't resist and asked a lady if she was Ethiopian, insisted even. I will never forget that chilly windswept winter day on the platform of the poorly lit subway station where the lady backed away from me nervously. (She was the kind who was born Amsale but preferred to be called Amy, or was born Dinkinesh and loved to be called Dinky; an Afro-Saxon in other words.)

"I'm NOT!" she said repeatedly as I ran my eyes over the slashes on her eyebrow and intricate nikisat peeking over her winter scarf. "I'm NOT, I'm NOT. MOOCH! MOOCH! I'm not!" she said.

My first time in Addis after 25 years, I found my eyes and mind still wanting to play spot the Ethiopian. He's Ethiopian, she's Ethiopian, they're Ethiopian. I continued my game.

"HEY!! Stop it!!" I had to tell myself... We're ALL ETHIOPIAN. It took me some time to stop playing and start paying attention to detail. I was suddenly conscious of the beauty...Yehim Qonjo, yam Qonjo, ichim/yachim Qonjo. Where all the ugly people at, where they at??

Getting here was a trip in itself. "Can I be upgraded please? It's my first trip back in 25 years," I asked the airline manager sweetly. His mouth fell open at first and when I looked in his eyes I realized that, if it was left up to him, I would be instantly downgraded to Dante's Inferno for waiting so long to come back.

But this is not a story about why I took so long to come back... (Because I wanted to buy solar powered flat screen TVs and satellite dishes and microwave ovens and John Deere trucks and combine harvesters for all my rural relatives... because all my urban relatives are in the urban cities of Tokyo, New York, Washington DC, Los Angeles, London or buried in unmarked graves. And, speaking of buried, because the land where my umbilical cord is buried was lost during nationalization, first, then buried into new boundaries and oblivion during kilil-ization.)

No, this is the story about the actual coming back. Simple. Nothing about being cured from anything, refreshing or reviving my identity. I didn't expect to heal any new world wounds because I knew very well that coming back in that mood would require the opening up old world wounds, the lancing of the boil. (EEEEWWW, no thanks.)

What is the point anyway, for neither wound, whether the new world one, nor the old world one can be compared with or understood by (let alone sympathized with) by those who live here, who never left... The wounds of Yezareitu Ethiopia is bandaged by hopeful layers of "yenegen Igziabeher yawkelenal".

When I left 25 years ago, there was a drought in Wello and a simmering border war.... Guess what????... Plus ca change. Some things have changed. i.e. Don't go to a cafe in Nazereth, now known as Adama, to order coffee 'cause you'll be in a government office... OK???

So I went to visit an old uncle in the rural area. His ex-Chissengoch are now his "good" neighbors. He chose to adapt.

So did I. That's why, way before coming back, and in anticipation of this rural trip, I had stepped into the "Outward Bound Shop ". (You know, the kind of shop that kits out mad muzungus who climb rugged rocky mountains to get to the top, have a good primal scream into the wind, and come down again. The kind of shop that stocks lumberjack shirts, solar powered tents, quilts and jackets stuffed with duck feathers..... Oh, yes... the kind of shop that carries FUDS. A FUD is a "female uterine device" that enables women to pee... STANDING UP. More liberating than the pill, it came in very handy in my rural homeland where the toilet is a vast field and a star-studded sky with the sound of dogs barking and hyenas howling in the background. I'm sure my aunt, who pointed to her private bush before trotting back to a polite distance, must have been watching my standing silhouette against the moonlit sky and ...wondered... and wondered...)

I'm still wondering where the ugly people are at...

It's the Sheraton Miss Addis Ababa contest and it's not clear to me whether the competition is taking place on stage or in the audience. I almost feel like I am in that church where all the angels are painted on the roof; Ethiopian Angels staring with sultry divine eyes; rows and rows of these staring bright eyes and eyes and eyes and gold and gold and gold.

... But I know I'm not in a church cause it sure don't smell like incense... it smells like money...brand new money. Which reminds me of a joke. Someone who has obviously just arrived answers his new mobile phone with one arm around his girl-child wushima. "Indei? How did you know to call me at the Sheraton?" he asks his wife angrily.

There are many jokes in Addis. They say its better to be a joker than a regular card. It's the urban interpretation of my rural uncle's "adapt-or- die" theory. Do you think its Darwinian? Well don't! On the contrary, it's a fundamentalist orthodox faith: survival of the funniest, kindest, most faithfully persevering. Mechalin yemesele wusha yelem .

There is indeed no dog like Mechal. Maybe it the mechal which makes everyone so beautiful. Not that ferenje "ras'in mechal", but the Ethiopian Mechal and Mechachal.

Do I digress??? Its only my attempt to give you in a nutshell the rhyme and rhythm of what it means to return to Ethiopia after leaving her as a child and loving her as an adult. In a nutshell, she is still beautiful, she is full of beautiful people who have adapted and who know how to Mechal, even if it is with a little MM-hm- Hm on the side. It is wonderful to watch.

By the way, I must say that I was very disappointed to hear that Gigi is not as famous Stateside as she is here. I heard she was a stand in for some Yemeni or Sudanese singer who failed to show up in LA and that she modestly and casually introduced her debut CD "One Ethiopia" at this event. Let me tell you folks, Gigi's album has reached the remotest tej bets that teeter on the final frontiers of the highlands. You can hear her songs playing in Harer, Mekelle, Wolayita, Dessie; you can hear her where even the strongest of four wheel drives fear to tread. You can hear Gigi singing "HmHmHm Iskemechay...".

Eventually, I learned to stop watching and started living in Addis.


Dateline: Addis Ababa

Part 2: STREET LIFE. Another day in Addis, but where's another dollar?

The rising sun lights up the rows of rusting corrugated iron roofs on dilapidated mud huts. The glimmering roofs encircle the Sheraton Hotel like a cheap choker on a beautiful neck.

Nearby, at the gates of the old Imperial Palace the guard at the gate is lazily sprawled out on the tarmac, his head resting on his jacket as he shouts across to his colleagues, a group of guards sitting on stools playing cards. What's wrong with this picture?? Nothing, the laid back accommodating atmosphere of Addis is amazing and there can be no accusations made that the rich have safe havens and retreat to the suburbs. The dream mansion and dessasa gojo are literally built side by side. In Nazareth and Debrezeit the latest four-wheel drive cars compete for road space with horse drawn garis. Its all horsepower anyway isn't it?

Pedestrians naturally get first priority on all tarmac roads in Ethiopia. It's an unwritten rule and not only do people walk on streets full of traffic while ignoring it completely and carrying animated conversations, entire games of football are played right alongside rush hour traffic. The other popular street game is tether ball and its wonderful to see that the Electricity and Power Authority has kindly donated all its street lamp poles to the children of Addis to play foot-tether ball on.

Not that the roads are worth fighting over. Huge craters have formed all over the Addis Ababa's tarmac and burst pipes often fill these craters that form muddy lakes through which old Volkswagens and new Hyundai's must sail across with equal reservations and determination. The burst pipes serve as an open-air Laundromat and any nearby wall, fence and open space will do to hang out the clothes to dry.

And if you need a change of clothes in the meantime, no problem. Outside polished boutiques with names like Glamour and Paris Chic are the roving representatives of the "Kinde Boutique", travelling salesmen with second hand clothes draped all over them. Their dressing room, like the Laundromat, is an open-air one so you try, you buy, right there on the street.

You can get anything at the kinday boutique: shoes, jackets, trousers, dresses, skirts and each salesman specializes in one item. So, you need to call many kindays to get fully dressed.

SHMBIRRRRRRR. Its time to eat. A little shimbira, a little qolo, a few peanuts and a toothpick for later, to pretend you have been eating Tibs, a little demakesen if you are worried about miCH. Construction workers stop for breakfast to swig on recycled cans containing a special mix of besso. That zur be gonay will keep him going until he goes for another recycled can in the street in the evening. This time, some moonshine known as "kill-me" with brand names like "super" and "nafTa".

Outside the churches, war-wounded, demobilized combatants enforce law and order amongst the beggars and thieves and the general population on the streets. They themselves are beggars, mostly disabled with missing limbs, but their faded memories of military discipline is enough to award them the unrecognized title of law enforcement officers at street level. They huddle in groups, away from other "common" beggars, and watch everything and hear everything. They protect the young shoe shine boys from neighborhood bullies, resolve conflicts amongst beggars and, sometimes, after a little kill-me, provide the pious audience with long-running social commentaries while leaning precariously on their crutches. But the audience has come for prayers, not politics.

Hello Ourael, make cross and bow, bow, bow.

Hello IsTifannos, make cross and bow, bow, bow.

Hello Gabriel, make cross and bow, bow, bow.

Hello Mariam, make cross and bow, bow, bow.

"Tena-yistilin, Indemin Aderu?" (Don't forget the right answer.) "Igziabeher yimesgen". Someone told me that up north they only reply yimesgen or even 'mesgen . When they came to live in Addis, people would ask them "Ma yimesgen?" So now they have also learned the right answer.

Not many people pass churches without saying hello to the resident Tabot. It is hard to ignore the churches as the services are broadcast through PA's and intentionally spill out on to the streets. In the afternoons the priests broadcast their bible studies with sermons more fiery than anything by Billy Graham.

In Merkato, the same is true of the sheiks at the Great Anwar Mosque. One o'clock in Merkato is like being transported to Mecca. The call to prayers fills Merkato's millions of nooks and crannies, as the men rush from their shops to the mosque. Prayer mats and skullcaps and prayer beads everywhere and then, less than an hour later, it's business as usual again.

The most heartbreaking business as usual starts around 6:00 p.m. You know it's that time when you see the little boys who sell condoms emerge. They sit at discreet distances in the shadows waiting for their unfailing customers to arrive.

Then, before you see their faces, you hear their childish, girlish giggles. The giggles sound that way because they are girls, and they are children. They are wearing mommy's lipstick and make up. But they're not playing. This is business in Bole, honey. Addis is cold at night and these babies are practically naked. They keep each other warm with horseplay and running up and down the streets chasing cars with single men. It looks like a game, their baby faces and smiles and giggles make you want to believe its fun and funny and easy money. But it's tragic to watch a little waif of a girl with a beautiful innocent face run after a car on the streets of Bole until it swerves into an appropriately dark alley and a little later, see them drive off together... Will she be safe?? Will she be back tomorrow? YES.

Sunset in Addis. Cafes begin to bring in their outdoor tables and chairs. Their customers switch from caffeine to alcohol at this time, preferring to get good and drunk while sitting with their wushimas in the privacy of their cars. They will drive home much later, somehow, to a wife who won't be waiting up.

Dreadlocked and stocking capped young men, " G's", emerge from their CHat houses, trousers hanging off their pelvic bones and resting on their fake designer shoes. (Real ones are worn by those with sisters and brothers in the US and Europe.) Wide eyed with mirqana they are ready for their chebsi in an appropriately fashionable draught-bet.

Their female counterparts are getting ready too, fixing their hair into trendy styles with kilos of hair gel. The intricate curls and swirls are carefully pasted and plastered on foreheads and faces with the gel. Those who can't afford gel use telba.

Leqso, iIdir, mehaber, hospital, older people rush from work to fulfill social obligations. Not many, if any, go home to watch TV or video or stay in and wash their hair. The mosque and the church compete for the souls on the streets of Addis one last time before the sun sinks.

It's been another day in Addis, but where's another dollar?


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