The M'Ts Issue

One fine Friday morning, after a 33-year absence from home, I checked into the Ras Hotel, weary from Alitalia's nocturnal Rome-Addis Ababa flight. Clasping my generous tip with both hands, the dignified bellhop bowed and slipped the folded bills into his jacket pocket. He lowered his cap on his balding head and straightened up as I in turn bowed and closed the door to my second floor corner room. I turned around and eyeballed the chamber, awash in a halo of diffused sunlight glowing through the sparsely scattered white floral designs on the gray linen curtains. Looping my necktie around the hanger hook, I hung my coat in the cupboard and stepped into the dark bathroom.

I flipped the light switch on the wall but the room remained dark. Both bulbs in the two art deco up lighters affixed on either side of the white medicine cabinet were burnt out. Annoyed, I flipped the light switch toggle in rapid succession but the clicks merely jibed at my obstinacy, bouncing the sound of my unavailing attempt against the walls. I checked my rising temper, tightening my grip on the edges of the sink and looked up at my reflection on the beveled-mirror door. A silhouetted figure with puffed eyes and a mane of disheveled blond locks stared back at me. Averting my gaze, I scratched the heavy stubble on my jaw and turned the hot water faucet on.

Since I had planned to see her the next morning, I decided to make good use of the rest of the day by familiarizing myself with the neighborhood. The bells of the nearby Holy Savoir Church rang as I pushed past the revolving front door of the hotel and started walking north along the busy Churchill Avenue. In no time at all, several children surrounded me, attempting to hawk Singaporean nylon socks, a cactus pear, green Bic ballpoint pens, lottery tickets and a well-thumbed Time magazine featuring a solemn Shah of Iran on the cover. At once impressed and disappointed by my understanding of the language and by my lack of interest in their wares, they dubbed me the "ferenju abesha[1]," and eventually disbursed. A few of them scuttled back to the comforting shade of the Haile Selassie Theatre colonnade as I crossed the street and passed an Ethiopian Airlines ticket office located on the ground floor of a high-rise building. Cutting across a parking area filled with cars, I walked along an arcade with a stationery shop, a dry cleaners and a café.

Eager to begin my afternoon stroll, I had dashed out the hotel without having my customary macchiato. Imagining its rich warm taste, I sauntered into the dim café. Immediately, I was struck by the number of elderly Italian men seated on chrome pipe chairs at a few tables drinking their ice-cold beers and scalding beverages. The Ethiopian waiter who stood behind the coffee maker took my order of macchiato in Amharic. All but one person in the café fixed their gaze in my direction. In the silence, a white-haired Italian in a hand-knitted burgundy cardigan, hitherto absorbed in a game of dominos, slapped his last block against the Formica table and shouted, "Finito!" The elderly patrons resumed their animated conversation, peppered with quaint phrases barely extant in contemporary Italian vernacular.

A sturdy potbellied Sicilian with a bushy gray mustache and thinning jet-black hair greeted me in Italian from behind the cash register. Wiping his hands with a tattered towel, he walked around the glass counter and stood before me. Introducing himself as Signor Lambrazzio, he inquired, in Italian, if he had not seen me deplane earlier that morning. Before I responded, he explained that he was at the airport to see his wife and daughter off to Palermo on the noon Addis-Rome Ethiopian Airlines flight.

"Mind you, once the Emperor had proclaimed amnesty for the likes of me, it made it relatively easy for us to remain here after the war; I haven't stepped out of the country ever since. I was counting on spending the rest of my remaining days here, and had even secured a plot in the cemetery up the street at the Holy Savior Church. But what to do? Firebrands denounce veteran members of the cabinet for mismanagement and corruption, and they in turn sulk and abandon their ministries. The Emperor, in the midst of this anarchy, hastily appoints a young prime minister with a negligible following in the armed forces to form a cabinet. Then the discontent that was welling up ever since the disastrous Wello famine finally crests and tosses the Emperor, his family and the entire administration into the dungeons.

"Signore, these are dangerous times. They remind me of the weeks before Mussolini and his Blackshirts’ March on Rome in ‘22. That's why I insisted on my family's immediate departure. Only a fool paddles blindfolded twice on uncharted rapids. I, Signore, leave as soon as I've liquidated all of my assets. Rosalia, my daughter who has inherited her mother's features and complexion, may have a difficult time in Sicily. But I am left with no recourse."

He glanced at the camera dangling over my checkered blazer. "You didn't choose a good time to visit, Signor .…?" He looked up at me in anticipation. A few seconds passed.

I had not planned on revealing my identity to anyone in the country until I had met with her, but the apprehensive café owner's simple query caught me off guard.

I slid my empty macchiato cup and saucer over the glass counter, bowed to Signor Lambrazzio, and began to make my way out of the café. Through the doorway and across the parking lot, I could see the image of an emaciated man with an anguished expression staring at me from a large canvas stretched over two columns of the Haile Selassie Theatre's portico. A serene little girl dangled a twig above the man's head. The first two letters of the Geez alphabet, painted in bold brush strokes across a third of the canvas, dwarfed the two vulnerable figures. Suddenly, a cloud of cigarette smoke billowed from a nearby table, blurring the apparition.

"Fioravante. Fioravante. Fioravante? Did I hear you say Fioravante?" a gruff voice demanded.

I turned to my left and looked down at the man in the hand-knitted burgundy sweater. My eyes wandered momentarily to the maze of domino blocks spread over the table.

"The only Fioravante I knew was a captain of the Italian Air Force during the war. Any relation?" he asked in an Italian tinged with a Piedmontese accent. Before I replied, his eyes flickered in evident recognition. With a swiftness that belied his age, he sprang to his feet and grabbed my hand.

"Colonel Contini Dacomo," he said, vigorously shaking my hand. I repeated my name. He then waved at his cronies and led me to the parking lot.

"You are Apollonio and Aster's son, aren't you? Mama-mia, why do I even ask?" Scrutinizing my features, he exclaimed, "Yes, it's all there! It's all there. Giònata, Giònata, Giònata," he said patting my cheek. "Giò. That's how I used to call you. You were three or four when Aster entrusted me to secure your safe passage. I was assigned to round up the wives and children of Italian Officers and to make sure they boarded the last train out of Addis before General Cunningham and his South African troops entered Addis Ababa. At that time, Apollonio was providing air cover for General Nasi up north so I couldn't turn down Aster's appeal. Surely, your father must have told you. We were very good friends. We met when we were 18 or 19-years-old, assisting our fathers reconstruct canopic jars at the Torino Egyptian Museum. It was the summer of 19 --"

Colonel Dacomo looked away and threw his cigarette on the ground, extinguishing it with a single twist of his foot.

He put his arm around my shoulder and pointed toward the mountains. "You see that building complex camouflaged by the cluster of trees?"

"See the red Sony sign on the side of the apartment building? Right below the Alitalia neon sign on the roof."

I noticed a structure resembling many a government building built during the Fascist era in some of the larger Italian towns and cities.

"That's where your father used to work whenever he was in town. Certainly, he must have told you stories about his experiences at the ufficio politico[2], no?"

I shook my head. "My father doesn't talk about his Ethiopia," I said, staring directly into his eyes.

Colonel Dacomo looked away and fished a pack of Kent from his cardigan breast pocket. "But you still must know about ufficio politico. Didn't you say you were a professor? He mocked, tapping a cigarette filter side down on his palm. "What do you teach at the university?" he asked, fidgeting with a silver cigarette lighter.

Two soldiers standing guard at the front entrance of the former ufficio politico building regarded my ascent on the massive stairs with indulgent incredulity. They casually removed their guns from their shoulders and strolled toward the edge of the expansive landing as I reached the last stair.

The shorter and more senior of the two soldiers tightened his grip on his weapon and blocked my path with it. "Office for lunch closed," he said in halting English.

I gestured with my camera and turned toward the gangly and lower ranking of the two soldiers. "I'd like to take a few pictures of the city from here," I replied in the same language. The young soldier looked down at his superior. "Come on, Sarge, let him take his pictures. What harm can he do anyway?"

The older soldier slung his rifle back on his shoulder and gazed leisurely at the congested traffic below. I wound and unwound the camera strap around my forefinger. He ambled back to the sentry box next to the front gate. Sweat beads ran down the side of my face.

Disconcerted by his colleague's behavior the private gestured and turned toward his superior. I wiped off the perspiration under my chin with my jacket sleeve.

I thanked the private and turned toward the city. Pressing my camera against my belly with one hand, I sat down at the top of the stairs and peered through the viewfinder. I panned past the Lycée Guebre-Mariam, the Post Office, the Ministry of Defense, the Haile Selassie Theatre and held frame on the Railway Station at the far end of Churchill Avenue. My last stop in Addis before my departure 33 years earlier.

Familiar echoes of heavy footsteps distracted my attention as my fingers pressed the shutter release on the shaky camera. I advanced the film and zoomed out, tilting down to include the steps below. My father, Capitano Fioravante, flanked by Colonel Dacomo and Sergeant Lambrazzio, was climbing briskly up the stairs in full uniform looking directly into the lens. Suddenly, a band of Blackshirts appeared in the foreground from behind my back and jogged down the steps in unison, whistling a Fascist ditty. My damp finger slid off the shutter release as I lowered the camera. Capitano and company were nowhere to be seen.

Apart from a Swedish couple who were busy sipping coffee at their table, the few Ethiopian patrons and all the waiters hovered around the bar when I entered the dining room early the next morning. Although I stood at the entrance for some time, none of the waiters looked in my direction. A military march blared through the tiny speakers of a small transistor radio perched on the liquor shelf behind the counter. I approached the group and sat on a barstool at some distance. Soon, a male announcer began to read a list that included the names of numerous prominent imperial government officials and high-ranking officers. The Swedish husband spread cherry jam on a piece of buttered toast and handed it to his wife. Taking a large bite out of the piece, she smiled and held her husband's fingers. The announcer blurted my maternal uncle's name. Several French tourists walked into the room and glanced in our direction. The most junior member of the group waved impatiently. When the waiters did not respond, the Frenchman strode toward the bar and nudged an elderly waiter.

"One minute, Mister, one minute," the waiter said in English, glancing briefly over his shoulder.

The caretaker junta, the announcer elaborated, had declared the 60 individuals on the list to be Ethiopia's foremost enemies and had had them executed by a firing squad the previous evening. He stressed that the former dignitaries were already buried in an undisclosed location and warned family members against inconveniencing authorities for the whereabouts of the bodies.

I postponed the visit to my mother for ten days and left Addis by plane for the historic towns.

Amidst the household flurry, a young girl of nine or ten was the only one who noticed me walking toward the front door, escorted by the bewildered guard. She stared at the large bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums in my hand while a frustrated maidservant elbowed her away from the Peugeot 504 and opened the front passengers door.

The young girl's sparkling brown eyes, set in a scarred pudgy face, flashed an inquisitive glance. The maidservant placed a large dish wrapped in white cloth on the brown leather seat and shut the door.

"Mister, what is your name? My name is Azalech," the young girl said in English, pulling back her dangling braids and twisting them into a knot.

"Non dica nulla davanti alla bambina![3] " My mother’s imperious voice announced in Italian. She emerged through the front door, her slight frame shrouded in black mourning attire. Overwhelmed by her matter-of-fact recognition, I looked down to conceal rapidly welling tears in my eyes.

She rummaged through her purse and pulled out her goggles and car keys as the guard communicated my insistence to appear unannounced.

"Bambina?! That's what Sister Concetta calls us at school when she's in a good mood. Mayé[4], I didn't know you spoke Italian," Azalech said.

Mother ignored Azalech's comment and ordered the maidservant to get a book from the coffee table.

"TenayisTilñ. Dehna aderu, Wzo.[5] Aster[6]? " I said in Amharic, responding in kind to her chilly reception. She must not have anticipated my familiarity with the language for her insubordinate brows furrowed, breaking rank from her hitherto impassive face. Avoiding my eyes and acknowledging my bow with a slight nod, she grabbed the paperback from the winded maid and hastened around the back of the Peugeot.

Three decades of rancorous yearning had forged a being that had loomed colossal in my unchecked imagination. I did not know how to proceed, confronted by this dainty woman whose severely bound black head wrap bobbed above the roof of the white Peugeot.

"Why I can't I sit with you in the front like I always do?" Azalech whined. Mother sat in the driver's seat and glared at Azalech through the rearview mirror.

"Would you prefer to stay at the house?" she threatened. Azalech folded her arms and climbed into the back seat.

Mother leaned over the front passenger seat and looked up at me through the enormous goggles that concealed most of her face. "Let's go," she said abruptly in Amharic and started the car. I must have fidgeted with the bouquet for she quickly added, "Beletu, please take the flowers from the gentleman and put them in a vase."

"Gentleman!" I whispered as the maid took the flowers. Donning my dark sunglasses, I stooped and slipped through the passenger doorway. She picked up and held the large dish until I sat down. She then asked me to put the dish on the floor between my feet. I did as instructed when I felt Azalech's kick on the back of my chair.

Azalech bawled, a flood of tears streaming down her face. She raised her folded arm, covering her face with it. The guard opened the door as Azalech slid off her seat.

"But why did you have to give away my seat to a complete stranger?" Azalech wailed. She climbed out of the car, wracked with sobs.

"He isn't a complete stranger, Azalu," mother said. Azalech lowered her arm from her face.

I grabbed the paperback snuggled between the dashboard and the windshield and noticed my stepfather's handwritten name and the words "Cell No. 2" on the makeshift newspaper jacket cover.

I turned over the jacket cover and examined the title page. "Future Shock by Alvin Toffler," I murmured.

I marveled at my stepfather's spirit. How he could focus his attention on the problematic shifts of post-industrial societies while he was very much imprisoned in the cellar of a pre-industrial country was beyond my comprehension.

"But how could he be your cousin, he's a ferenj[8]," Azalech said, staring at me through the front passenger's window.

"Basta! Let's go wherever we're supposed to go!" I snapped, tossing the book back on the dashboard.

Azalech quietly climbed back into the rear seat as Mother shifted into first gear.

Numerous servants and relatives, visible through Menelik[9] Ghibbi's[10] imposing iron and bronze gate, lined up in rows with lunchboxes in their hands. Mother and a few other newcomers waited outside the gate. A nonchalant corporal casually circled around them, blowing cigarette smoke at the stylishly coiffured matrons. The reason behind mother's severe head wrap occurred to me.

"I've figured it out. I know who you are," Azalech said smugly in Amharic, tossing and catching a few pebbles in the air.

"Yep, you're Al-la Sta-zio-ne, aren't you?" she said, enunciating each syllable.

"Alla Stazione?! Alla Stazione? That's not a name. Know what that means in Italian?"

"I dunno, maybe you changed your name once you became a grown up, but I read it with my own eyes. Alla Stazione, that's what was written. I even memorized it," she said resolutely.

"I believe you, Azalech. I believe you. Where did you see it written? I asked, altering my strategy.

All of a sudden, a flush of embarrassment wiped out all traces of pretension from Azalech's young face as she leaned forward in her seat. Dropping the pebbles on the floor, Azalech ground her fingers against my headrest.

"Well, the whole thing started when Mayé asked me to bring her manicure set from her dressing table. I promise, I wasn't gonna do anything that I wasn't supposed to do. It just happened."

"As soon as I got Mayé's manicure set," she continued, "I heard Mayé's voice outside the house instructing Gashé[11] Amare, to get something from the store. I was never allowed to wander alone in Mayé and Bayé[12]'s bedroom so I was curious. I pulled out all the drawers and looked at their things"

"Oh, I forgot to make you promise," Azalech said suddenly. "Do you promise not tell Mayé what I am gonna tell you?"

"Well, when I pulled out Mayé's bottom drawer, I found a large brown envelope hidden inside a sweater that I've never seen. In the envelope there were a few large photographs of Bayé from many years ago with a few ferenj soldiers in front of a large plane. You know, Gashé-Gashé --"

She looked up at me quizzically. "If Alla Stazione is not your name, what's your name then?"

"Italian. But it's a Biblical name. It's Yonatan in Amharic. Now, are you going to finish telling me your story, Azalech?"

"Oh, okay. Where was I? Yes. You see, Gashé Gi-ò-na-ta," she continued, cautiously pronouncing my name, "there's a glass case in the living room filled with lots of Bayé's photos, so I didn't know why Mayé hid these photographs in the drawer. Once I had seen all the photos, I tried to slide them back but I felt something hard at the bottom of the envelope.

"I peered into the envelope and saw a worn out envelope stuck at the bottom. I pulled it out and turned it over several times. It was sealed. Quickly, I grabbed one of the tools inside Mayé 's manicure set and opened the envelope."

"Inside, I found a wedding band and a photograph," she whispered, looking around conspiratorially. Unconsciously, I leaned over the headrest on my seat. Azalech's face suddenly contorted as she stared through the rearview mirror.

I followed her gaze but caught her reflection as she screamed and dove to the floor.

I tilted my head looked once again. The nonchalant corporal was "body searching" mother. Her face was turned sideways while the corporal squeezed her breasts and rubbed her stomach. I removed my sunglasses and strained to see her eyes but the goggles completely masked her reaction.

Leaning his heavy frame over her, the corporal slipped his arms under her raincoat and patted her back. I opened the door and leapt out of the car. Mother immediately raised her hand, signaling me to stop. The corporal stepped back abruptly and addressed her harshly. I could not hear what he said but I could very well see his distorted face. She looked at him blankly but kept her now trembling hand in the air. The corporal removed her goggles, carefully folded the plastic arms, and slipped them into his khaki shirt pocket. He continued to glare at her but she did not flinch or turn away, lest she roused his suspicions.

I realized that I would endanger her further if I attempted to intervene. Frustrated, I climbed into the Peugeot's rear seat and lifted Azalech off the floor. She whimpered as I lay her head on my shoulder and pulled out a passport photograph from my jacket pocket.

Wiping her tears with her damp shirtsleeve, Azalech took the photograph from my hand. She took a quick glance and nodded.

I was dumbstruck for a few seconds. Never having seen my younger sister and not realizing the extremely close resemblance between my daughter and my sibling.

She leaned forward in her seat and looked up at me. "You named your daughter after my grandmother?"

I nodded and wiped the remaining tears from Azalech's face with my handkerchief.

"Blow your nose, Azalech," I said, giving her the handkerchief. She covered half her face with it and blew. I glanced furtively over my shoulder. Mother was walking past the corporal and through the gateway.

"How could Aster be your daughter, her hair and her skin color are almost like mine?" Azalech asked, neatly folding the handkerchief into a square. "Gashé Giònata, I don't understand," she continued, slipping the handkerchief back into my breast pocket, "how you foreigners give names to people. A few days ago, an American dug out the skeleton of the first mother in the countryside somewhere and called her Lucy. Mayé told me that Lucy's not an Ethiopian name. You have a daughter in Italy and her name is Aster. I know that's an Ethiopian name. I'm confused. How does it all work?"

"My friend, Belqis and I were talking about Lucy in the back of the class when Sister Concetta walked in and tapped Konjit, who is her favorite pet, on the shoulder. Konjit got up with a big grin on her face and started wiping the blackboard. Just like always, Sister Concetta smiled at Konjit and placed a bag of cookies on her desk.

"Belqis and I continued arguing about Lucy. "Lucy can't be Eve because they found her all alone in her grave, without any of her children," Belqis said. 'If she was really Eve, her children would have been with her.'

"That doesn't mean anything. My mom is in America and my brother and I are both here. But my Mom is still my mom. So Lucy is Eve," I insisted.

"When she heard Lucy's name, Sister Concetta glared at us and paced along the blackboard. " Mr. Johanson's skeleton is Eve, the first woman and mother," Sister Concetta said.

I peeked at Belqis but she wouldn't look at me. Sister Concetta then walked down the aisle and stopped right between Belqis and me.

"'Name of one of the four rivers that flows out of the Garden of Eden into Ethiopia.’ Sister Concetta said.

'The second of the four rivers flowing out of the Garden of Eden covers the whole land of Ethiopia. Now, do you remember the name of the river?’ she said, heading back to the front of the class.

"We all knew that she was really asking Konjit so we kept our mouths shut. She looked at Konjit and twitched her eyebrows. Konjit stood up and walked to Sister Concetta. She stopped right next to her and turned to face the class. Sister Concetta put her arm on Konjit's shoulder.

Konjit beamed. ‘The name of the second of the four rivers flowing out of the Garden of Eden into Ethiopia is called Gihon,’ Konjit said, in her singsong voice '."

"There's Mrs. Aga!" Azalech said, interrupting her story. She sat up and pointed through the window on my side.

A woman who appeared to be in her early thirties walked past our car, carrying a large box wrapped in light blue paper with the words "Enrico's" printed all over it. Her loose fitting cotton dress grazed tantalizingly against her shapely legs as she walked toward the gate.

"Oh, Mrs. Aga is our English teacher. She from Trinidad that's why we call her by her husband's name," Azalech explained.

"Uh-huh. Her husband, Ato[14] Aga. It must be his birthday. That's a huge cake! Enrico's makes the best cake. Do you think we can get some on our way back?"

"I don't see why not but we'll need to ask Mayé first," I replied. "So Konjit named one of the four rivers in the Garden of Eden. What happened next?"

"The usual. Sister Concetta held Konjit's chin and cooed. We rolled our eyes and looked away in disgust," Azalech said.

‘Bambina,' Sister Concetta began, 'you are such a smart and well-behaved young lady. Your parents and your family must be sooooo proud of you. You do us so well, Konjit dear. You do us so well.’

"My friends and I in the back row squinted our eyes like Sister Concetta and whispered, 'sooooo proud of you.' Unfortunately, Sister Concetta saw us. ‘When the Lord told Adam and Eve to leave Paradise,’ Sister Concetta said tightening her lips, ‘they sailed out of Eden on the Gihon River and made their home in the Afar region. That's why Mr. Johanson was able to find the First Mother's skeleton there,’ she concluded.

‘Mark my words," she continued, ignoring me, ‘soon Mr. Johanson will find Adam and the First Family's skeletons.’

"But Sister Concetta!" I persisted. "The radio announcer said that Lucy's bones were almost three million years old. Last week, you told us the world was 5,000 years old."

‘Azalech,’ Konjit said, rushing to Sister Concetta's rescue, ‘as usual, your numbers are wrong. Sister Concetta had said that the world was 5,978 years old, not 5,000.’ Konjit then turned and looked at me.

"I grabbed the eraser from my desk and squeezed it with my fingers. I could almost see it bouncing off Konjit's forehead.

"Then, before Konjit sat down on her chair, she wrinkled her nose and stuck her tongue out at me.

‘Azalech Ayeleworq, stand up this instant,’ Sister Concetta said, picking up the ruler on her desk.

"When I heard her call out my name and my father's name, I knew I was in trouble. I stood up and stared at her.

‘Azalech Ayeleworq,’ she repeated. ‘You, of all people, should know not to take the radio announcer's word for Gospel truth. Otherwise, the corruption charges against your uncles, grandparents and family members are all going to be true, are they not?’ Sister Concetta said, releasing her spectacles.

"I cried but I continued to stare at Sister Concetta. Belqis leaned across the aisle and patted my hand. The soldiers," Gashé Giònata, "had killed her father with Mayé's brother last week.. Belqis looked at Konjit and shook her pencil at her. Konjit squinted and stuck her tongue out.

"Suddenly, I pulled my hand free from Belqis and threw the eraser. I struck Konjit right on the nose.

"Belqis muffled her giggles and helped pack my notebooks. As I walked out of the class, I couldn't stop myself from looking at Konjit. She was crying, pressing Sister Concetta's embroidered handkerchief against her bloodied nose.

"I ran out and paused by the window to look at Konjit once again. She pointed her bloodstained finger at me and wailed. I stuck my tongue out at her and fled to the jungle gym."

"Didn't Sister Concetta report you to the principal?" I asked, suppressing my laughter.

"Maybe she did. I don't know. But I did get into trouble later that afternoon when I ran into Konjit and her two sidekicks, Hirut and Nebiya outside the girls' bathroom." ‘Repeat after me,’ Konjit said as she and her friends trapped me in a circle. ‘My uncle and my grandfather are-- No, that's too easy. Repeat after me, 'Ethiopia will progress only if my entire thieving family has been exterminated.' Say it!"

‘She wants to make it fun for us,’ Konjit chuckled. 'All right, remember, you asked for it. I'm giving you one last chance. You better say it. Here goes. I'm counting till three.'

"Your time's up! Okay gang," Konjit hollered and cupped my ears. "It's Heimlich time! We're gonna force you to spit out the confession that is stuck in your throat."

"Hirut and Nebiya inched closer but I didn't move. Nebiya leaned over my back and tugged my right hand. I tried to resist but she twisted my arm and wrapped her arms around my stomach, pinning my hand to my back with her chin. Hirut squeezed my neck and forced me to bend lower. Then, she yanked my left arm away from my face and locked it in her arms.

"Konjit leaned over my head and planted her chin on the back of my neck. ‘Hey, you're familiar with the Heimlich, aren't you?’ she whispered. Then, she dug her nails deep into my cheeks and clawed all the way down to my chin. It hurt a lot but I said nothing. Didn't scream. Didn't cry.

‘It's a brand new method,' Konjit continued. 'My mother uses it to save people from choking on their food. I'm gonna use it to save you from choking on your confession. Hirut!’ Konjit growled, ‘clasp your fingers tight around Azalech's stomach.’

‘Good!’ Konjit murmured. ‘Now, when I say, 'go!' squeeze her stomach until the confession pops out of her mouth.’

"Terrified, I stepped back and charged forward, ramming my head into Konjit's belly.

"Konjit gasped. Then, she wobbled and fell flat on her back as the headmistress and a corporal appeared behind a few trees.

"The headmistress was giving a tour. I don't think she expected to bump into bloody fifth-graders. She was assuring the soldier that his two daughters would receive the utmost attention from teachers and staff members. The corporal looked at the bloodstained scratches on my face and frowned. I couldn't stop giggling.

"The headmistress was not amused. She ordered Konjit and I to wait for her at her office and whisked the corporal to the nearby rose garden.

"Later, while we waited for her in the anteroom, the headmistress' fat secretary led Konjit's anxious mother into the room. Konjit stood up and rushed toward her mother. She pressed her head against her mother's white uniform and cried like a baby. Konjit's mother wrapped her arms around her daughter and stroked her hair. She asked Konjit to speak and explain herself but Konjit couldn't stop crying.

"The headmistress' secretary screwed up her eyes with her mascaraed eyelashes and waved a finger at me. There were only four of us in the room but she kept pointing at me. 'She's the one! She's the one who tackled poor Konjit to the cement floor!' she shrieked. I stood up and glared at her as she blabbered about my reactionary relatives. I knew what she was up to. She was chumming with Konjit's mother whose husband was a popular revolutionary.

"Then, Konjit's mother looked up at me and knitted her brows. 'Damn you!' I mumbled, and cursed my absent parents under my breath, fighting hard to hold back my tears.

"All at once, Konjit's mother pulled her daughter's hands down and examined Konjit's body. 'Where did she hit you? Come on, where? Show me,' she demanded.

"Frightened, I immediately blocked my face with my hands.. But she stopped in front of me and stroked my braids. I stared at her white nurses' shoes and marveled at their spotlessness.

"Gently, she lowered my arms and cupped my chin. I didn't resist when she tilted back my head and examined the bruises on my bloodstained cheeks.

'Wzo. Haddas, get me some hot water and a first aid kit,' she demanded. The hardwood floor creaked as the fat secretary left the room.

"Something in her voice broke down my resistance. I put my arms around her waist and wept, soaking her white uniform in seconds. She squatted next to me and begged me not to cry."

"But, I don't understand. Why? What have I ever done to him? What has Aga ever done to him?" Mrs. Aga's distant cries in English startled Azalech and I into the present.

[1] Ferenju abesha: the foreign Ethiopian.

[2] Ufficio politico: political office.

[3] Don't say anything in front of the little girl

[4] Mayé: Mom. Note that Azalech refers to her grandmother as Mom.

[5] Wzo.: Mrs.

[6] Good day to you, Mrs. Aster.

[7] Azalu: diminutive for Azalech

[8] Amharic and Arabic for foreigner.

[9] Menelik: Ethiopian Emperor (r. 1889-1913)

[10] Ghibbi: Palace grounds.

[11] Gashé: "Uncle." Used loosely for older male relatives, family friends or members of the household.

[12] Bayé: Daddy. Note that Azalech refers to her grandfather as Daddy.

[13] Emama: Mom.

[14] Ato: Mr.