PART 1:

FiFi used to be known as Filfiloha. But those days are long gone. Now, she is FiFi… DC socialite, hair salon owner, mover and shaker of the 18th street posse. She has air-kissed every zefaN, every wanna-be Merkato business owner, every aspiring student, every Kebede, Kebedech and Sintayehu this side of the alu mibalu crowd. “Yene Qonjo,” she purrs at people whose name she can’t quite remember. “Abet Qunjina! Ye Ityoppia amlak yigdeleN! Ere mootit libel!” No one ever truly knew if FiFi was single, but yet she never seemed attached either, despite the slew of men, old and young, always dapper in silk, neon-blue suits and leather jackets, ready at her beck and call.

If you were the type who needed to know which dress Minnie (who used to be Mintesinwat) wore to Fasika last Saturday night, FiFi could tell you without batting an eye, even though she was in Alexandria that same Saturday night, crying the evening away with a friend who just found out that her steady boyfriend’s new girlfriend got a gold Ethiopian cross necklace made from Dubai gold.

“Yene Qonjo,” FiFi had said to her sobbing friend while taking a cursory look around at the distressed woman’s penthouse apartment furnishings and paying particular attention to the snow-white sofa still ensconced with its protective plastic cover.  “Aizosh,” she had muttered, as she passed her friend a fresh tissue from a gold-plated Kleenex dispenser.

FiFi had one problem, though - one little glitch in her seemingly enviable living.  An annoying thorn in her side - tigist yemiasCHeris mekera.  It was Z (né Zelalem’yene Moges), the younger brother.  An ex-TiQur Anbessa CHolé, who now sports the tattoo of a MoA Anbessa on his right shoulder.  It was bad enough that she had to explain to every single acquaintance why her younger brother had corn-rows (“Teddy-style” new yemilut?).  But to add to that social pain, there was the fact that she went weeks without seeing him, and when she did, it was probably because he was begging her to take care of his traffic tickets.  (His battered and bruised black Integra had a habit or running into parked cars).

Wiy yetalaQ ihit siQay! It hasn’t even been a year since he graced the west wing of the Atlantic with his presence, and already, Shuruba-Z had become a household name at the likes of Bravo Bravo, Boukom, DC Live, and all the nooks and crannies in Adams Morgan and the environs.

That same day she was consoling her QinateNa, broken-hearted friend, he was out on the balcony, blackening his already cancerous lungs, while spewing profanities and yeferedebet “keep it real”s and “kna’mean”s into his cell phone … the bills for which Fifi pays almost every other month.  She didn’t even know why she let him tag along in the first place…

Fifi rolled her eyes in embarrassed exasperation when Z (zim bale!) let out a loud, “Yo, yo, yo, yo, Dog!  C’mon, now.  Y’know wha’ I’m sayin’?” and turned back with renewed concentration to Jerri, (who used to be Iyerusalem), who was still sobbing prettily.  Fifi was long used to consoling inconsolable females in her salon, women who come in desperately seeking a fix for their Oglevie, bright orange do which they swear their other Tegur seri (afer tibla!) had applied to their “prematurely” graying hair.  Her clients’ tears, however, were never dispensed with Jerri’s immaculate elegance.  Their eyes tended to get all red and swollen while Jerri’s remained wide and pretty.

“Can you beleeve eet?” Jerri was saying, dabbing the pads of her perfectly manicured, long-enough-to-dig-out-that-Qorki-behind-the-refrigerator nails under her eyes.  “Dubai.  Dubai!” she repeated in an obsessed mantra, which reminded Fifi that she was expecting guests that weekend and was planning to serve her to-die-for dubba dish.  “Aizosh, ikko, aizosh,” she murmured distractedly while she wondered if it were no longer politic to invite Jerri’s newly estranged, Latino husband to the dinner that Saturday.  Jerri had married Paqo over five years ago, expressing her undying love, but really only hoping to get her green-card.  Then one thing had led to another one evening, and nine months later, Jerri had given birth to Petros José Paqo Montoya.  But two years into the wedded bliss, Jerri had become acutely disenchanted with Paqo’s tenacious fidelity and had determined that the surest way to inject reality into her accidentally healthy marriage was to have flagrant affairs with other men.  Such was Jerri’s luck, however, that Paqo actually admired what he referred to as her “endearing sense of independence.”  In fact, last week, Jerri had been crying in her pretty way over how Paqo was so (beTam!) understanding that she’d nearly smacked him when he’d invited her date up for beer upon having found them in a clinch just inside the building’s foyer.

Fifi was busy mentally reviewing and rejecting recipes in between dutifully patting her friend’s back and mts-mts-ing when a curious tone in Jerri’s voice dragged her attention back to the conversation.  “…beTam Qonjo ikko new,” Jerri was saying.  “Min?  What?” Fifi asked.  “Wendimish,” Jerri said, her doQma firé eyes ignoring Z’s body-by-kitfo borCH and going straight to his corn-rowed zoma Tegur.

Fifi's six-inch nails, most recently adorned with the Egyptian pyramids and hieroglyph motifs that Kim, her Tfr seri, swore was the in thing, imbedded themselves firmly into Jerri's upper arm.  "Simmee, anchi"...she shook her for good measure as Jerri's eyes showed their surprise and fear, "arfesh teQemeCh, semash?"  All the  mababel forgotten, she stared into Jerri's eyes and drove her point home, "Call Paqo and tell him to pick you up...I just remembered I don't have time to do your hair."  She ushered Jerri unceremoniously out to the miniscule reception area and slammed the door on her before Jerri could get a word in edgewise.  Through the door Jerri's plaintive voice came through, "Erre...indE...ere yerasE bEt'kno new....."...Fifi couldn't have cared less.

Fingers shaking, she extracted a Salem cigarette from her faux snakeskin purse (it matched her over-the-knee boots with the stiletto heels), but it took five matches before she was able to inhale the minty smoke.  "Who the hell does she think she is, looking over that young boy who is at least 15 years too young for her, eh!?!!  Demmo lefchE yasadekut'n...suddenly, she catches herself mid-rant, and looks up to see whether homeboy Z had heard what she'd just uttered.  Thankfully, he was too busy checking out the wiggle of his lezzer-clad behind in the reflection of his gyrating self on the balcony door to pay her any mind.  What would he say if he knew that she and Jerri's brother, ZiQargE, had...wiy wiy ...ere zimm maletu yishalal, hodE?" she consoled herself, stubbing out her cigarette in Jerri's half-full teacup and rising as the plastic-covered sofa gave a plaintive squeak.  "Na'nheed!"  With that command she took her ..er...brother by the arm, grabbed her floor-length faux ostrich-skin coat and her purse in one swoop, and sashayed out past a stunned Jerri, who had still been standing outside the door.  Fifi didn't even spare her a glance.

Difabachew sat patiently in the driver's seat, waiting for Fifi to finish consoling her friend and grace him with her presence.  To the untrained eye, his balding pate, his plaque-caked teeth, his ever-ready "playah" smirk and the B.O. masked with Brut cologne rising in waves from his imbiyew-alawelQim leather jacket, all proclaimed him to be a has-been playboy wannabe.  But to the regulars at all the 18th Street establishments, "Dave" was known to be the one who, inexplicably, was often seen with the latest jewel in the D-V crown, the latest babe to grace Adams Morgan with her carefully matched hair-extensions, the latest wbeet to adorn his left arm as his right hand reached deep into his parking-lot enriched pockets to pay...and pay...and pay.  Fifi had eluded him for months, and though he'd found other lovelies to help him forget that failure, he hadn't given up.  Finally, he had earned the right to be the one to whom Fifi turned whenever she needed a ride.  Someday soon...very soon...he'll be allowed to actually see her to the door of her condo.  He broke into a sweat at the mere thought that she might actually let him hold her purse as well.  Sib'at-le'ab!!!

"Feri! Ye-wend aliCHa!!" he cursed himself, as he caught a whiff of his own "eau-de-lab".   He was Difabachew, son of Fitawrari AsCHenaqi, brother to colonel Wendayehu.   Who was she, to make him feel like this?  He has never had an empty bed, except by choice.   Ere yetabatuwa!!  She will learn who he was.  He flipped down the driver's side sun visor to stare at his reflection in the little vanity mirror.   He smiled at his alolo aynoch, and thought of the many beauties who had succumbed to a "bemotkut" look from them.   He practiced the look again - tinish lemboCH and an earnest "yalanchi mn aleN" expression.   Hold her hand and leaning close into her face, gently praise even her "qoreT qoreT iyale yemiweTaw tnfash" and she is putty in his hands.  

"Dave-yé!"

He turned around, and was met by his conquest of three months (or was it five? - no matter) ago, Lullit.  The look had been particularly deadly on her.    He had found Lullit to be a gentle and innocent soul who fooled herself into thinking she was good enough to hang with the wolves like him.   A Debre Zeyt native, she had somehow made it to DC as a wife of a DV winner, dreaming of waitressing riches and parking-lot husbands.   She fooled herself into thinking that "Dave" was the dream she had come looking for.  He saw no reason to dispel her fantasy.  Her innocence was refreshing compared to the barracudas he had to deal with in the older crowd.   Spying Fifi and her wefefé brother coming out, he got out of the car and gave the surprised but pleased Lullit a tight, long hug, long enough for Fifi to skin Lullit alive with a withering glmCHa.       

He stood there awkwardly squeezing Lullit -- as though he were a lonely bachelor drawing the last bit of ecstasy out of an inflatable companion -- until the intensity of Fifi's laser glmCHa pulverized his focus on the desired impact of the staged show.  Five minutes after he sped out of the parking spot with Fifi in front, and Z in the back seat, Lullit's heart was still winding down towards its regular rhythm.

Dave, Fifi and Z rode in silence. Dave hadn't still managed to tune to the right wavelength at which to exchange polite pleasantries with the corn-rowed, tattooed, hip-hop-loving, cocky, youngstah in the back seat.  His repeated attempts at patronizing questions have only drawn monosyllabic replies that implied, "Dude... you're like... soooo... old school, man," followed by a forced yawn and a gaze out the side windows. 

While fuddling with his CD changer to put on his favorite 'inidesset' song in Ephraim's new album, Difabachew stole a smile at the awkwardness of his situation, and wondered whether the way to a woman's heart is actually not through her younger brother, and resolved to ignore the punk in the back seat, and, leaning back with one arm resting on the rolled down side window while another alternated between steering and DJ-ing, shot a provocative gaze towards Fifi.  

An implicit pact of don't-ask-don't-tell governs the specifics of the destinations to which Difabachew's chauffeuring services are called for on a regular basis.  Had it not been for the sheQaba punk brother in the back seat, and the eau-de lab that keeps eroding his self confidence, he would've ventured to ask for more specifics that day. 

The specifics, as it turns out, wouldn't have been harder to swallow than the bereha-Tibs at Fasika during lunch that scratched all way down his esophagus.  Yes, in that unabashed way that women bring the worlds of men into collision course, Difabachew would have realized that he's about to deposit his ye-mititay inji-so-far-yematibella frE into the arms of Alemneh.  Alemneh, the bespectacled, unkempt, BMW-commuter [ i.e. Bus-Metro-Walk ], professor of biochemistry at Georgetown, has become the latest fly to join the buzzing swarm around Fifi's body.  Bespectacled, unkempt, and without a fancy-car-with-100-CD-changer.  The book-hugging eccentric who lacks even the remotest hint of humor other than his own brand of word play.  Wey neddo!  Ay set ?!  Even infatuation, Difabachew thought, were disgraceful to share with a geek of that sort.  A wave of Qinat swept through him, and turned towards Fifi expecting one more glance would cast her into an ugly Qoma-Qerr, with baggy eyes, and poke-marked face unworthy of the pursuit.  He stared as she fuddled through her purse to pull out her a cell-phone.  While turning towards the road, the periphery of his frame of vision caught in the rear view mirror what looked like a smirk on the face of the corn-rowed punk in the back seat.  Wey neddo!

She flipped her cell phone open, and dialed a number.  Ever so carefully, so her nails-by-Kim remain intact by the time the dialing ordeal was over.  Difabachew – who by this time was getting comfy in his fury – stole a glance to see who she could possibly be calling.  It was a 202 area code.  DC.  Georgetown.  That punk!  Ahun balTefa sewe?! His eyes were taking on a shade of jealous green, as his grip tightened around the wheel.  “Alemneh, alem abatih yiTfa, ante kussam!” he cursed under his breath, as his body odor climbed up a couple of notches up the PH scale. 

Fifi dialed the number again, with a look of frustration on her face.  Why is he not picking up?  Degmo ahun, manew lezih geek yemidewililet? Sometimes she almost felt like she was doing Alemneh a favor by gracing him with her leopard-print-clad presence.  She held up the phone to her ears again, thinking maybe she’d hear his high-pitched, nasal, shriek … “Helllooooowwwww, Fifi’alem, Fifishaaaaa!” he would exclaim loudly enough for Shuruba-Z to squirm in pain in the backseat.  But no, nobody picked up.  She gave up and closed her phone shut with a grunt.  Yet abatu! Qerebeta zare!  Z-dogg was still smiling to himself witnessing the whole episode when his cell phone rang out with the tune from Puffy’s latest re-sampled hit.

“Yo!” he hollered, rolling his neck backwards.  “Uh-huh, yeah. That’s right, yo.  A’ight, arif new, kna’mean?”  Difabachew looked back into his rearview mirror at Z, only to catch a menacing stare from the corn-rowed weffeffE himself.  A few seconds after his phonecall was actually over with, Z decided to toy with Davicho’sida yegeba angol, and continued to fake a conversation …

“Oh yeah, man, definitely, I’m gonna get with her,” he continued barking into the dail tone, his eyes fixated on Difabahew through the rearview mirror.  “I’ve been waiting for three – no five – months now, and I’m not quitting!” He noticed a slight fidgeting from Dave in the front seat, while his sister kept on looking out the window on her right side.

“Yeah, there’s this other geekyyehone fara trying to talk to her too, but I’m the man, yo, I can handle this,” he continued, still eyeing the occupants of the front seats as they both seemed to be slightly restless.  Dave’s new ride seemed to speed up a little too as the sweat-infested chauffer switched gears.

“Hell no! Brut is too weak, man. I need some serious cologne.  I wouldn’t want to smell funny later on, dawwwgggg!  Get me the good joint, eshi!”  Z exclaimed, while Dave’s sudden acceleration jolted him backwards.  Even Fifi was slightly taken aback by Difabachew’s sudden attack of the accelerator.  65mph.  Then 75.  Getting to 85.  “Ere, Dave-yE, bemotE, Qess iyalk,” Fifi pleaded, looking him up and down.

The poor man had his grip tight on the wheel, his knuckles paling from the pressure, while beads of sweat trickled slowly down his Qey-dama face.  Zooming along at airoplan-yemiasniQ fiTnet, Difabachew, was definitey paying no attention to the traffic on the road.  No attention whatsoever to the 1985 Chevy Impala that was pulling out of its parking spot.  No attention to Fifi’s pleading yemimesil QuTa.  No attention to Z’s evil grin in the backseat.  No attention to the ’85 Impala pulling further out into the street …

KemeQisfet … firen shera siTiTiTiTiTiTiT …. GUAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

The wrinkled Impala was practically shoved back into its parking spot and rammed into the street light pole.  Dave’s ferTama SUV was a mangled wreck, but its occupants still alive. Difabachew’s hands still held tight onto the wheel, as Fifi nursed her nails while sobbing and murmuring incomprehensibilities. Shuruba-Z, his braids still unharmed despite the wegeb-yemisebir crash, jumped out of the backseat through the window, sat on the sidewalk, and started laughing out loud at the top of his lungs.

Something stirred inside the damaged Impala, and Spanish obscenties came flying out as the driver slowly stepped out with his scantily clad female company.Dave and Fifi looked up to see who they were going to have to deal with when the Insurance people get involved.Seb’hat Le’Ab!Simintegnaw shih! In front of them, out of the mangled car, were stepping out Jerri’s cause of siQay Paqo, and his Dubai-gold-wearing “guadeNa”

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Tune in for the next episode and see how a car accident leads to a steamy love affair between Zelalem’yene “Z” Moges and Paqo’s girlfriend’s sister-in-law, who happens to be the same lady that cleans Jerri’s apartment whenever Jerri is out trying to find temporary solace in an Ethiopian professor at Georgetown who sports an annoying voice.