|

by: ShanQo
Scene One
“Eshi,” my father started. “How are things at school?” A normal question from a parent concerned about his son’s education, right? Wrong! True, any other day, it would have been an inquiry that I wouldn’t have paid any mind to, but it was Sunday night, and we were in the middle of watching of “Face/Off.”
“Huh? Ay, arif newe, so far so good.” A feeble attempt at not wanting to find out what dubida was waiting behind his seemingly innocent question.
Silence. For twenty more minutes. We just sat there, watching Jontra Bolta and Nick Cage throw punches and hurl bullets at one another. I couldn’t even pay attention to the dialogue in the movie anymore. My mind was trying to conjure up all possible gruesome scenarios of where this conversation might be headed to. I went through everything from that F I got way back in 5th grade (rolling it up with an old pair of socks and hiding it in my closet had seemed like a good idea back then), to that important paper that I’ve been procrastinating on for the last two weeks. Wey fiDa! In a matter of seconds, I was a nervous wreck fighting to maintain a composed façade … all because my dad asked how I was doing in school.
Ten more minutes. Still, the TV is the only thing making any sound … other than the voices in my head that keep reminding me that I have all the reason to dread what this man might say next. The remote control sat idly between the two of us.
“GuadeNochihis, endet nachew?” he muttered, fidgeting slightly.
WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD WAS THIS MAN GETTING AT? And the fact that he was fidgeting did not comfort me the least bit either. I seriously began to fear for my life. Yihe ye’Mozvold sofa ahun tekefto biweTeN min alebet …
“Dehna nachew … minew?” I swallowed hard, hoping maybe that lump in my throat would move down a little bit and stop choking me with every syllable I uttered. For a second, I even considered pausing the movie, and, emba iyereCHehu, gulbet iyesamku, asking for forgiveness for whatever it was that I had done.
He cleared his throat. From the corner of my eye, I saw him frowning for a second. Then he started cracking his knuckles. Gud Felaaa! Zaré Qen, Mariamiyé, benatish, yene emebet, if I get out of this alive, I promise to never take out of the offering bag at church. In a little over 12 seconds, I had incanted Abatachin hoy, Imebetachin Mariam Hoy, forty-two kraraisos,and siletoch to all the tabots that I could recall.
“Ay, minim. Indezihu …” he responded finally.
Zim, Zim. CHiCH, miCHiCH. Ten more awkward minutes. Suddenly, he took in a conspicuously loooong breath, and exhaled with that dignified sigh that only ex-Military men know how to do so well. Was this my cue? I turned and looked at him, my heart doing somersaults of fear.
“Minew?”
“Ay, minim. Just thinking.” I could almost swear that he was just as nervous as me … maybe more. It was comforting, in a way.
“Silemin? Be’dehna?”
“Hmm? Yeah, ay, don’t worry about it, bakih, zim biyé new.” Obviously there was something bothering this man, and I knew for a fact that my dreams wouldn’t be the sweetest dreams that night unless I found out what the hell was going on. It was only two more months before I graduated from high school, and I had serious plans to attend the occasion alive and sane. And at this point, this particular situation was definitely in the way of my sanity. I turned my attention back to the shooting and exploding on-screen, looking for some kind of solace. It almost seemed like Jontra was whispering to me: “Ayzoh, bakih, tewew. Min asCHeneQeh? If he’s got something to say, he’ll say it. Otherwise keep your mouth shut and watch me blow sh*t up!” So I conceded and continued with the movie.
Scene Two
Ye’arat se’at zena bengliziNa. Mom in the kitchen making God knows what heinous concoction of avocados, eggs, and yalteneTere Qibé - she says it’s good for the heart. My Dad still sitting in the same spot as earlier … still tense. His poor knuckles have suffered some serious damage with all the nervous cracking. At least he said it was a good movie. My mom strolls by the living room and pauses to take a look at my dad.
“Eshi, endet new? filmu Tiru neber?” she asked.
“Hmm? Yeah, minim aylim. zendiro metakosina megadel honual filmu hulu, “ muttered my dad, uncrossing his legs and rolling his neck - more cracking. Sipping on her brew, she looked back at him, cocked her head, and gave him what I could have sworn was an evil grin. She giggled like a 12-year-old, and shuffled out to the bedroom.
What on earth was going on in this house? Who are you people, and what have you done to my parents? The X-Files would have had a field day with what was going on in that house that night. My mother’s drink itself would have made for at least one episode on FOX primetime. I picked up the idle remote control from where it lay on the couch between me and my father, slowly got up and put it on top of the TV.
He murmured something. I think it was my name. I turned around, fearing the worst. I half-expected him to sit there with devilish horns sticking out of his balding head, fangs dripping with curdling blood, and a menacing scowl plastered on his face.
“Na esti, “ he said softly. All he had was a worried frown. I went back to the spot I was sitting in.
“Minew, are you ok, babi?” I asked. (Save your comments … so what if I call my dad “babi!”).
“How’s Sara?” he asked.
“Huh?” OK, I was lost, I had no idea what he was getting at. Sara was the girl I’ve been dating for a couple of months … only, my parents know her as my good friend. Conversations about my relationships never got farther than my mother teasing me when girls called the house. She would look at me talking on the phone, and sipping on her toothpaste-juice (that’s what it smells and looks like, anyway), she would say, “Endeee, minew ité, yitewuh inji inezih lijoch. Gena lij aydeleh indé? Arfeh temar, lijé!” And she would giggle and shuffle away …
“Sara endet nat new yemilih,” he repeated … almost losing his patience. I automatically went back to assuming the worst. I somehow convinced myself that this was her way of dumping me without having to deal with the responsibility herself. She told my parents to tell me that she doesn’t want to be with me anymore!! Wey merdoooo! Heartbreak and fury were beginning to set in, as I tried to remember where I messed up …
“Endet nachihu…?” he started, and paused, looking for a way to finish the sentence. Another long breath, followed by the heavy sigh. He rolled his eyes, cracked his neck one more time, cleared his throat, looked me dead in the eyes, and finally asked, “Sara girlfriend’ih nat?”
Even though his steady stare would have made anyone feel like they were standing in front of a firing squad, about to be transformed into a human sieve, my only reaction was a full, genuine smile. I couldn’t lie to him. There was no reason to. The man was putting so much effort into this.
“Yeah,” I replied, trying my best to reproduce the steady stare that he’s perfected so well. But for some reason that didn’t seem to satisfy him. He still had that look of tense consternation. “Yeah, babiyé, she is,” I repeated, still smiling. I had realized what he was trying to get at. I figured out what was the cause behind the cracking knuckles, the heavy sighs, the rolling necks, and the nervous twitches and fidgeting.
“I thought so,” he said, with a slight trace of an amused smile on his face. “Ay, ante, beQa adek iko.” I smiled back. I guess it was that father-son bonding moment thing that was going on… .
“Ghin, And neger…,” he started, going back to that look which had given me serious bowel dysfunction and mental chaos earlier on in the night. I chuckled to myself. This man is very brave! I couldn’t believe he was actually going to go ahead with this …
Scene Three
My mother strolls - almost glides - back into the living room, steals one look at me and my father talking, smiles to herself, and then glides into the kitchen to put back her mug. Parents are good with conspiracies, I tell you. I turned back to my father, who had gone back to cracking his knuckles. I considered telling him that I knew what he was thinking, and that I know it all, yadda, yadda, yadda … but you don’t do that to someone who spent most of his life adorned in a uniform and had a rank before his name. I let him have his moment.
“Iyewilih,” he started, and then stopped. “I know you’re grown up,” he continued, choosing English instead of Amharic. Good call on his part.
“I know you’re grown up,” he said again, “and you probably already know what I’m going to tell you.” He paused for a breath, swallowed the lump in his throat, cracked his knuckles … Mts, miskin. Yihené, he’s probably regretting not sending me to Qidus Yoseph, just for the sake of avoiding this exact conversation.
“What I’m trying to say is,” he continued, “that I know you’re responsible, and I want you to stay that way - mature and responsible.” He blinked and pressed his lips together firmly, and nodded. He was about to be done. I should say something… .
“Babiyé, I know what you mean. Gid yelem, you have nothing to worry about.” I put on my best reassuring smile, and nodded. And we nodded together - a mutual understanding that this little conversation has neared its end…well, at least he’d said all he could without doing serious damage to his heart and nervous system.
Sighing one last time, he got up from the couch, muttering, “tiliQ sew.” I chuckled. He bid me good night, and headed out of the living room with my mother, who had just emerged back from the kitchen (wey timing bilo zim!). My mother turned around, winked at me knowingly, and giggled. I sat on the couch, looking after them, shaking my head with admiration and pride. My Ethiopian parents just took a stab at having “the talk” with me. Gurayen yemichilew aynorim ahun! He was almost out the door, when I heard him mumble something. I didn’t catch most of it, but one single word was more than audible. “Protection.” It almost seemed like that single word was echoing from every wall in the living room. I started convulsing in fits of laughter. I didn’t get a chance to ask what else he said. My parents had practically sprinted to their bedroom, glad that they got it over with. I could hear my mother laughing at my dad, “Ay, anteeeee!”
|