by Yeshi Medhin

News of Abai Kidane’s sudden death hit the family hard. His wife, Imai Bizunesh, and their children, received the news with varying degrees of grief and disbelief.

Imai Bizunesh and Abai Kidane had simply discontinued their marriage sometime in the turbulent 70s, but had never actually gotten a divorce. Who wanted to maragef the details of too many dreams deferred for the silent amusement of shimaGiles with little else to do than Tirs mefaq while they listen to your list of irreconcilable differences, then try to decipher the sem of the matter from the wrq of the disclosure. Besides, there were not enough words to adequately explain things, only stifled emotions that had long subsided into the untreated cavities of mashed down molars. It was too late to rebuild this meseret back into the proud, meaningful edifice it had once been. It was healthier to move on and let old wounds lie nicely scabbed over by layers of other, perhaps finer, memories.

Their children received the merdo in three different countries, did their respective grieving then converged in Addis to be with their mother for the Arba. The church service went well and the ensuing digis was attended by Abai Kidane’s extended family and friends. The following day, with Abai Kidane’s nefs Abat in attendance, the family gathered again for the reading of the will. A brief prayer was said, and his spirit was wished well and God’s speed. Then, just after Ato Abraham, the executor of the will, stood up to do his bit, the maid entered the room and announced the arrival of a guest.

The family tried to frown the poor maid down, but, cowed as she was, she said that this guest was insisting on being seen right away. Petros, the oldest of the siblings, rose from the table and followed the maid out of the room into the foyer, where he found a young man, pacing the sanqa there. When the young man turned to face him, Petros’ heart plummeted and landed somewhere in the roiling acid of his stomach. Dear God! He muttered under his breath, then thought immediately of his mother, sitting innocently in the other room, waiting patiently for the will to be read.

The young man relished the acute expression of recognition on Petros’ face and even dared to smile. Vindication! At last. His own father may never have publicly acknowledged his existence, but the eldest son, caught in an unguarded moment, had given the younger man more than he had hoped for.

Emboldened, he stepped forward, broad shoulders back, head held high, quite unconsciously mimicking the posture his father had oft assumed in moments of stress and triumph.

"Tena yisTiliN."

And there it was again, in the timber of his quiet yet self assured voice, the stamp of his paternity.

Petros inclined his head ever so slightly, his guarded gaze noting the familiar directness of the other man’s eyes, the telling flare to his nostrils that lent his face that look of arrogance. There was a saying his mother had oft repeated, something about the strong resemblance of a diqala to the father. And the proof of that adage stood before him, looking at him out of a face that was at once that of a beloved and a stranger.

"What do you want?" Petros said, though he knew.

"Only what’s right," came the unflinching reply, and stepping forward, the younger man held out an envelope stained brown with age and from frequent handling.

"What is it?" Petros asked, reluctant to accept what he knew would be the proof.

"My introduction," the other said. "Take it."

And left with no acceptable alternative for a man of honour, Petros did.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Petros pulled out the letter from the open envelope while standing right there in the foyer and read the it with a grim expression on his face. The words were explicit but succinct. His father had fathered this man, and had, with this letter, acknowledged him. The letter was mailed out by the estate executor as per Abai Kidane’s instructions. This man, his father’s secret illegitimate child, was here to sit at the table with them and claim his share of whatever was in the wil. And it wasn’t the man’s legitimate claim to his inheritance that bothered Petros so much. It was that his mother was in that room, waiting with the rest of them. To have Abai Kidane’s indiscretion follow him back into that room was quite unappealing.

So he said, "This is not a good time."

"This is the only time," came back the implacable response.

"Then wait here," Petros told him and strode back down the hallway into the living room where everyone awaited him.

"Oh, good, you’re back," Ato Abraham said when Petros entered the room.

"Yes." Petros looked around the room at his siblings and his mother, who were all looking at him questioningly. "Ato Abraham, forgive me, but will you excuse us for a minute. I must confer with my mother in private."

"Of course, of course," Ato Abraham said watching in bewilderment as Petros helped Imai Bizunesh rise and lead her out of the room.

Petros led his mother to an adjoining room and closed the door firmly behind him. Then, taking his mother’s hands in his, he said, "I don’t know how to say this, Ima…" he paused to clear his throat. "There is a young man here — I left him waiting in the foyer - and he…well, it’s clear even without the letter, but he brought with him a letter to prove…well…. Imai, his name is Kidane."

Imai Bizunesh smiled humorlessly and patted her son’s hands comfortingly. "I know," she said.

"You know?" Petros asked startled.

"I’ve always known," Imai Bizunesh said. "I didn’t know that your father would acknowledge the child, but I’ve always known that there was a child. I even knew his mother."

"You knew her!! Do I know her?" Petros asked running over in his mind the possible list of candidates, but they were all really too old for him to imagine them inflagrate with his father, or their bellies swollen with his father’s diqala. He shook his head trying to dislodge the inappropriate images from his mind’s eye.

"Oh, yes, you knew her, but I don’t think you would remember her."

"Well…, what do we do?"

"Do? Nothing. I gather he’s here for the reading of the will, so we let him come in, sit with us and hear what there is to hear."

"You’re so calm about this," Petros said.

"Well, your father is not the first man in Ethiopia to populate the country outside the marriage bed," his mother said matter of factly. "Bel, na, Petros." Her tone implied, let’s get this over with.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Bes’me’Ab! Kidane!? tey’inji, BizuyE. AyareGewim!!" weizero Abebech said and dramatically pseudo-spat twice onto the nice Parquet floor of the living room.

The two ladies, friends from before the second war with Italy, were sitting in weizero Abebech’s condo, bought for her by her children, who wanted their mother close enough to visit but not close enough to live with. Imai Bizunesh came to visit her friend in America once every few years, and, because they had precious few secrets between them, was quite comfortable divulging the story of Abai Kidane’s other son to her.

"Ayhehe," Imai Bizunesh said, shaking her head. "demmo’ko quCH Abatun n’w, Zerihun yimut. Kidane mekad inqua beefelig, aychilim nebereh," she said and took a dainty sip from a melekia of AreqE.

The two old friends contemplated the truth of the matter in silence, then, "meches, iskandalus n’w, BizuyE," weizero Abebech said, repeating the new addition to her growing vocabulary in English. "mts! Awon…Iskandalus!"