by: Felleke

"At the end of each harvest, my younger children's legs would sink deep in the mountain of soybeans as they trudged up to the summit carrying inflated inner tubes. Unbeknownst to my neighboring commercial farmers, my plantation--"

Irritated at the almost inaudible sigh, Dejazmatch leaned back on the sofa and cast fierce glances at his two adult sons, seated on separate chairs to his right and left. Haile, the older of the two siblings, now in his early thirties, stood up, and without a word, left the room. Mekuria exhaled deeply and stared at the hollow imprint on the seat Haile occupied moments earlier.

Dejazmatch ignored the histrionic interruptions and looked straight at me across the coffee table. "When my children and their cousins finally arrived at the soybean mountaintop--mind you, in 1974, the year before the junta seized my land, the heap reached four or five stories--they would set their inner tubes down--"

"Father," Mekuria broke in, "you've told this story a million times. Why don't we talk about--"

"If you are tired of hearing my stories, my son," Dejazmatch interrupted acidly, "you may follow your brother's footsteps."

Mekuria walked out of the room and slammed his bedroom door.

Dejazmatch stood up and stepped toward the corridor. I marveled at his agility and wondered if I'd be as nimble at 83.

He listened intently to the sounds emanating from his sons' bedrooms. The cheers and screams of ecstatic New York Giants fans echoed from Haile's room, drowning Howard Cosell's weary commentary. Quarterback Scott Brunner had just led his team in defeating the Philadelphia Eagles 23 - 0.

Ornette Coleman was blowing Lonely Woman on his alto sax in Mekuria's bedroom.

With a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, Dejazmatch tiptoed back to his seat. He then leaned forward over the coffee table and whispered, "Have you ever done it yefended with Gojjamé women?"

Stupefied, my palms began to sweat. Uncertain about what I had just heard, I fidgeted with my camera strap for a few seconds and asked him to repeat the question.

Dejazmatch repeated the very question.

I shook my head from side to side and set my camera down on the coffee table lest it slipped out of my clammy hands.

"Well then," he continued somewhat disappointed, "have you ever tried it with Borena women, locking their long limbs around your waist?"

"No, I haven't," I mumbled.

"Surely you must have tried it with Tigray women, seated upright on a chair, no?" he asked disdainfully.

At a complete loss for words, I shook my head in abject humiliation.

No longer smug about my cosmopolitan samplings, I deplored my inexposure to regional delicacies. Immediately, I did some quick calculations in my head. I reconfigured and shifted the gradients of the origins of the sexual revolution from the Woodstock pastures to the Metekel woodlands while the ebullient Dejazmatch waxed poetic about the merits of the 45° angle over the 90° and 180°s.

All of sudden, I realized the Cosell and the Giant fans were no longer in competition with Dejazmatch. Haile must have just turned off the television. Charlie Haden's bass, kicking off Coleman's Focus on Sanity track, dominated the quiet hallway.

The bare hardwood floors creaked as Haile stepped out of his bedroom and knocked on his brother's door. Startled, Dejazmach released the love handles of the imaginary Gojjamé woman and grudgingly clasped his hands. He then sat bolt upright, reinstating his former and familiar dignified comportment. Haile, followed by Mekuria, entered the living room.

"It was the glyphosate that did the trick," Dejazmatch said, looking straight at me. "American scientists," he continued, "had just discovered how the chemical controlled perennial and annual weeds in soybeans."

Haile bent forward past Dejazmatch's shoulder and grabbed the car keys from the coffee table. "Abiy, you must know all about fertilizers by now, no?" Haile said sarcastically, twirling the shiny tri-colored brass key chain around his index finger.

Irked by his older brother's disrespect toward their father, Mekuria yanked the front door open. "That's enough, Haile. Let's go!" he said curtly.

"Herbicides not fertilizers," Dejazmatch stated matter-of-factly. "I was just telling Abiy how we used to apply glyphosate after the soybean pods had set, seven to 14 days before the harvest."

Haile glared at his younger brother. He then turned slowly to face Dejazmatch. "Ababa, we're going to Adams Morgan to get some injera. What would you like to eat?" he said in a conciliatory tone.

"The usual," Dejazmatch replied, coldly.

My eyes wandered around the living room past the obligatory Ethiopian Tourist Organization posters hanging on the wall above the sofa. I looked behind to my right and noticed a silver-framed photograph of Dejazmatch and his wife in ceremonial court attire atop a large speaker. She appeared tiny standing next to her tall and broad-shouldered husband. But her diminutive frame could not contain the fiery sparkle in her eyes as she gazed directly into the camera.

"I'll pick up some yogurt from the grocery store for your collard greens, Ababa," Mekuria said.

Dejazmatch nodded without looking up.

Haile looked at Mekuria ferociously.

Our last meal had been a late breakfast at a diner off of Route 20 near Monticello, Thomas Jefferson's residence. We had all spent most of the day touring the manor, the grounds, the nurseries and the plantation before coming home a few minutes ago. I was famished.

"Abiy?" Haile inquired.

"Kitfo for me," I replied.

"My children and their cousins," Dejazmatch continued, "would then sit on the inner tubes and coast down the soybean hill. On my word of honor, it would take them a full minute to reach the bottom.

"We'll be back shortly," Haile said, resignedly.

The front door closed.

"Thanks to the glyphosate," Dejazmatch continued," the soybean yield on my plantation was phenomenal."

Haile and Mekuria's footsteps faded in the distance.

Dejazmatch stood up and stretched his arms.

"I'll be right back," he said as he hurriedly walked out of the room.

"Abiy!" Dejazmatch shouted a few minutes later. "Come over here with your camera," he ordered from the bedroom he shared with Mekuria.

Wrapping the strap around my forearm, I grabbed the camera and walked down the hallway. I stopped outside Mekuria's room.

He spoke before I knocked on the door. "Come in, come in," he said rapidly. I stepped into the bedroom.

Dejazmatch stared at me in his boxer shorts.

I averted my eyes at once and stared at the dimly lit street. A light wind blew some snow against the branches of the budding elm trees that lined the neighborhood street.

"Does it have a flash?" Dejazmatch asked in the calmest of voices, refusing to acknowledge my agitation.

"W-w-what did you say?" I stammered, with my eyes glued on the trees.

"Does-it-have-a-flash?" he repeated, enunciating each word.

"Yes," I murmured, fumbling with the camera.

"Well then, what are you waiting for? They'll be here any moment. Go ahead and take my picture!" he barked.

Reluctantly, I turned and faced Dejazmatch. My hands shook as I raised my camera and peered through the viewfinder. I adjusted the frame with some difficulty.

"Make sure you get my entire body," he said, pulling his shoulders back and thrusting his chest forward.

The flash momentarily illuminated the dark room.

"One more for safety," he said.

I waited for him to change his pose but he did not move. I took a second picture.

"Now you may wait for me in the living room. I shall join you in no time," he said.

I quickly stepped out of Mekuria's bedroom, closed the door behind me and rushed back to my chair. I set the camera down on the coffee table and rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans.

Moments later, Dejazmatch returned in the same black wool coat and trousers he had worn before had left for Mekuria's bedroom. He sat down on the sofa and leant forward over the coffee table to hand me an envelope.

"Once the film has been processed and the prints are ready, remove the letter inside the envelope and wrap it around my photograph. Then, insert the photograph and the letter back into the envelope and mail it for me," Dejazmatch said.

"When do you think they'll have the photograph ready for pick up?" he continued.

"In a couple of days," I replied.

"Then my wife should have it in about…two weeks," he said self-contentedly. "Here's her address in Addis Abeba. Make sure you write it down on the envelope," he warned, "once you have inserted the photograph and the letter and sealed it."

I nodded and slid the envelope and the small piece of paper containing the address in my jacket pocket.

The front door lock turned.

"Ah, if they only knew. Soybeans could have been Ethiopia's salvation," Dejazmatch lamented.