KefeteNa Awtan InJii: Why I did not Matriculate at HSIU
By: Berhanu Yalew Yihun

You would be forgiven for thinking that an infraction of this sort should have been confessed to a long, long time ago. But I must protest. No self-respecting and communication-challenged Ethiopian would ever contemplate patronizing a ferenj shrink’s office - especially one that is bereft of a decent cup of buna. Even the atela peddled by that Seattle outfit that dishonors Yirga-Cheffe will not do. Dare I add: bilT-neN bai-ikko misTruun ke’sew-qerto ke’Amlakum lemedebeq yimokraal!

Now these nameless SELEDA cha-chari’woch are begging for a juicy internet confession. Worse still, it is to be written in a pretentious grab-bag style which conjures up the colorful image of ye’zeKe teMari qollo! The esteemed editors, who probably had their tuition and board fully paid unlike our traditional young scholars, might as well have quoted Plato or Zara Yaqob: "An unexamined life is not worth living." Dinqem.

Okay, okay, my aging will power yields with the full knowledge that the statute of limitations has long expired. It was the best of times and the worst of times... [I hear you asking me to make up my mind: which was it? ] Sorry, no more imitating dead white men. Lemme start over.

It was a fine Northern-Highlands Spring day on the eve of tiliqu Abyot, or what you might be tempted to call B.A.C. (before the anti-Christ). Over two hundred wide-eyed seniors had already endured the grueling battery of exams affectionately(?) known as the Matrik. That Friday, we were scheduled to take the killer SAT-type Aptitude Test which, unbeknown to most, was not compulsory. The ESLCE office, located in the far-off promised land, was apparently using it to calibrate the difficulty of the tests.

The cleverest ones amongst us had the presence of mind to imbibe a kibur zebegna birCHiqo or two of the world famous Medhane-Alem Tela, if only to calm the jittery nerves. In the equally numerous teahouses, word was circulating that the questions on the screening test for the coveted jobs with the Commercial Bank of Ethiopia (CBE) are lifted right out of this aptitude test.

The invigilator, an illustrious professor by the name of Negussay, distributed the exam papers with the now familiar aura of infallible authority. You know the kind to which our small cadre of educated elite are most prone - I mean the one that conveys the implicit message: I hold your future hostage in the palm of my hand. Our muted reaction to his stern demeanor was only surpassed by our fear of missing the lifeline that is a college diploma.

To us poor souls (and bodies, too), showing up for the Aptitude Test was a meek way of subliminally ingratiating oneself to the seemingly omnipotent academic gate-keepers in that shining city on the hills of Intoto. Reminds one of the sentimental couplet:

No sooner had they distribute the exams than my shokaka eyes noticed an empty seat in front with an unclaimed copy tantalizingly waiting for a warm embrace. I discreetly and mercifully relieved it from its miserable loneliness by imitating the way a frog extends its long tongue to catch a fly. The ill-gotten prize was then slid down my butanta with more grace than a cobra miraculously swallowing a big antelope in Bale National Park. The stapled pages soon found a warm, comfortable niche in the holy of holies.

What was the much-anticipated consolation for all the trouble? Imagine having to look, day in and day out, at the monied classes though the glass windows of a CBE branch office. Doesn’t a well-dressed bank teller beat a goofy TTI graduate on any rainy day! Failing the ESLCE ceased, at least for a moment, looking like the end of the world. As for guilt and punishment should this daring feat succeed, I was confident that my guardian angel would surely employ his best courtroom antics and parliamentary maneuvers to have me forgiven by the good Lord. A good bank salary should afford a generous gift of iTan, to boot. Besides, who would not be impressed by 50 rounds of sincere prostration come Good Friday?

I opened the exam after muttering the usual prayer: Kiddus Gebriel atirsaN; ye’ennate jebena mejen; ye’Borennaw getta mejen... Come to think of it, my mother was right all along, especially when she cried, lijE Wollo lekefiteNa timihirt hede —Erob’na Arb yemayileyibet hager! Belatedly, I can now offer a more compelling rationalization for this display of religious syncretism that certainly was not born of liberal values: innat\E, innema insurance megzatE neber!

All this must sound a bit odd to some of you dar agerewoch. Many residents of the province, especially those with pre-Gragn real estate titles, think of Wollo proper as consisting of the predominantly Muslim surrounding districts of Dessie. Sorry about the digression concerning this piece of provincial wisdom.

Anyway, the professor and his two assistants soon started counting: heads and then exam papers, heads and then… Something looked awfully wrong; at least one copy must have been missing. Needless to say, my friends and I were clueless about the fact that this prank might have endangered hundreds of thousands of Birr spent on test development. Then came the ultimatum from the angry professor: "I will do whatever it takes to get the missing copy back And when - not if - I catch the perpetrator, he or she will not be hired even as a gardener let alone stroll on the hallowed grounds of the University as a student!!" That was in the good old days when the university grounds were more hallowed than hollowed.

The longest hour of my life zoomed by. My co-conspirators kept urging me (we communicated with kicks and grimaces) to do something quick or kiss that coveted slot at HSIU goodbye. The big question then was how to extricate the foreign element pressing on an already fear-activated bladder. [I do hope, that, while reading this confession, you will not be so cruel as to gloat: yelEba fetena, isir bet saidersu yejemiral’ina.

A pretty girl finishes the three-hour ordeal in just a little over an hour (did she really?). The good professor proceeds to do a body search with the eagerness of a freshman who has just been given the privilege of carrying the heavy books of a senior. When he starts to press his fingers too close to the well-endowed chest, the poor girl screams murder. IndE, keyet yemeTa balegE sew new! Many a young man must have been getting ready to defend the honor of a sister as my sweat begins to miraculously dissipate.

In the God-sent commotion that ensued for a couple of minutes, I manage to extract the crumpled pile which, by the way, felt heavier than a well-documented history thesis. Pretending to attend to a qimal-itch near the ankle, I give the darn thing a discreet but firm mule kick. Soon, a sharp-eyed assistant predisposed to mercifully overlooking the identity of the culprit delivered it to the visibly pleased academic scribbler.

Would you believe it if I tell you that I was so traumatized by the experience that I decided not to show my face at the edifice across Sidist Kilo. Of course, I somehow had the creepy premonition that the ferocious lions guarding the gates of Ras Mekonnen’s Palace would see right through me.

Well, all was not lost. From Dessie to New York - eat your heart out Addis! I bet you are wondering whether I had a choice in the matter at all. Yes, I did. Really. I did out-matrik the matrik with a V.G.D. - no, it is not some kind of disease! Woy yezemenu sew!

What is the point of all this babbling, you ask. Well, let’s see if I can redeem myself at the last minute:

Lesson for the congenital LeBa: stealing is an art if you are not caught.

Lesson for the occasional LeBa: you are not as smart as you think if you confuse the bank teller for the bank owner.

Lesson for the reading-challenged but aspiring debtera: Stash away reading materials in your undergarment for thou shall learn (but not live) by sweat and osmosis alone.