Disclaimer: Bear in mind the sinful hour this was written. Then judge its incoherence.

Is there really no hour like the pressing 13th hour? The hour where Procrastinators Anonymous unleash their hostage? Whatever the secret may be, it definitely rings true in the Seleda cellars where, rumor has it, editors are munching on imported quanta and Syrian dates dipped in whipped cream.

Where does that leave us?

In the mean time, in between time, and since the Editors are too tipsy imbibing Gouder, I'll take the opportunity to introduce myself. My life really doesn't revolve around much. I spend most of my days and nights trying to stay awake. The end goal being? So I'm able to withstand the wild weathers of academia, and later, realize what I really want to do. Until then you'd probably find me in the confines of a think-box (library) or you-better-not-blink-box (my computer -- Lin, for Lindt).

Which brings us to the topic at hand, food. Glorious food. On, around, and underneath my computer, where I slave away with nonsensical things, is littered with one of the finest things in life. The "food for Gods," the divine delicacy:

*drum roll, please*

Chocolate.

I am, admittedly and unabashedly, a chocolate lover. Some chose the label "addict" but those are simply the haters who insist on admitting me to Cocoa-Feens Anonymous. Now they need to control themselves. Being a lover and obsessor are distinctly different traits (but let's not split hairs just yet). The most unfortunate thing is that people belittle this appreciation. They equate it to being a Skittles or Gummy Bears or Hershey's Kiss lover, as though it was a puppy love of sorts. Ah, what to say! In an era where everything from sex to spirituality has been commercialized, it doesn't come as a surprise that something as divine as chocolate has been reduced to such blasphemy. It's quite daunting. But Lin and I are bearing with the scarcity (on campus). Thank God for Master Card and FedEx.

My ego and addiction (oops, Freudian typo) are getting their refills since I fled to the Eternal City. Eternally blessed with the finest things in life: chocolate, cappuccini, korerima, fettuccini and family. You lengthen the list.

And did I mention the olive oil of restless minds...

What would that be?

- Weyra -

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FROM: QoraTa Goomaj
TO: YeCHelema Mebrat

Diarrhea.

From drinking tap water in Addisaba. Pain, of the abdominal kind. Odd muscular contractions where the hot liquid exits the squirming body. The almost comical nature of it all. Splashes of the brownish ooze all over the white surface of the bathroom. And then a torrent of sweat as the body heats up to obscene temperature. "All I've done is drink tap water" says a voice within her. "Why does the universe work in such twisted ways?" Then she cries.

But the universe also works in other ways. Which was why she took to drinking bottled water after the diarrhea incident. The bottled stuff was a guarantee that she wouldn't get sick from drinking the harmless substance. She won't be reduced to sweat and tears and hot brownish thick liquids escaping from pores she didn't know existed on her.

I met her after the diarrhea incident and wasn't aware that the obsession with bottled water was about painful lessons learned after gallons of goo found its way out of her perfect form. Later she related the story to me, describing in her own exotic way how degrading the whole experience was, how she couldn't sleep for more than 20 minutes because the nightmares about dirty liquids flowing out of her were merging with smelly liquids flowing out of her. Like rain on a sunny day. Only painful in its own way.

Perhaps it's a healthy thing to obsess about bottled water and consider it the savior of one's soul. Perhaps your love of chocolate is something not to worry about too much. Life is full of details about water and chocolate that we wish didn't exist. All the more so because we come from a nation where self sufficiency in food provision to the citizens is an elusive goal which everyone setting the agenda professes is their top priority.

In the meantime, the kids will die because there is nothing to eat. Father is hard working and full of love but the rains didn't come this year. And there is no money to buy Teff with. And the wells have dried up and last week, the oldest sister went all the way to the village on the other side of the mountain to fetch water and her masero broke on her back on the third day while she was making her way back to the thirsty kids at home. A thirsty monkey suspected there was something valuable in the masero and conspired with his gang of juvenile monkey friends to see what was in it. The monkey, this god-awful creature who couldn't stand the dry times himself, threw a rock at her masero and it broke on her back. And the hard-earned water was liberated from the masero. Only to find itself being soaked into the dry, broken earth which was even more thirsty than the mammals.

It might as well have been blood because, in the meantime, the kids had made the transition to the next stop on the path we call existence. The young ones could not take it for more than four days. The heat, the absence of water. Their bodies couldn't take it and their minds suffered through it before they gave up. It all happened in a corner of north Wollo called Desta. Everyone was unhappy that year in Desta. And my friend was in Addisaba with her bottled Ambo as a guarantee against unhappiness. Unhappiness from diarrhea.

I like bread. I also like chocolate. And sometimes I can't sleep because I think about the older sister losing the masero of water to the monkeys who didn't get it. Sometimes the thought of having to ingest food into my mouth every day for the rest of my existence creeps me out. It's like a job you never get fired from. Worse than a trip to the fridge looking for a bottle of Ambo after another session of mediocre sexual intercourse leaves her dry and wanting for more. Why did she trust him in the first place? After all, existence is not all about food and water. Or is it?

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