by: Sehale

A cool winter breeze from the EnToTo hills came whistling by as I stood at the gates for the last time. I breathed deeply and felt the cool air slicing through me as my eyes slowly moved to take it all in for one last time. I could still see the row of old pine trees elegantly lined along the long narrow road framing the ghibbi beyond. The little stone bridge that crossed the stream, with people lazily leaning on the sides. I could smell the sweet eucalyptus trees and hear the leaves as they gently rustled in the wind. I remember seeing the old black Cadillac with its cob webs and flat tires reminiscent of good times gone by. I could see the tall winter meadow grass on either side waiting eagerly for summer's respite. I could hear the shouts of ye-sefer lijoch playing soccer on the field and strangers walking along the road to and from the ghibbi. Memories flooded back.

Yes, the ghibbi, an old magnificent residence built at the turn of the century, housed five generations and showed all the signs of age and time. It stood defiantly to remind us that hulum neger yalfal. It was one of those ageless estates that, at one point, defined the city but are now remembered in name only. In their time not only were they the dominant features of the urban landscape, but the estates' proprietors also called out whole neighborhoods.... "Endé, ye Dejaj ikelé sefer n’w yemetenorew?" This is what is unique about Addis; unlike American cities where most addresses are numbered and laid out on an endless grid or named after three or four of the better-known presidents, Addis grew as it saw fit. An organic expanse linked by winding roads that connect neighborhoods that are remembered by the famous personalities that once lived in them, or by the roads that led out of town or by the businesses that are particular to that place. It's a wonder how we got around for it's an art giving directions in Addis. But that, is another subject.

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the gentle rolling hills of EnToTo were the "it" place to live. It was here that Menelik II and Taytu settled to build their church and palace, and therefore most of the courtiers and aristocrats saw it necessary to settle close to the seat of power. Here in the EnToTo hills, Menelik II was crowned Emperor of Ethiopia, and here the drums of war for Adwa were first beaten.

We simply called our ghibbi, Entoto. Designed and built by Indians and Arabs, it had all the features of Middle Eastern architecture. High ceilings, generous porches, slender wood columns and sloping pitched roofs. It must have made quite an impression when it was finished for the proprietor of the ghibbi saw it fit to expand and grade the road leading from the gates, just north of Empress Menen school to Sidist Kilo, a distance of 2.5 kilometers. The plan of the house was straightforward and classical. Divided into two, one wing housed the major functions while a two-story building awkwardly adjoined it. At the front of the main house, before you entered, there were a series of cascading stone stairs with pockets of gardens around and in the middle. Above these stairs was the entry that opened to an enclosed rectangular loggia, a waiting room to usher the guests through. From there, one enters the living room, which was the most dominant feature of the house, both in size and activity. It had a two story high ceiling with a double skylight that generously flooded the space with light. From here, all the other rooms branched out. Modestly furnished, it had a large fireplace flanked by oil portraits of past family members. The private quarters, a private chapel and the geber area were off to the side. In keeping with tradition, all the food preparation was done in a group of buildings found behind the main house, made up of neatly lined up mud and stone structures with a huge gotera that was used to store everything that came from around the country.

In its heyday, the ghibbi supported nearly a hundred people. All around the vast land were homes housing other members of the family with their own house and service quarters as well as rows of apartments for those associated with running the place. This was a city within a city. One can find every class structure on this 25 acre land. From old aristocrats to young Marxist revolutionaries, from nefTeNas to priests, from ye biro bet serateNa to landed gentry, from former Italian soldiers to ye hager bet sewoch. They were all here and more. There was Imama Tewabech, the ever so creative widow, who was once married to "ye merkato andeNa negadé". Gashé Birru the diminutive Agafari who never smiled and who scared the hell out of us kids by taking out his false teeth. Ababa Azaj the tall conservative from Menz who managed the affairs in the country. There was the energetic chef Ayalew, there were Enkoyé, Bafena, Regassa, Abuye, Aba Qessu, yemataw zebeNa, yeQenu zebeNa, ye cadilacu shufer, ye landroveru shufer, ye ghimja betu TebaQi, Mametayé, Askalech, Gebru, Mussie, Quratolo, Guido, Alfred the Dutch monk, and many more. They all lived, married gave birth and died there.

I lived my childhood there, during the twilight of EnToTo, amongst these colorful characters. My grandmother saw to it that all the grandchildren lived their formative years on the ghibbi together. As I got older, I moved across town to live with my parents. But every weekend I would end up in EnToTo. It was a magnet, a bug that if once you are bitten by there is no remedy for. The people I loved and cared about, the happiness, the tragedies all left a deep impression and formed the foundation of how I saw the world.

My earliest memories were the endless games we played. DebibiQosh, Pepsi and full days of ye sefer ighir-kwas. Then there were the seasonal events of inQuTaTash and boohé. Although we were not allowed outside the ghibbi, we made full use of the people who lived there and the notable guests who came. Every year during ghenna, we staged a play on the birth of Christ that earned us bonus points to stay up late and light up the demera. And twice every year we would forage the plum orchard in the back, before the negadewoch were allowed to purchase the remaining plums and sell them in town.

The boys would climb up and shake the branches while the girls would use their skirts and sweaters to catch the ripe plumes. It was a family affair where the elders would sit and watch with humor as a dozen or two of us made every effort to eagerly collect as many as we could, and along the way made fools of ourselves with funny antics and acrobatic moves, that would usually end up with us falling off on our backs.

My grandmother, who was very religious, saw to it that the live-in priest Aba Qesu taught us Ge'ez and the Bible. He made every effort, bless his soul, but had to endure our constant mischief. Our punishment was waking up at five in the morning and reading aloud the Dawit, a heavy book bound and made of leather. Once that was done, we all would dress up and head for Selassie or Medhane Alem where, hidden from view, some of us would take a blissful nap in between the Qurban and sigdet. Once back, we were expected to spend the rest of the morning in quiet reflection. But the most hardy of us would slip out and head off to the corners of the ghibbi and for a simuni game of ye sefer ighir-kwas play with the sefer kids until sundown.

After the revolution, life started to change at EnToTo. The local Qebelé, which had had its eyes on the ghibbi for sometime, muscled their way onto the land and into the house on some trumped up charge of, "adehariwoCh naChew." They took over one wing of the house where they set up office, and wasting no time, promptly told us that parking in the ghibbi was not allowed and that the plum forest in the back was now the "ye sefiw hezib nebret." For us kids it was comical and confusing to see these changes. Over the years, we had been used to the hundreds of people who came every week to get a free herbal medicine that worked wonders. But those folks were quiet and somehow in the background.

Now we had all these ye Qebelbé cadres and menacing strangers who would, almost every evening, come drunk and barely standing to remind us what kind of abiyotawi irmija they were going to take.

As the years went by, we somehow learned to co-exist. EnToTo endured it all as the Qebelé piece by piece sold the land to local party bosses, made one whole area into a market place and another plot of land into a chemical storage plant for some Qebelé enterprise. We watched silently and as our grandmother would say "hulum neger yalfal," until only the pine trees and the tall meadow grass in the front were left.

A stray ball came bouncing toward me. Tossing the ball back towards the field, I made for the gate. I was running late to catch the bus to go to a little known region called Metekel in Gojam. In Metekel, my college-mates and I were to live in tents and experience rural life while building gojo’s for resettled drought affected Ethiopians. It was the ’86 zemecha. New dreams and challenges waited for me beyond the ghibbi's worn out stone walls.