She looks out from the window of her new apartment in downtown Detroit. She’s been standing in the dark for a while now, staring out into the hustle and bustle of the streets from the privacy of her domain on the 23rd floor. The apartment is small and quiet, and sparsely furnished, the only sounds coming from the ancient refrigerator in her kitchenette; the humming motor is almost therapeutic, synchronized to the flow of her thoughts. Tired from craning her neck to get a view of the street below, her golden eyes flicker to the highrises surrounding her own, craving some humanistic view. At last they rest on the building opposite, where two men stand by the window talking. Satisfied with her prowl she settles into her thoughts, willing them back from the long, drawn-out exile she’d forced them into. At first she feels nothing, not the chilling fear that had steeped into every memory of her mother, not the vast sadness for a lost childhood…just a pregnant silence, and total blankness. She's about to heave a sigh of relief when the thoughts begin to consume her being, letting her memories engulf her space, her little abode, her sanity. She feels like she’s slipped and fallen in a dark tunnel, spiraling down into her deepest secrets, the sides slippery so she has nothing to save her from her demons. She doesn’t realize that the weight of those memories has physically slumped her shoulders and buckled her knees; shaking, she slides to the floor, her face contorted with emotions for which she has yet to find a name...

“EnTuuuuuuuuuf!” wet and gooey, and reeking of a mouth that’s alien to toothpaste, it lands on her left temple. Her pudgy, ten-year-old frame shriveled into the covers, she makes to wipe the spit of her face, but a vicious claw grabs her arm mid-air, shredding the sensitive skin. She always draws blood whenever she beats the little girl. They’re almost ritualistic, these beatings; they start early in the mornings, when the little, good-for-nothing girl is shaken awake at around 4 a.m., then a long miserable lament about how God has cursed her with this abomination of a child.

“Endew min aderekut, AmlakE ichin yengidE lij yetefabiN…min alle arass honesh bemotsh! Sew rEessa yiweldal?!”

Her sleep-deprived body freezes. Even half-asleep, she knows what the next word is going be, after many painful encounters with that phrase, she’s mastered a level of detachment from the pain and degradation that single word brings.

“ShermuTa.”

Then the pushing begins, till that little ickshit of a girl is thrown off the bed and onto the floor.

She scrambles to get up, but her fat little legs were still asleep, so she stumbles towards the door.

“WedEt new? Degmo belelitu mezor amaresh? Min tadergi felabisha. tenesabish aydel? Drowinuss yeshermuTa lij shermuTa…”

The mother made the first, but definitely not the last reference to the girl's father. The father, somewhere on the other side of town, snoozing with his arms around the scandalous girlfriend who’s broken up a happy home, had driven a jealous wife insane and abusive, and left a little girl at the mercy of a scorned wife's rage.

“Bey tenesh! Agasess! TnaTishin aTNi….inQilf endehone, sitmochii titeNalesh, tenesh aTNi b’yeshalehu….”

“Mammiye…..bo…borsayE salon bEt eko new…”

The first real blow, in the form of a fist to the side of her stupid little brain, sent the little girl crashing to the marble floor.

“Awqesh newaa, mechEss . Ya ahiiya abatish menoriya nesaN, yesew feet asayegn, bey teqemeCH atirebishachew.”

The mother lay back, fatigued from disciplining this retard of a child.

Even in the middle of the night, in her crumpled silk nightgown and her crazy hair, she was eerily beautiful. Her slender figure, thrown carelessly on the bed, is wracked with her sobs as she goes into a long list of the not-so-pleasant (and unprintable) qualities the father had developed once she was cast aside for fresher meat. The girl, dry-eyed but paralyzed with fear, stands by the door, ready to bolt out of the room if it turns out to be one of the bad days. So far it was okay; as long as it's just the insults she can handle it, her little heart has developed armor that deflects the scorching gamma rays of her mother’s tongue. It was the blows she still had to work on. No matter how much she braces herself, she still sees stars whenever that fist connects with her chubby jaw, her skin still tears easily under the sharp attention of those manicured nails.

The mother has cried herself to sleep. The dimwitted little girl inches closer to listen to her regulated breathing and notices one of those honey-toned legs is hanging off of the side of the bed. Careful not to touch the leg lest it lashes out and strikes her, the girl covers it with a sheet and heads back to her spot by the door. She then crouches down and tries to get comfortable while nursing her bleeding arm. She would wait till six o’clock, which was what the mother left to open her business. She’d get some sleep then. She knew she was going to oversleep and be late for school and would have to think up of a new excuse for the teacher. But for now her little brain was pondering over other questions. Questions about the true identity of this person on the king-sized bed. How come she hates her for a divorce she had no part of? Did she really give birth to her? Why did she…?

She felt light, like she wasn’t on the ground anymore. Strong arms were embracing her thick frame, lifting her off the ground and moving her. She realized her face was smashed into someone’s chest. She was lowered gently onto the bed and the owner of those arms materialized in front of her. The mother’s face, this time filled with guilt and pity, gazed down on her pathetic heap of an offspring.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” It was always easier to apologize in English. “I want you to become educated, yenE lij. Men want educated women. They leave the mehayim ones like me. No matter how much money you make, they’ll always look down on you.” She cups her daughter’s face delicately and showers it with butterfly kisses. The little girl is relived that it is all over with. Atleast for now.

The hands that wake her up this time are much gentler, a bit weaker, given their age. The eyes that are smiling down at the little girl have the unmistakable lines of wisdom etched all around them. Each fold and fissure on that face tells a story of its own. Those eyes graze the bump that has grown mysteriously overnight above the little girl’s ear and then they harden with understanding of the past night’s proceedings. It wasn’t the first time she has discovered unusual alterations on the girl’s body.

“Qurssishin min lablash, gelayE?” The cheer in the old woman’s voice was strained, her eyes, her hands, her anguished soul just wouldn’t stop caressing the purple swelling on her granddaughter’s head in a desperate attempt to wipe out the past night. Now that the coast was clear, the little girl tries an inexperienced hand at being a normal child.

“CHeCHebsa, ena shaHi, ena…ena aBa’aye, chocolate…ena…ena firfir ena pancakes with syrup…ena…”

The old woman laughs. She has a strong laugh, despite her age, it rings out with clarity, filling the room with much needed ease and soothing the trepidation that lurks just behind the little girl’s feigned cheer.

“Pick one thing, or else you’ll be late for school.”

“Can I skip it today?”

“Absolutely not.” She was stern with that.

“Okay, okay, I was just trying.”

A shrill wailing shakes her out of her reverie, pulling her mind back over the roaring thunder of Tiss Abbai, over the rolling sand dunes and the Arabian oasis of the Sahara, over the dark chocolate skins and the rich cultures that grace the Gold Coast, over the chilling ice and the killer sharks of the northern Atlantic, and into a world of industry and civilization, into the motor city of the United States, and she realizes that she was crouching with her legs pulled up close to her chest, her head buried in the crest of her arms -- arms that are wrapped tightly around her knees. She hasn’t sat like that since those days. She quickly unravels and heads to the tiny bedroom she shares with her son. She crawls to the middle of their bed and looks down on him, her glinting eyes softened by his mere face. He stops his crying as she plugs his mouth with her breast. They are both children, surviving with defiance and with the comfort of each other in a world that has no tolerance for mistakes. She looks at him and thanks the gods who guided her out of the operating room at the women’s clinic, before they tore her insides out. She thanks the gods for the visa that saw her out of her misery before her stomach got too big and noticed by her mother. She thanked the gods for the man whom she still loves, who unconsciously planted this seed in her womb, who blessed her with the companionship of her own flesh and blood. She thanked the gods for the man who used to look at her with eyes that buckled, with a heart that knelt down for her as if she were the pharaoh of his dynasty. He isn’t here, that man. He is far off on the sunny coasts of the west, tending to his own keep.

She grins uneasily at the thought of her mother walking in on her like this, wondering what her reaction would be to the bastard grandson she has no idea about. Although she was building on a false premise, she still shivers at the image. As if he could sense it, his sleepy eyes slowly rise to meet his mother’s; her nipple still in his mouth, he gives her a toothless grin. As if to say I got your back, Mama, we’re a team, she can’t do nothing now that we got each other.

“Got milk?” she giggles at her own corniness. His tiny hands slap her other breast with glee as they both dissolve into their own version of humor.

“Y’think mama’s funny, huh?” those large, golden eyes always well up with tears when she laughs hard. She clumsily tries to collect him into her lap, but she’s too tired to carry him. She’s lost a lot of weight trying to provide for the both of them and still go to school, but she’s pulled it off for the past nine months.

She laughs a whole lot less nowadays, the strain has etched premature signs of the wisdom that comes with being a single parent. A stranger at first glance would correctly take her for the twenty-year-old that she is. She’s still got her smooth, light brown skin. She’s still taut. And though it comes rarely, she still has a killer smile. The one that makes the thugs on her corner grip their crotches, bite their other fist and go, “Daaaaaaaaaammmmmnnn, you’s a dime ma!” She still smiles like a woman-child, her head slightly tilts down, golden eyes sparkle, with her full, nubian lips parting to reveal her devilish sexy grin as her tongue playfully peeks out and she bites down on it lightly with her teeth, inviting foreplay, innocence, and an imagination with no limits.

But a closer look into those eyes, and all the fun and games come to a grinding halt. She quietly demands full attention, her eyes steadily hold on to the person she’s talking to -- she never flinches. Motherhood has taught her the stance of a tigress protecting her cubs. She stands with her shoulders braced and high, holding those magnificent breasts up in all their glory. She makes people who’re much taller than her feel like they’re looking up to her.

She covers her son with his baby blankets and wraps herself around him for that special warmth that no blanket can provide, that warmth that mysteriously shields him, strokes him, wills him into slumber with that special warmth of a mother's love. She realizes how close she came to snapping earlier on and silently reprimands herself. She can’t afford to lose control. She can’t afford a moment of weakness in the life she’s leading. A second of compromise to chase her past away, be it in the form of the bottle or a joint, and it all goes downhill from there. She’s seen it in at the teen mothers club where she volunteers. Women who gladly sell their souls to the devil, just for a moment of illusion. Women who chase the dragon, like they have no care in the world, while their babies sit on the kitchen floor, crying their little hearts out for a bite of something.

She’s too agitated to sleep; she smiles through her tears as images of her grandmother’s face flash in her mind’s eye. She wishes for a way to see her granny again without the drama of facing her mother. Of her son playing in that unique early morning, Sunday light that only Addis can boast, with his great-grandma and his mama keep a watchful eye on him as they giggle over fresh gossip.

“Wechew gud, qil aymut, endiyaCHawut ale yehagere sew, endew esti sew min yilenal gelayE, endezih sininketeket?” she can see her granny shyly covering her smiling mouth with the Tilet of her neTella. She can see her son crawling into his great-grandma’s lap, and tug at her gold Lalibela cross that’s buried in her cleavage. She can see her grandma hold him up tenderly to her chest, her eyes dancing with pride and joy.

“AmlakE yiwedeNal, Qidme lij lemesam beqichalehu, ke ahun behuwalass gedam megbat new.”

“Endeeee Ab'ayE, yemin Gedam new degmo? ENass mann alen? ”

“Yiliqunss, abattun amTiTesh astewawqiN.”

She can see her grandma’s eyes bore into hers as the conversation grazes more serious issues. She can feel her cheeks heat up under that beautiful sun. She can see herself deliberately occupy herself to avoid the answer. She can feel her grandma’s eyes follow her every move.

“I can’t Ab'ayiyE, it’s too complicated.” Her voice echoes in that small bedroom and her son stirrs against her still exposed bosom. She sits up and fixes herself, pushing her swollen breast into her bra. She bounds into the bathroom and splashes water on her face. Her head is swimming somewhere between her past and her future. In the dull gray that lies between then and now, she floats in and out. Struggling to push those thoughts back into the attic of her brain, she sits on her toilet seat. She’s thinking of the phone call that had triggered the ugly memories. She wonders if she would give in to the constant pleading from her relatives to forgive the mother and finally make that dreaded phone call.

She looks around her crowded bathroom as if for the first time. Her terry-cloth robe hung on a hook behind the door. Stacks of diapers neatly stored in the cabinet beneath the sink, along with her toiletries. Her dirty clothes hamper overflowing as always stands next to the tub, the sides of which are crowded with shampoos, conditioners, face washes, shaving razors, soaps, soaping puffs. She grins at how home-like it all looks. At how lived in the place feels already.

“I did all this, I’m capable of building a home from scratch, I bring food to our table and I make sure it’s there every night!” Her ego stirred for a fraction of a second, but it was enough to lift her head up from her slump.

“Degmo diqala ameTashibiN!?” her eyes well up with tears as her mother's voice slices clean through her sensitive heart like a surgical scalpel.

“Listen Doll, I know you went through hell and back when your mother and I separated, and I’ll die knowing I’ve been to blame for the scars she caused, but when the lights go out, it’s not the pain your enemies inflicted on you that you’ll remember, but the times you remained silent when you had the opportunity to do as you see fit. ”

she can remember the way his golden eyes glistened with tears as he struggled to sit up from his death bed. She can remember the last streak of mischief shine though his teary eyes as he added, “And for God’s sake,yachin qewss anjetwa eskiyarr d’ress asabijat, no holding back, do whatever makes you happy.” She remembers how she leapt to his side as they both crumbled with laughter. How he was racked with coughs as he struggled to gasp out, “an…jetwaaa…eskiya..rr..der..ess…”

“You can’t keep hiding forever,” her dignity seeks a vent, yet she still finds ways to deny herself true independence.

“At least call Grandma, just let her voice guide you.” It was sounding better by the minute.

“And you can’t keep losing sleep over her, it’s too risky.”

“For God’s sake, would you pleeaaase give up the broken diva act and get your shit together! I mean, the woman is a million miles away, and you still freak over a phone call! If things get tricky, it’s called hangin' up babe, click…and she’s gone. Now quit wasting my time and get dialing!” her friend Yvonne’s voice this time made her smile wryly.

She wanders back into the bedroom and picks up the calling card from her nightstand. The square of plastic weighs a ton in her hands, and she looks at it for a long while. Balancing her pros and cons on making that connection. She glances at her clock. Midnight. That’d make it six or seven in the morning back home.

“It’s too early, she’d be in bed.” Her last attempt at backing out.

“Ma, inE Tewabech, mn new anchi, arejehu enji Terbb neN eko!” she can see her grandma’s fake scowl as she slowly picks up the handset and starts the tedious process of dialing. The room was suddenly getting very warm, her heart beating a mile a minute, her stomach crumpled up and hiding behind her spine.

The silent wait as her electric signal reaches up to a satellite far above the clouds, taking with it her hope, her nervousness, and her need to be loved again. More silence as that signal is sent hurtling back to her motherland, to a home with its fair share of angels and ghosts, to the bedside of an old lady, deep in sleep and dreaming of a bird she once set free, dreaming of the little bird she fed with food from her own mouth, dreaming of that bird swooping down and perching on her window sill, telling her that it was good to be home again. The jingle of the phone was a welcome distraction from her troubled sleep, irritated and startled she reaches for the phone and brings it to her ear.

“Hello? Ab'ayE? Ab'ayE alech?”

“Wuy, aferr libla, gelayE? Anchi nesh…Elilililililililililililillili…….”

She can’t help but burst out laughing. She is finally home.