These things keep happening to me.

She pretends not to see me whenever we happen to be on the same street now. I haven't seen her since the day she borrowed my ring, seven months ago. It wasn't very expensive - it was rather simple, really. I wasn't that emotionally attached to it, either; an old boyfriend had given it to me, but not one I'd cared that much about. The bright yellow gold ring, not even a Dubai import, had a purple stone that we agreed would match the dress she was wearing to a wedding that weekend.

The first weekend after the wedding, I stopped by her house to see if she wanted to watch a video with me, but she wasn't home. A couple of days later I stopped by again, and this time, I saw her duck into the kushna even as their zebeNa insisted she wasn't home. Hurt beyond belief, I left a message with him that I wanted her to come by my house. She didn't …not that day, nor the next, nor the next. I went over any of the potentially yemiyakorarfu issues between us, but none came to mind - until I remembered the ring. Could she have lost it - was that what all this was about? I stormed over to her house and insisted on coming in, but if the furtive looks everyone gave that door was anything to go by, she had obviously locked herself into the service. The anxious zebeNa kept reiterating that she wasn't home. I then told him in a voice that was sure to carry beyond the locked door that I had come by for my ring, and that she should bring it to my house as soon as she returned. I vowed to myself that if she could admit that she lost it to my face, then I would forgive her. But if not…

As I left the compound, I heard the deadbolt slide back. And that was the last I heard of my friend.

~ . . ~ ~ . . ~ ~ . . ~

It reminds me of that time three years ago. My father had been ill for weeks…but I only knew because my friend's mother inadvertently let it slip that he had been hospitalized, again. I called our next door neighbors, since my parents did not have a phone at home. When my mother finally came to the phone I was already weeping, asking what had happened between sobs…. railing at her for not telling me sooner…reminding her of the many times she'd promised to tell me if something like this ever happened.

"Ay anchi. Y'abatsh neger mechEm ayhonlsh. Dehna iko new."

She sounded convincing. She told me he had had dizzy spells recently, and had fallen unconscious one evening a few weeks ago. And they hadn't wanted to worry me since it wasn't so serious. Besides, she added reassuringly, the doctors had seen fit to release him that day. He wasn't really strong enough to walk to the neighbors, and besides, he had just fallen asleep and she didn't want to disturb him. But she'd be sure to tell him I had called.

I had to be satisfied with that.

The next day, I called and he was out "ke'wendmsh gar." I didn't know until later that he had gone to the hospital, again. My mother must have stayed behind because she knew I would call.

The day after, only the serateNa was home. The neighbor was irritated and was only barely managing to contain it. Our serateNa told me that they had all gone to church. She may have "forgotten" to mention he had, with his slurred, slow speech, insisted on going to see his nsha abat, but she'd been quick to add, "Gn Dehhhhhna nachew…beTam teshloachewal."

The next day was Monday. I told my boss that I was taking the next 10 days off to go back home because my father was sick. I spoke to my mother that night -- she started the conversation by telling me how much better he had been that day. "Dehna new…indawm ingidoch meTtew iyeteCHawete new." She tried to discourage me from coming so precipitously. "Aywededbshm? Lemn leGena atmeCHim?" Though I could not imagine waiting that long, I finally agreed that I would only leave after my exams were finished that Wednesday. She ended the call with, "Ayzosh, dehna new."

As my Ethiopian Airlines flight crossed the Atlantic that Wednesday, they buried my father.

~ . . ~ ~ . . ~ ~ . . ~

I'm kind of tired of seeing them arrive, though I was one of them, once. I had been just as "good-idea"ed and temporarily "deep pocket"ed as the best of them. But now all I want to do is avoid them like the Tenq they are.

Unfortunately, they find me. Kind of feel like I can relate to them, so they find me…no matter where I hide. First it's the endless shopping…but I don't mind that so much. Then it's the laments - these get to me. They complain about too many ferenjoch cluttering up Addis. "Well, at least these guys are here to work, why don't you just let them be?" I want to say, even though I have my bones to pick, too. But no. Experience has taught me to bite my tongue; otherwise, that'd get us into another long diatribe.

They have ideas about what these "so-called NGOs" should be doing…where they should be working, what they should be telling the Government, where they should live, what cars they should drive…alladat stuff. All this, of course, while they sit on my berenda and enjoy the sun streaming on their backs as we sip our morning coffee. Then they talk about the urban sprawl, the falling incomes, the growing lower class, the declining economy - of course, we're exchanged dollars illegally at the local "ATM" so that they can earn the extra 0.45 EB on the US dollar. Once the orgy of clubs, family digisoch, trips to Langano and extramarital encounters pique their consciences, I am corralled once again into taking them to a worthy "local" NGO so that they can nod understandingly, take notes and pictures, and beam proudly about how there are people who give back. But their sneakers don't even get dusty before they ease away from the NGO site.

And before I can remind them of the hefty phone bills they've left behind, they head back…to DC, to LA…to London, full of ideas and fresh, home-made injera, full of dreams of hot showers, pot-hole free roads and Macy's. Not to be seen or heard from again…until next Christmas.

~ . . ~ ~ . . ~ ~ . . ~

These things keep happening to me.