'TyE Marech Zemedachin Nat?
by: Mankussa

ItiyE Marech had a stalwart presence in our family. She was present at every birth and death... wedding...farewell... edir. From the background, she'd guide a family gathering with the peacekeeping aptitude of a seasoned diplomat... she knew whose harsh tongue not to take seriously, how to hod m'bissew'n mababel, when to not take credit for her work, who to meekly apologize to for a mishap ("YennnnnnnnnEw Tfat new!") and how to appease the audacious egos of the armchair critics.

ItiyE Marech lived in a two-room tenement in a compound of row houses in AbuwarE. On our infrequent visits to her house, the smells of roasting coffee, abseet, newly ignited kesel and the communal outhouse would waft merrily through the air, nearly asphyxiating our young lungs. We'd run into the compound holding our breaths and exhale only after we entered her dirt-floor house. In there, we would find respite in the aroma of Tenadam, the omnipresent scent around ItiyE Marech.

The walls inside her first room were plastered with old newspapers-- so neatly arranged that whoever had done it had obviously taken great pains to make each sheet of Addis Zemen flow seamlessly onto the next. Soft sheaths of laundry plastic, in turn, sheltered the newspaper wall covering, the edges, again, folded neatly and tacked on with rusted nails.

No one in our family talked about why ItiyE Marech lived in such squalor. "ItiyE Marech zemedachin nat?" I once asked my father. I was silenced by his look. No secret is as fiercely kept, nor as so openly talked, about as that of the machinations of an Ethiopian family's secret.

If it were not for ItiyE Marech's celebrated moya, which was near folklore and very omnipresent at big family functions, I doubt we would have gotten so close to her. "AbEt yeMarech weT," someone would always invariably exclaim when people exchanged copious notes about parties around town, and the competition to conscript her to showcase that famous moya was fierce.

ItiyE Marech would show up at the crack of dawn when she worked a party, neatly dressed in her best mulu qemiss and neTela, her soft Afro combed to form a perfect halo around her thin, fragile cheekbones. She'd head into one of the rooms at the "tach bEt" and emerge with her waist firmly wrapped with the Tlet of an old neTela, her hair hidden underneath a dark scarf, her dress changed to one tattered and smudgy, one that didn't protect her from the cold wind of an Addis Abeba morning.

Before anyone had risen, ItiyE Marech would have synchronized with uncanny deftness a small cabal of serateNoch to peel endless onions, dice them into perfect tiny squares, and start the arduous task of weT-making. And so her day would go... kneeling, bending, burning, cutting, washing, sautéing, charring... all the while accompanied by her devastating smile, which, I remember, could not even be marred by a set of badly decomposed teeth. She'd sing through siga mezelzel... she'd joke, cajole, tease and make merry all the way to dinnertime.

At dusk she'd take the food to the "lie bEt", and someone else would take over placing it in pretty serving plates and hurrying it to the buffet line while she gave out instructions in the kitchen of what should be placed where. Women wearing gold crosses and heavy perfume would pop their heads into the kitchen once in a while and extol words of admiration... "Anchi Marech!... ye zarEwuss mgb lEla new!". 'TiyE Marech would beam with genuine pleasure... "Ayiii.... WeT'm aydol. W'ha new!" But she'd say it with that same affable smile and wave off any further compliments.

'TiyE Marech would sit down to eat only after the kitchen was scrubbed spotless and the serateNoch had finished all the miscellaneous duties. She would then gather all her daytime companions and sit with them to break bread. Occasionally she'd remember someone who had helped her with even the minutest chore during the day and wonder aloud if she/he had gotten food... "Ya miskeen lij... dorowan yeyazeliN.... m'ssa belto yhon? S'wakeb ressahut. Ayiii yenE neger... w'leta alawQ..."

At the very end of the night, as the last guests linger over liqueur and cognacs, someone would summon TiyE Marech to another room and slip her a wad of notes murmuring words of congratulations for pulling off another feast without a hitch. 'TiyE Marech would vehemently resist payment... "Ere innE itE... mnnnnnnnnim... imbi...." The longevity of the ritual to convince her to accept the "gift" depended on how tired 'TiyE Marech was... sometimes it took three to four people to convince her, and that only after she swore she would never help out ever again... "Beqa... indih kehone'ma..."

She was there the night I left Ethiopia, preparing the massive agelgil I took with me. My mother had sent out an adera to reserve her services months in advance. As the time of my departure drew near, 'TiyE Marech's jovialness ebbed, and, several times, I saw her wiping her nose with the hem of her work clothes, her easy tears welling inside the veined whites of her eyes. She waited patiently for her turn to say goodbye to me-someone told her that there was no room in the car for her to come to the airport, and she, in turn, had "Gddddd yelemmmmmmmm"-ed the situation. She tried to reach out to kiss me goodbye. Only, the urgency of an aunt who wanted to slip me a few dollars to buy her some hair product interrupted our farewell. 'TiyE Marech stepped back, turned around, and headed back to the kitchen.

I always thought I was her favorite. Later, I'd find out that all my brothers and sisters, cousins and second cousins each felt he/she was the favorite.

And for twenty years after that, I never sent her as much as a card. I would ask about her in passing if I remembered. I'd chide myself to remember to write to her whenever I'd hear news about her-that her grandson was in trouble, that her daughter got married and had children-but I'd get distracted by news that yet another cousin got a visa, and I got busy making a list of food items I wanted 'TiyE March to make for me.

We would have been destined to perhaps never cross paths again except that, two years ago, my grandfather died. They read the will at the arba, catered with perfection by none other than "Weizero Marech", my grandfather's first daughter, my father's oldest half sister. Everyone else apparently knew.

I tried to ask questions again, this time as an adult, as to why no one talked about my grandfather's affair with a young woman who bore his child, and who was promptly banished to the countryside. She later committed suicide, leaving a young 'TiyE Marech to fend for herself until someone brought her to Addis Abeba. I tried to ask more questions, but even as an adult, I was silenced by an open secret that could desecrate the memories of my grandfather.

I finally called 'Tiye Marech after twenty years. I called her because I heard she was the one, on her meager salary, who was taking care of the food and accommodations for distant relatives in the same two-room house. She was the one who held the family together, cooked the food, arranged the arba... and obeyed my grandfather's deathbed wish to feed the poor at Kidane Mehret.

I didn't know what she'd say to me when I called. I half expected all the years of being gently and politely cast aside to rightfully come out in vengeance... for her to finally close the door on a family that patronized her, and "m'Ts"ed her fate with typical Ethiopian nonchalance.

She squealed out my name in delight when I hesitantly told her who I was. "YenE lij... yenE b'rhan.." she cried out as the years and the distance melted away into nothing. "EgziabhEr.... Yhn yasemaheN Amlak!" She praised the angels who let her live long enough to hear my voice once again.

We cried for her father, my grandfather, together-my tears of guilt piggybacking on my tears of sorrow. And like the most prodigal of prodigal sons, she accepted me back without question. And once again, I took more out of 'TyE Marech than I could ever give back.

I try to keep in touch with her, and wonder if I am to continue to keep her secret. I still live so far away, building a new life in a country that will never be mine. And I hide under my smudgy neTela. Who will take me back home?

Ere sew mn ylal?