I was not extremely surprised he didn't come back that night. As a matter of fact, neither were most of my other family members. It was almost as if everybody expected it to happen, given the circumstances. It had only been a matter of time before it actually became a reality.

Still, we never asked any questions.

The following morning, Mother was in the kitchen raising hell about how my dad's gastrrrite would menCHaCHat with irate vigor at the presence of anything hot or spicy. The maid quickly obliged and did away with the qaria she was dicing up to put in the quanta firfir.

"Mom, are we having guests over?" I asked, bewildered at the digiss-esque hustle and bustle.

"Wiy, yenE enat. No, we're not having anybody over. This is for your father."

"Oh." I didn't probe for more information, because I already knew whatever explanation she would have given me would have been a false one, just to pacify my curiosity.

"Well, tell him I said hello," I said coldly. She stopped her stirring, and stared down at me peculiarly, her eyes saying, "Ere wedia, ante askonaN"

I slowly walked back to my bedroom for solace in unfinished sleep.

* * *

The drive to Holeta was miserable. It was Monday. And the road was infested with potholes. The car held the ethereal aura of minchet abish, aliCHa fitfit, and ye'Harrar buna all mixed up into one.

The windows were rolled up so tightly they were eating into the doors' rubber linings. The air outside was dusty from the qey ashewa that billowed from underneath our racing tires. My sisters and I sat in the back, my mother and aunt up front. All of us soaked with perspiration; it wasn't just because of the heat either.

* * *

The compound looked like a set from the latest Hollywood war movie. The wind was knocking around twigs on the ground - while we squinted to keep the dust out of our eyes. There was a rusted up cannon just collecting dust, while a broken down tank posed ominously right next to it.

They had my father here?

* * *

We entered the semi-dark hall and were instantly confronted with the obvious stench of sweat and feet. Tables were stacked one on top of the other, men sleeping using the hardwood tops as matresses. No sheets. No pillows. Fully dressed men in fetal positions, curled up on the cold, hard tables. Hundreds of them.

Armed men in afros, shorts, and chew sticks lined the walls. Hand grenades, Klashnikovs, and shameless bazookas accompanied their intimidating presence.

My older sister pointed out my father towards the far corner of the hall, and my younger sister ran instinctively towards him. I rushed right behind her, skipping over those unlucky few who were sleeping on the concrete floor.

He was sleeping like the rest of them, his eyes shut tight and a deep frown etched between and above his brows.

At my older sister's mildest touch, he woke up with a jolt, while my mom wept quietly behind me. My aunt, who was exhausted from the drive, stood quietly next to her, rummaging through her purse and pulling out a handkerchief to wipe her forehead.

* * *

"We're taking a seminar, kids," he said, donning his reassuring look. "Mostly English and Economics. Let's just hope I pass the tests, right?" He chuckled a little, looking at Mom, while she continued to weep quietly.

I heard some ruckus in the opposite corner. Turning around, I noticed one of the armed guards knock down one of the men with the butt of his rifle. The entire hall was quiet save for the shuffles of feet, Mother's quiet sniffles, and our whispers. The obtrusive thump of the man falling woke up a few men. No one said a word. The guard walked away, spitting out bits from his chew stick.

We all looked back at AbayE; he was quiet for a minute, while looking at his wife, his eyes welling up with tears as well. He quickly put on his army issue aviation sunglasses, and looked back down at us.

"He failed his quiz, that's why," he mumbled about the man who now lay limp on the floor at the other end. He got off his bed and we all walked out to the bright sunlight outside, followed by four or five guards who tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, with their bazookas and rifles clanging along on their shoulders and waists.

* * *

"Minew ameTashachew lijochun?" he asked Mom in a whisper, while shooting us short glances. He never took off his glasses. She kept on trying to stifle her tears to no avail.

"Tadia min largachew? Zimm alilachew." She looked at her sister, and then back at us, before saying out loud, "Ayzoh, I'm sure the seminar will be fine. Let's hope they're good teachers. Besides you're a smart man. You'll do great." She looked back down at us. "Right, kids?" She put on her best smile.

We said nothing. My youngest sister just nodded weakly … knowingly.

* * *

The following weekend, Mother was preparing food again to take to Father. She didn't take us this time around, so we all sat down and wrote our father short letters that she can sneak into the sinq.

AbabiyE,
How's the seminar? How are classes doing? Did that man who failed the quiz get up and take another test? I miss you. Are they going to let you graduate early? …

* * *

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