by: Zena
Weizero Amakelech glared at her husband for the umpteenth time that morning. It seemed to her that he was deliberately dragging his feet getting ready. She slammed her heavy abesha mido on the wobbly table by their bed hoping its crash would help pry her husband’s eyes away from the window. Ato Sintayehu had been staring out of the dusty pane of the only window in their bedroom for the longest time now and had not even bothered to put on the white trousers Weizero Amakelech had spent two days washing, mending and ironing to crispy, feathery perfection.
Ato Sintayehu’s head jolted softly. He turned his head towards the direction of the sound and his eyes clashed with his wife’s narrowed, reproachful ones. He smiled slowly, apologetically. Weizero Amakelech tried not to be swayed by her husband’s kind face, but she knew she could never stay angry with him for long. Especially not today. The excitement bubbling inside of her was too potent. She sighed softly and smiled back even as she frowned.
"SintuyE...sewu memTatu new eko.... Tolo bel inji."
Her husband nodded and carefully lifted the trousers that lay proudly on the edge of the bed. He shot a glance at his wife as he pulled one leg though an opening.
Suddenly, she looked young to him again.
When they had met 22 years ago, standing outside the gates of Azezzo MikaEl, she had looked at him from beneath her neTella and shot him a delicately impish smile. Her audacity promptly sent a jolt of electricity journeying through his body, and he had quickly turned away, trying, instead, to concentrate on Abba Merqoriyos’ forbidding voice... something about God’s wrath... His vengeance on those who...
From the corner of his eyes, the young Sintayehu noticed how she had let the hood of her neTella casually fall to her shoulders. He dragged his unwilling eyes back to meet hers.
Her eyes were unfairly big. Their alternating vixen and ImmiyE Mariyam expressions zealously protected by an armor of long sheaves of dark eyelashes. She had batted her eyes and smiled again with calculated malice. He couldn’t quite see her lips, but had made himself imagine them in painful detail. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out the slow drone of the SenE MikaEl qdassE... And suddenly, before the "Amen", before the burakE, he had found himself trying to steady his legs down the rough steps of the church and running in no particular direction. He stopped only when he couldn’t run anymore. Breathless and drowning in his own sweat, his limp body slumped on the soft Gonder grass miles away from his home. But even through the haze of total exhaustion, he could clearly see the oval face of the girl at the church.
Now, looking at her from across their tiny bedroom, Ato Sintayehu found himself staring at his wife with renewed awareness. With every passing year he had noticed how his wife’s big eyes had gotten smaller. Webs of tiny gray veins now cradled her once vibrant pupils, and those once impenetrable eyelashes had fallen like dry leaves from an aging eucalyptus tree. But today, today her eyes were shimmering like they used to, and when she smiled it reminded him that once upon a time he had made her happy.
Weizero Amakelech picked up the mido from the table and ran it through her short afro again. She pressed down on the sides of her head with both palms and smiled at her reflection in the small round mirror nailed to the wall. She then frowned. Then smiled again. Her abesha qemiss fit snugly around the oval of her belly which had gone through seven difficult pregnancies but bore only two children: Sinishaw and Yenenesh. Weizero Amakelech adjusted her neTella to cover her protruding mid-section. She hadn’t worn the dress in... she can’t remember how long. It was a relic of the past; an unkind reminder of their prosperous past.
In those days, Ato Sintayehu used to promise to take his wife to Addis Abeba.
"YenE mist Addis Aba’n satai kezuhu ke MaksenNit l’tqer??!" he’d tease her.
"Wui SintuyE, Addis A’ba’n satasayeN indalmot," she used to tease back. But she was perfectly happy in MakseNit; besides, Azezo and Qola D’ba provided all the bustle of a burgeoning metropolis that she could handle.
It’s been a while since they stopped joking about going to Addis Abeba.
Ato Sintayehu tightened his belt and smoothed down his pants. Today signaled the final footnote of seemingly endless decades of unrelenting cruel luck and grueling existence. "Temesgen, gEtayE," Ato Sintayehu whispered as he picked up his kuta. "Fitihin melesskliN. Beqah alkeN."
It had been hard of him, a man of quiet strength and dignity, to have to avoid his children’s questioning gazes whenever he’d come back home empty handed after a futile day of looking for work as a day laborer.
Both Ato Sintayehu and Weizero Amakelech were jolted back to the present by the sound of their neighbor Weizero Askale’s distinct illilta.
"Illllllllllllilllllllll..." The octave of her ululation got closer and closer. "LijE.. Lijachin derreselin.... Illlililllll..."
Weizero Amakelech’s head shot up straight and she looked nervously in the direction of her husband as she patted down her dress one last time and adjusted the bright yellow Tlet on her neTella. Ato Sintayehu lifted his hat from the wooden chair by the door. "Bei nei," he said to his wife, extending his hand towards her. "Eshi," she said grabbing on to him. "Eshi, SintuyE."
The moment she saw Weizero Amakelech and Ato Sintayehu, Weizero Askale let out another series of illilta. She was sporadically joined by other neighbors who had gathered by the dilapidated wood fence a few feet from Ato Sintayehu’s front door. Weizero Amakelech spied a series of people heading towards her house: Ato KefeleN and Weizero Marta; Memihr Gizachew and Weizero Birtukan; Abba Yifru; Qess Mitiku; Assir Aleqa Bezabih and his three sons; Weizero Hamelmal; Weizero Nigatuwa; Azaj Kebede and Weizero Miniwab; Weizero Yadegdigulish and her two daughters ... All of the guests came bearing exorbitant gifts—a genbo of honey, Tej, Tella, AreqE. Each gift item was presented with subtle conspicuity before it was ushered into the tent at the back of the house.
Ato Sintayehu and Weizero Amakelech continued to greet their guests with unusual flamboyance, and the commotion around them had just about settled into pockets of loud chatter when the sound of men chanting "Hy loga" jump started another sequence of illilta, this time initiated by Tadelech, the local drama queen who always somehow managed to make herself the center of attention at any gathering.
From a distance, a small group of young men could be seen slowly approaching the house, their sticks waving in the air as they danced around a tall, slim young man who was taking small, purposeful steps. “Hy loga, hy logayE hoi,” the young men shouted, crowding in and away from the young man in perfect synchronization. “Hy loga! Hy logayE ho!”
The women in front of Ato Sintayehu and Weizero Amakelech’s house squealed with joy as the circle of young men drew closer. Weizero Amakelech, at some point, got a clear shot of her son, Sinishaw, who was deftly avoiding being crushed by a ballooning circle of festive friends and menderteNa boys, many of whom he did not know. They joined the fringe end of the loop and joined in the singing. “GurimrimE, ay gurrmr’mE…”
**
MakseNit had not seen a feast like the one Sinishaw’s parents were throwing in his honor since Fitawrarri Demenna’s grandchildren breezed into town from ye ferenjie hager to teskar mawTat for the town’s famous son. The lore of that three-day revelry has now become a point of reference in local conversation. “YanE… ye Fitawrarri Demenna teskar semon…”
Assir Aleqa Bezabih, MakseNit’s magistrate and overall gudai asfeSami, pushed away the tall, empty drinking glass and sighed satisfactorily. He eyed the small pile of thick chunks of qurT siga still left on the tray in the middle of the long, rectangular banquet table and hesitated a moment before grabbing one last piece. He capably dipped it in the saucer of awazE and sank his teeth into the berE that once was the last of Ato Sintayehu’s pair of plough oxen.
Noticing that Ato Sintayehu was back at the head of the table, Assir Aleqa Bezabih rose from his chair, wiped his hands on his ye k’t handkerchief, fished out a crumpled envelope from his coat pocket and headed towards his host.
Ato Sintayehu noticed the approaching man and stood up. “Nor… nor, Assir Aleqa. Mibela ageNu?”
Assir Aleqa Bezabih squeezed himself on the tip of the bench next to Ato Sintayehu’s chair. “Ere beSadqan, Ato Sintayehu. MechEss liyu d’gss… dnq d’gss… ”
The two men made small talk, but Ato Sintayehu’s eyes kept trailing back to the white envelope in Assir Aleqa Bezabih’s right hand. He tried paying attention to the conversation, but his mind kept lurching back and forth, back and forth until he could hear neither Assir Aleqa’s words nor the ones echoing heavily inside his head. Assir Aleqa Bezabih carefully placed the envelope on the table and pushed it towards his host.
“… Tadiya ye Sinishaw gudaE alqwal,” Assir Aleqa Bezabih was saying, motioning down to where he had placed the envelope. Ato Sintayehu didn’t pick up the envelope immediately. Instead he became conscious of icy cold tears sprinting towards his eyes. He stood very still hoping that his motionlessness would scare the tears back into their glands.
Assir Aleqa Bezabih acknowledged his friend’s emotional state with an awkward cough. “Ay! Essuma aygebam, Ato Sintayehu,” he chided gently. “Temesgen bicha new inji…” But Assir Aleqa’s voice was also cracking and he, too, looked down, pretending to remove an imaginary lint from the cuff of his trousers.
Ato Sintayehu gradually reached inside the envelope. He found and opened a small dark blue book and thumbed reflectively through it in slow motion. He stared at the third or so page and ran his index finger over the picture of Sinishaw attached to it under a thin film of plastic. He had accompanied his son to the photo shop in Qola D’ba when Sinishaw had gone to have his passport picture taken. Ato Sintayehu sighed heavily. “Esuss ewnet new,” he exhaled.
Weizero Amakelech was watching the two men from a distance. For months now she had been trying to understand the pensive mood her husband’s been in-- ever since Sinishaw announced that he had won the lottery to go to ferenjie hager. She had been frustrated that her husband was not jumping through the roof and reaching out to kiss God’s feet. After all, hadn’t they, along with countless parents of the area’s young men and women, committed to impossible siletoch year after year awaiting the results of the annual drawing of the “Amerika lotterri... ya mekereNa D.V.” ?
Life had changed over the years. Weizero Amakelech had seen her husband, a once proud farmer and provider, reduced to walking all the way to Aba Libanos and Gorgora to work as a bricklayer in government projects. Once he was gone for an entire month digging fence posts.
So it simultaneously perplexed and worried Weizero Amakelech that her husband wasn’t celebrating their son’s fate. She even told him the story Emmet Enkenu told her of a family in Tsadqan Hawariat, a family Emmet Enkenu’s brother’s wife knew personally, whose son had also won the lotterri. When they reach America, Emmet Enkenu explained to Weizero Amakelech with infinite patience and wisdom, the government awaits them with a house, a car, and a job.
“Loterriii yetebalew lezih aydol? A’annddd miyasqerubachew neger yelem.” Not only that, Emmet Enkenu continued, he’d be able to send back money… a lot of money. “Ya, ye Weizero GelayE lij….. abEEEEt…. Ke hEde be snt weru mn yemessssele bEt asseralachew silu semichalehu….”
Weizero Amakelech was not even looking for a new house. She only wanted never to see her husband’s broken spirit again. She also didn’t want to see the recurring miasma of desperation hovering over her son to finally claim him, as it had so many of his friends. Sinishaw, like so many young people, had not been able to get a job; and with each passing day, Weizero Amakelech had started to notice the same look of despondency in her son’s eyes that she did in her husband’s. But most of all, she wanted Sinishaw to leave his birthplace before he irreconcilably hated it. Like she did.
Weizero Amakelech’s eyes searched for her son. She finally spotted him sitting with his friends underneath the barhr zaff he used to love running around when he was a little boy. She could hardly believe he was turning 23 years old in a few weeks.
***
Four months later…
Even though the warm Gonder sun was slowly baking the earth below, Weizero Amakelech felt tiny shards of icicles slice through her jet black shawl. Her eyes were so dry that whenever she blinked she could hear the sound of sandpaper grating against a dry plank of wood. She drew her shawl closer to her and adjusted the tight knot on the sheer black shass tied on her head.
Weizero Amakelch shifted her weight and tried to find a new spot on the thin mattress that lay on the far corner of tent pitched behind her house. She was sitting with her knees bent, her elbows leaning on them, sandwiched in between Weizero Askale and Emmet Enkenu.
Through the narrow slits of her impossibly swollen eyes, she had earlier spotted a steady stream of people entering the tent… Ato KefeleN and Weizero Marta; Memihr Gizachew and Weizero Birtukan; Abba Yifru; Qess Mitiku; Assir Aleqa Bezabih; Weizero Hamelmal; Weizero Nigatuwa; Azaj Kebede and Weizero Miniwab; Weizero Yadegdigulish…
The merdo had come two days ago, delivered with ecclesiastical efficiency by Abba Merqoriyos. A week before that, Ato Sintayehu and Weizero Amakelech had received their first letter from Sinishaw. Life was good, he had written and included pictures of himself. He was thinner than his parents remembered. Almost gaunt. And although he was smiling in most of the pictures, Weizero Amakelech had noticed how dead his eyes seemed.
Assir Aleqa Bezabih had accompanied Abba Merqoriyos the morning of the merdo, his usually bright face now checkered with streaks of different shades of gray. He was clutching a yellow envelop in his trembling left hand, the sweat from which seeped into the paper, stamping it with the imprints of his palms.
Emmet Enkenu was wrong. There was no job or car or work awaiting Sinishaw. Assir Aleqa Bezabih managed to gather that some Ethiopians had taken him in after seeing him wondering the streets. He spoke very little, they said. He stayed with them for three days, and on the fourth they found him in their living room, hanging from the ceiling. A yellow envelope lay on the floor beneath his dangling feet.
“Ya… ye MerigEta Ashebir lij… mn yemesele…” Weizero Amakelech could hear Emmet Enkenu’s voice above the din of her own thoughts. “Essum hEdo wedqo alqerem indE…”
Someone else jumped in with the story of Weizero Medab’s son... her only child… And that girl, the one who knew Weizero Enkenu’s neighbor… the tall, beautiful girl who… “YannE ye Fitawrrari Demmena teskar semon enkuwa l’tihEd new teblo innatuwa bEtachew sheTew…”
Weizero Amakelech shifted her weight again. She felt small waves of flames burning the inside of her feet.
“U! U! U!.. LijE… wedajE… gud honkuN lijEn… gud honkuN lijiyEn…weinE lijEn gud honkuN…” Weizero Amakelech couldn’t mistake the deep, hoarse wailing for anybody else’s.
She wanted to spring to her feet and run to the other corner of the tent but instead she tipped forward and fell on her forehead. She rolled on the dry ground, her black shawl gathering a fresh new layer of dirt with each rotation. She still couldn’t drown out her husband’s voice.
“U! U! U! Leman negerk nafqotihin… ma aweqelih… bichahn motk… innE ltaneqilih, innE seeeT l’belilih… ”
And from much nearer, Tadelech’s voice rang above the fresh new round of pandemonium..
b’aand wegen CHeresen ya kiffu Ech Ayii Vih
kesu yeterefnew aleqin be Deeih Vih