by: Sol
My Grandmother is a pseudo-devout of the Orthodox church who wouldn't miss a Sunday sermon if her life depended on it. And as a young buck I used to accompany her on her weekly excursions mainly because she used to spoil me to the point it became sinful. But then we would drive past a pretty boutique and she would squeal with delight and we'd tumble out of the car like a couple of airheads in a Hollywood teen cult movie and she would declare to the store keepers that her baby was the belle of the ball, and wouldn't they dress her to fit her label, thank you very much; any gnawing guilt I felt would float out the window. Ay abbayE, she kills me with her generous heart.
Even long after I had outgrown the coolness of grandma, the habit of being up early on Sunday mornings stayed with me (this time sneaking in over our aTir after a wild Saturday night out in town). And I was always hit by this humbling magic that was the sunrise of Sunday mornings. Maybe it was the lack of loud traffic, but the air held a different note: it was in the quiet dignity of the starched, white neTella forming a halo over the heads of women as they scurried by silently to repent their weekly sins. It was in the glow of the sun coming up. If you wake up really early, you could catch the first rays slashing a rude shade of hot pink over the dark blue sky, like a drag queen striding into a room full of truckers (you have to imagine the contrast between sequined bras and checkered shirts here). But it would quickly soften, as if the galaxy suddenly realized it was a day of rest for the tired souls and give its heartfelt apology in the form of a golden glow. And the winds would whisper and giggle amongst themselves, making the air so crisp, it would tickle the pits of my stomach when I took a deep breath; and it made my nose damp as hot air formed little clouds as I exhaled.
As involved as my grandmother might have seemed in her religion, the real reason she looked forward to every Sunday was for her circle of friends who found themselves in the same predicament as herself. The predicament being they all had middle-aged daughters, independent, educated and worst of all divorced, who took out their inadequacy at getting back in the dating game by force-feeding their poor mothers their version of new-age mentality. Hence denying these old women the one last pleasure they had left in this world: gossip. So as my granny put it, God always comes to the rescue.
Dressed in their Sunday best and adorned in Teklu Desta (Ethiopian version of Cartier) jewelry which snarled of old money from wrinkled hands and necks, they would sit a bit farther from the church, under a tree and engage themselves in the delight of conversation. It was like watching eleven-year old girls by their lockers on a Monday morning after a weekend at their first boy-girl party. And if it wasn't for the designated chauffeur with his discreet tap on his mistress' shoulder that indicated it was time to leave, they would jabber away well into the afternoon.
One of these women, we'll call her W/ro Almaz, was a woman who almost held a groupie like obsession for Qulubiew Gabe. W/ro Almaz was the only one in her clique who came a bit earlier than her blatantly bored friends to check in some one-on-one time with her maker. Sometimes, as we pulled in the church's compound, we would spot her thick frame crouched close to the wall and she would rock ever so softly as she prayed, like she was lulling an imaginary child to sleep. The tilt of her cashmere shawl clad head emanating humility and begging redemption. We would slowly walk up to her and my grandma would kneel down beside her and mamateb and commence into her own ritual. W/ro Almaz would turn her head to meet my grandma's gaze and her kohl-lined eyes would be wet with tears. My grandma would grab her hand and they would kneel there for a while, holding hands, praying together until W/ro Almaz gives out a little sniffle and my grandma would look at her with sympathetic eyes and begin her comforting. Hence, opening the first excuse for talk in the one place they have to keep their mouths shut.
They would get up, mamateb again and drift off to their usual spot, a small tree set by the fence with lots of medeb space around it. It was so seamless in its transition, so fluid in its synchrony, so innocent in its serendipity, even I, the eternal spectator, would follow them silently as if I was in a trance. Maybe it was the sadness that gripped my little heart every time I saw her watery eyes implore my grandma's for borrowed strength. Maybe it was in the pride for my grandma's invincibility that sneaked up close behind my pity for W/ro Almaz. But it is, as I write these words, realize how two women well into their sixties had artfully bent the "lean on me, when you're not strong" motto to best suit their unmentionable weakness for simple human contact.
I would hear W/ro Almaz murmur, " Esti yenE GebriEl, mihretun s'TeN ...MTsssssss…"
" Ere bakish Almi, getashin atamarriw," grandma would softly admonish.
" Min ladrg bilesh new, endew getayE yaderegelNin neger sasibew, hod yibiseNal," her manicured hands would daintily dab at her eyes with her perfumed handkerchief.
" Aaaay, engde beqash, ahun min adirg new yemtiyiw?" grandma tries another tactic.
" Endew yalefew kremt aladerss bloN Qulubi mech hedku blesh new?"
" Yesiletun senga likeshal?"
" Endeta! Eness b'qer silete medress alebet biye, Qesochu ezaw endigezu birr lkealehu."
" Tadiya min yasleqisishal, silitish derswal, degmo letahisass tihEjalesh, beqa malQesun teyiw Almi." Grandma's reasoning must have made a lot of sense to W/ro Almaz, for she took a deep breath and started wiping away at the last of her grief.
Right about then, as if on cue, the other two ladies in the clique would show up with their respectful drivers and entourage, be it in the form of grandchildren or servants. And the festivities would commence, greetings would take over and any traces of misery would disappear. They would offer each other the better seat, they would compliment each other's jewelry and their expensive Tilets. And so it would go on, I would watch on in fascination as they talked about whose daughter was doing well in Amerika who was the last person to visit their children overseas. Whose son just bought a new car, who died most recently, whose daughter just gave birth. It was daunting how they moved on from topics like death to fashion in a series of teeth sucking and clucking. It worked for them, and for me, it was lulling as I dozed lightly nestled in the crook of my grandma's arm thrown protectively around my shoulder.
On one particular Sunday, W/ro Almaz insisted that we have breakfast in her home. I didn't understand the indecisive flicker in my grandma's eyes as she kept glancing at me until we reached W/ro Almaz's home.
It looked as normal as any other generic villa in Addis. The gates opened to an unusually large compound, lined with trees and a well-maintained garden, the house partially covered by a large zenbaba tree that offered an exotic feel to the otherwise manicured look. We walked through the front door, W/ro Almaz, ushering us in like the gracious hostess she was. I timidly follow my Grandma into the marble floored foyer and into a lush living room. There, instead of a fireplace, stood a fully stocked, fully functional and obviously unlicensed bar, complete with the mahogany awning, the revolving bar stools covered in black leather, the mirrored shelf behind the bar displaying an array of liquors that were obviously smuggled in between some stewardess' undergarments. It stood out like a Massai warrior in the Oval Office. I stood; slack jawed, not really understanding the explanation my immature mind was trying to conjure up for this mix-up.
"This must be a restaurant she owns." My eyes frantically try to locate tables and chairs arranged in the official restaurant manner. I was met defiantly by a thick beige carpet, carrying a tastefully minimal glass coffee table and brown leather couches arranged in a semicircle. A glassy-eyed leopard lounged beneath her entertainment center, it's mouth forever carved into a nasty growl, sharp teeth glistening with the varnish painted on by the taxidermist.
" Wuy, be GebriEl, areff belu inji?! Mimiye [referring to me] hiji ejishin taTebi, enem geba biye, libsen lilewT."
She sashayed towards the bowls of her home. I looked towards my grandmother for some consolation, but she was intently avoiding my gaze. I could feel from the strained vibrations coming off her warm body, that she felt guilty for exposing me to this. It only solidified the fact that a raging fire would not tear me away from her side until we got out of the place.
Shrill female voices could be heard from the back of the house. Two women clad in tight jeans and T-shirts that barely covered their mid-riffs, a-la-tacky-eighties style sauntered in and stopped dead in their tracks when they saw us. The older looking one came forward and shook my grandma's hand exclaiming, "Almi! Indiga yijE emeTalehu alalechim..."
She tried to get cozy with me, but I shrank further into my grandma's side and away from the woman's blood red nails. The younger one, who looked like Tina Turner from that "What's Love Got to Do with It" music video, complete with the bleached crazy hair and the garish red lipstick, went directly to the bar and busied herself with cleaning the sink.
Just when I thought things couldn't get more bizarre, the W/ro Almaz herself made her grand entrance, this time in a sheer hadere dir'iya, her bra and slip clearly visible through the flower print garment. Her church persona long gone, she was loud, her quivering, grief stricken voice now replaced by a brash, high soprano.
Breakfast was served and I barely ate, too busy trying to take in every single thing I could. Though still confused, I was more so fascinated by W/ro Almaz's multiple identities. And I wasn't sure which one suited her best. She had miraculously recovered from her misery and was now boisterously gesturing with her heavily bejeweled hands as she talked about this Dr. IgelE and that General IgelE. For a woman who spent most of her time reasoning with God, she sure knew a LOT of men.
My grandmother, who'd kept her replies short and polite the whole time her friend bragged about the important and powerful men who enjoyed the services of her high-class Zig bEt, practically jumped up from her seat as soon as the table was cleared from our breakfast, muttering some inaudible jumble about how I had swimming lessons to get to and we'd be late. But W/ro Almaz was a woman with a mission. She started with, " Afer sihon, buna satiTeCHima mehEd yelem, enew lafelalish tezegajichE?! Ere endew be'Qulubiw GebriEl, aBol teTiTesh tihEjalesh......" and so on and so forth.
Gran looked constipated, but gingerly sat back down; she was too tired to argue. I guess had she insisted on leaving there wouldn't be a story to tell, and to this day, I love those creaky old bones that gave in to W/ro Almaz, the Lady Marmalade.
W/ro Almaz proceeded to roast the coffee beans and ever so innocently chirps, " Abba almeTum endE? Mechess, ihud hono Qertew ayawkum..."
" Meqretiss ayqerum, sinkerafefu arfidew new" Tina Turner offers her careless explanation for the tardiness of the much anticipated Abba.
It was surreal how I felt his yucky presence before I saw him, maybe it was the cloying odor of sweat mixed with cheap Arab perfume and incense that preceded his appearance, but just then my shoulders hunched up and I didn't need to turn around to know he was shuffling in.
" Wuy, bemotkut, Abba, meTu endE, ahun sinanesawot, yigbu!...yigbu!" W/ro Almaz jumped up from her spot behind the rekebbott and welcomes her new guest in.
He stood at maybe at 4'11". The green overcoat he wore not quite hiding a slight hump on his back. He shuffled closer to W/ro Almaz and they greeted each other warmly. I was too captivated by him to notice Gran had stiffened visibly, and was frantically trying to come up with an excuse to leave.
" Aref yibelu, bunnawn lawTaw enna buraKE yiseTalu" W/ro Almaz exclaimed.
The other two girls were bustling about ordering the maids to bring more servings of food and drink for the sacred visitor as he made himself comfortable on the seat behind the coffee setting that W/ro Almaz had decorously evacuated for him. Tina came scurrying back with a thick roll of banana leaf tucked snugly under her arm.
I couldn't contain my curiosity. I turned towards my grandmother and asked her what the woman was holding.
" Ayzosh GelayE, ahun enhEdalen," Gran held on to my hand trying to pacify me. The rich cloying aroma of the beans filled the room as he took it off the hot plate. The familiar hissing sound of the hot coffee beans as they was transferred to a wet plate sounded ominous to my now wary ears. He lit a candle and a smoking incense stick, and took off his overcoat to reveal the men's shiriT and a striped shirt. He arranged the head gear he was wearing. The CHat was now ceremoniously being unraveled from it's organic wrapper, he started lamenting in some tongue and then started back in Amharic; " MiqeNawin, qenateNawin, ariqilin!" " Jebba! Jebba!" W/ro Almaz and her young ladies were cross legged on the floor replying their consent to the delusional mireqa. " Zeraffi, qeTaffi...atallai, alehu bayun kedej melisilin!" " Jebba, jebba!" He had began swishing the air with a branch of CHat, his eyes tightly shut, almost as if he was trying to locate a cosmic power that would grant him his wishes for W/ro Almaz. I could hear Gran hiss in disbelief and disappointment. " Chigirin ende Tenq ariqilin......Gebeyawin ende weraj wuha asgebalin..." " Jebba......" My grandmother had had enough. She couldn't even wait 'till they were done, she sprang up from her seat yanking me along with her by the hand. " Besme'ab, minum gud asayeheN besiletu amlake!" She was too agitated to even notice the alarmed faces of the others. She marched on towards the door, barking her discrepancy to W/ro Almaz's now meek voice begging her to stay. " Enkuwan gudishin ayehulish, dinqEm GebriEl, anchin bilo balesilet...tuuu tuu tuu!" Grandma spat out her disdain as she marched out of the house. The sun felt more glorious than ever as we hurried on outside. My Grandmother still marched on to the car, rummaging through her bag for the keys, still muttering prayers to all the arba arat Tabotoch begging forgiveness for tolerating what she'd just witnessed. I jogged along trying to keep up with her long powerful strides.
She turned the car around and out of the compound like she was a racer. I kept glancing at her, struggling to keep my laughter in, but she was still shaking her head muttering, " Ho, ho, ho......wey guuuuud!"
That did it, I collapsed back into my seat, laughing till my sides hurt, Gran looked at me as if for the first time and smiled absentmindedly. But my laughter must have been contagious because soon enough she was roaring with laughter with me.
On one of those enchanting Sunday mornings, I was rudely smacked into this multicolored vacuum that occupies the void between two extremes and subsequently into the world of adult cognition.
Big shout-out to W/ro Almaz and all the Ethiopian drama queens out there.