The wine had arrived, and the parched crowd buzzed around the waiters. After guzzling down a few glasses full, I noticed that the party had suddenly mellowed down. The valium-calm atmosphere was further enhanced by the mega-mix of unidentifiable “tribal” sounds that emanated from the other room. The audience at this event tended to be fascinating in its own right. Some seemed to be interestingly psychotic, or at times threatened to be arrestingly interested. Amidst all of the distractions, I heard, “Here is my Ethiopian friend!” I was jolted, once more, by that remark. I asked myself, “Am I still an Ethiopian and not a New Yorker?” Why would I be introduced as an Ethiopian friend? Why was she saying Ethiopian under her breath, with her pity-laced grimace as if to lessen some pain that might be inflicted upon me? I suddenly snapped. You see nothing spoils a romance so much as a sense of enlightenment. I was chaffed. I felt uneasy, uncomfortable, and at times a bit ornamental.

They say that discomfort is the root of all progress. And I was definitely jostled. It was at this fated book release party that I finally saw my identity, all exposed for me to scrutinize. My mind nodded its assent. What am I exactly? Meandering the hallways, I came into a highly stylized sitting room, a salon of sort. There I made a poignant observation. There were several objets d’art strewn around the lovely room. AChinese opium divan, a shield from Papua New Guinea, and lo-and-behold, a BirCHuma on the fireplace mantel! “gud fela! birCHuma Gergeda Lai weTa!”

I stood there and marveled at the absurdity of things, pondering about what it all meant. The décor was a parody of itself! Like Proust’s tasty Madeleine, the birCHuma transported me back to my past, to my childhood. A particular image burned before my eyes. I remembered myself falling off the three-legged stool at my Grandmother’s house. I had never been able to master it; nor as I came to understand it, have I mastered my identity. Amidst all of the fanfare, frou-frou chat, and sweet-nothings, I decided to mentally revisit my origins and settle, once and for all, this burning question. I know some of you are probably raising the roof per se with unbridled “QiliT yale ililta” while some of you are saying to yourselves, “here we go again, with Addis nostalgia, “minew bayaderQen?” That is why I ask your unconditional forgiveness and understanding…. We are all entitled to such dire follies without so much as a “isshi ingidih… .” Now, now! My lovely Seleda Anbabiyoch, let’s calm down and finish reading this article. I am sure the though of Addis has started to overwhelm you, sending you into a sea of sweet memories of Ager Bet, our untarnished playground, or so I thought.

A few months later, I packed my “kotet,” which we all know could be a traumatic experience all in itself, and set out for Newark Airport. Ay! Wegenoché! What can I say about the boarding experience on “yeNa” airlines? (Which for obvious reasons will be left unnamed). I was first confronted by the “autobus tera” ambiance that hovers around the ticket counter. After two long hours of dragging my “kotet” from one side of the ticket counter to the other, mired in complete chaos, I attempted to organize a queueonly to be ridiculed by sly comments such as “min nektotal? Arfo QuCH aylim?” and “Agul ferenj!” Had I only known it was indicative of what was to come. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity fantasizing about what I was going to do in Addis. I pictured my zemedoch, balinjeroch, sefer lijoch, my old “Lycee” and all that was missing in my life in New York. I imagined myself recklessly scarfing down plates full of that freshly roasted lamb, ye karamara lega Tibs, and passionately smearing my face with juicy papayas from the tropical gardens of Nazaret. “Ay Ageré Ethiopia, meTahulish!”

All the while, adrift in daydreams, I came to realize that the airline counter personnel might be afflicted by similar bouts of nostalgia. Had the concept of time eluded them? They were all dilly-dallying, shirr gud, geba weTa around, incessantly chatting, going in and out of that mysterious door behind the counter. After 2 hours of Qosht AkaTel waiting, I managed to secure a seat aboard the aircraft. Much to my frustration, the plane took off two hours after we had been seated. The captain announced that we had missed our allotted take-off time. Finally, we were airborne and the crew started performing its legendary hospitality, which seemed tirelessly rehearsed to perfection. Several hours later, the plane landed to refuel in Rome. I had anticipated that I would get off the plane to stretch my legs and do a little shopping before take-off. However, my hopes were dashed as the plane remained far away from any facility. There, they opened the doors and beckoned us to take some fresh air. I thought “Abdewal indé?” As soon as they finished the announcement, undetected by stewards, a somewhat disoriented Ababa got up from his seat and walked off the plane straight out to Bolé menged which in this case happened to be the main landing strip at Da Vinci Fuimicino Airport. There were pleas and cries from the plane. “weyné! gud fela! ere, ere! Ababan yazuachew!” Panic spread like wild fire. Upon hearing this, Italian security forces, flanked by Ethiopian stewardesses ran to apprehend the poor old man. I thought I heard, “Ay Anbessa!” from behind me. She repeated once more, “Ay Abessa!”

Upon my arrival, I unfolded and carefully inspected my itinerary “gudayoch,” which included extensive family visits, museums, galleries, self guided walking tours, antique scouting, visits to far-away places like Gonder, Ankober, Ambassel… and other personal business which will be left unmentioned…. Yes! I know mystery is so obvious! I told you so! Most of all, I vowed that as a New Yorker and an aspiring artist, that I would valiantly try to keep myself on the beat of the Addis metropolitan. As you alreadyknow by now, Addis can wreak havoc on one’s attention span - especially if one has the attention span of a water shrew! Or so I have been told. My adopted New York temperament, coupled with my perpetual state of confusion, relentlessly plagued my otherwise peaceful existence. In other words, “dimbirbiré weTa!” Do not do one of your eye-rolling, he-is-like-so-weird looks! Even the self-help books I towed along failed to restore normalcy to my esprit. In all honesty, Addis has gotten very real (eat your heart out Real World!). It has morphed into the most comforting yet at the same time disturbing place on earth, a rare quality, the French would call jolie-moche. My anticipated walking tours took a turn for the worst as I neared churches and squares. Fellow Ethiopians who have been reduced to a life of abject misery studded the streets. Frankly, my walk was a glimpse of the abyss - to this day I lack words to describe what I have seen.

What is there to do in Addis? What were people talking about when they said, “We had a great time?” When the topic of poverty comes up, panic inevitably sets in, replete with all sorts of stammering denials, and evasions. Let’s face it! Before I knew it, I was forced to adjust to the overwhelming poverty and misery. Sadly enough, I was better off than most people around me. My meager salary in yeferenj Ager made me look like a “billionaire.” How sad to see hardworking people make a fraction of what I made. Upon day five, my life oscillated between ye-cake bet and mesheta bet. By day ten, Addis had lost its allure. I was brimming with anger and sadness. I was outraged by the multitude of child molesters that roam the bars with little girls dangling from each arm. I was angry at how HIV/AIDS was not a topic of discussion among the young. In any case, I wish I had been forewarned of Addis’ splendid surprises. From posta bet to Quibe Ministere, Ethiopia packs in a few unforgettable gurshas that would leave the je-ne-sait-quoi in us in a tizzy fit. After a hard, sobering day, I found solace in the calm of injera-bingeing (It is humanly impossible to overdose on kitfo, for we can all attest that culinary experiences in Addis can often border on bliss!), more cake devouring, shai slurping and of course the occasional bout of existentialism at the local “bougie-spheres” called Sheraton and Hilton. At times, I must admit, I thanked igzéré for such refuges. Places like that reassured me that even such things were possible in Addis. I guess, you could say that I suffered from misguided hopes and dreams. Nonetheless, it proved something, anything!

Meanwhile, between these sporadic breaks, time stood still in Addis. I never had so much time to think. I wondered how many undiscovered philosophers roamed the streets of Addis. As for me, I pondered over my odd dreams, my borCH-enhancing diet, my friends’ problems, my problems with you-know-who, my conspiracy theories, my religious believes, my annoying habits, et cetera, et infinitum, et nauseam. Briefly said, the reason why I was put on this planet and most of all I often asked myself, “Where do I fit in this enigma called Etiopiawinet?”

After weeks of soul searching and frequent getaway trips to warmer regions, I had returned to Addis to wind down my trip, when the unexpected happened. God has such a wacky way of throwing one more wrench into the demented stew we call Addis life. At times, Addis seemed to me like some kind of cosmic joke. I fell seriously ill. Unbeknownst to me, I had contracted the dreadful disease called weba - Malaria. Of course, I had one of my infamous tantrum-throwing fits. How could that darn bimbi get me? And why didn’t the prophylactic work? Hearing my questions, the house help explained in detail how my low consumption of berbere in yeferenj Ager directly correlates to my contraction of the dreadful disease. I started to have stomach pain three days before my departure. As our elders say, “be inQirt lai joro deghif!” Indescribable wugat besieged me! I stood there in my cousin’s house contemplating my fate. I felt as if my life had shattered before me into tiny pieces of stinging shards of coal. I had to get down on all fours and pick up the burning pieces - not to mention I spend hours doubled over the throne pleading with God -“igzéré, mechem yezaren awTaNina, nege… .”

Blistering fever ravaged my entire body - needless to say I was delirious from the onset. I saw ostriches, New York cabs, even a bagel laden with a dollop of chive cream cheese - all in my bed! I’m afraid to contemplate the Freudian innuendoes! At that moment of hallucinatory revelations, my cousin decided to cancel my trip and get my limp body to the nearest infirmary. But which one? Much to my dire dismay (I couldn’t be more redundant if I wanted to!) Addis is studded with faux clinics - fronts with no doctors in sight. After half a day of megulalat, I finally felt that my life had taken on all of the characteristics of a Greek tragedy where the protagonist is mowed down by death’s scythe, moments before he discovers his purpose in life. My life was suddenly replete with teeth-sucking and head-shaking spectators. “TSim! Ageru gebto indih yihun? miskin lij.”

My family agrees that I should immediately go to one of the hospital in Bole. But much to my dismay (yet again dismay is the bread of Addisites who seek medical attention) and agony, I had to be referred by a clinic to be admitted. Triage at its worst. Who knew HMO’s had international influence? I managed to cram my wilting body into my friend’s car - by this time I found out the real meaning of “ras merzen.” I felt like somebody was going willy-nilly with a dula on my head. I languished in clinics, and gave so much blood that I swear I became anemic. All the while my family stood there besides me, unwavering in their resolve to get me back on my feet. I owe a gratitude to them that I will never be able to repay. Ethiopians are blessed with innate humanity that transcends any crisis. And most of all, amidst such turmoil that characterizes life in Addis for so many, and especially at moments of personal cultural gitchitotch, my family and friends answered my pending question. I was resuscitated to life.

Soon after, I was at Bole airport saying my adieus. And in what seemed like a flash, I was back in New York. I picked up nuro where I had left it. I was once more at a party, schmoozing and reminiscing about my trip home with friends in the infamous Lower East Side barrio. I was sitting in a terribly clean hall. Perched on a comfy Ottoman, I realized that I was at a party with the rest of New York’s bulimic society, whose parents probably have a residual but unconscious stake in the outcome of the Middle East peace talks. The simplicity of their character made them incomprehensible to me. There, murmuring and hors d’oeuvre-devouring glamour-mongers surrounded me. They swayed from room to room, quietly throwing glances at each other. I have always hated mystery. It’s so obvious. As you already know, my dearest Seleda readers, the fa fa fa crowd in New York is known for their tardiness. k’Abeshoch yibisalu! Even though most of us had been prepared for the ritually sadistic delay, my patience wore off as swiftly as my buzz from the cheap wine I had been nursing. Then lo-and-behold, the grand entrance of one of New York’s infamous shock vigilante rudely interrupted my nostalgic intermission. I couldn’t believe my eyes! Ensconced in a positively species-exterminating fur coat, despite the 100-degree temperatures inside the house, she approached me and whispered with her dragon’s breath, “Hello, have I seen you somewhere before? Do I know you?” As Oscar Wilde once said, “When the Gods want to punish us they answer our prayers,” and so it went. The host interrupted and said to her, under her breath, he is my “Ethiopian friend.” She had instantly categorized and shelved me in the dark recesses of her nefarious mind.

The ignominy of it all would have chaffed and embarrassed me, had I not prided myself by saying that I had seen and heard it all in New York. I realized that I no longer bestow upon myself the tittle of “cultural attaché” for Ethiopia. I felt at times that I was conducting my own war against what seemed to be an ongoing international campaign of negative publicity against my “virtual” Ethiopia. All of it had become personal. I felt that we were denied the opportunity to partake in all of the romanticism enjoyed by other immigrants in America. Even the Russians have turned their once horrific image into fabulous fairy tales. I had been obsessed, even, at times, adamant in ever so carefully constructing an image of my homeland for others to admire. But this time I was different. Addis had smacked reality into me. The essence of being an Ethiopian was no longer rooted in nostalgia and childhood fascinations. I realized that the essence of my identity was not rooted in the aesthetics, the superficial - the array of mesQels on my chest, nor the shemma draping over my body. My trip back home reassured me that I still have that Ethiopian affinity, hilina, that is hard to describe, let alone write about.

The next time I come across a birChuma in America, I will definitely take a seat and, this time, I won’t fall off!