The scene is Addis Ababa, Piazza to be exact - right in front of the building housing Artistic Printers and the British Council Library. Across the street from the building, a green Volvo with diplomatic plates is parked. Inside is a Middle Eastern looking gentleman, rather distinguished, with a gleam of exposed pate on the crown of his head. He is obviously waiting for someone. A spouse? A friend? A spy? Who knows? This is deep in the middle of the eighties, when the Dergue ruled supreme.

An intersection away, three kids slowly make their way to where the diplomat is parked. They are dressed in the dirty rag tag of the street poor. They stop to ask something of every other person they pass. Usually the person just ignores them, and walks away. A few, mostly women, seem to erupt into a lecture of sorts, whose words could not be distinctly made out, but the gist of which appears to be "... stick to school work...!!!"

As they near the Volvo, their shuffling gait seems to be matched by their wandering eyes, which seem to alternate between the pedestrian traffic and the wares stacked in the windows of the stores they are passing. They pause to window shop, then walk on again. One of them has a little box that he rattles occasionally. They all mutter, "Ye sport irdata!! Ye sport irdata!!" in a manner that was neither too synchronized, nor even liable to persuade anyone that there was any physical exertion involved. These were bored kids soliciting money in the name of sports assistance. And soon, they reach the Volvo.

After passing so many vacant parked cars, an occupied one was a nice change. They reasoned that those who drive are more likely to give a little out of their pockets than those who walk. And a Volvo must be a treasure trove. So they gather around the driver side window. The box holder rattles the box to jingle the pitifully few coins inside.

"GashE, ye sport irdata!" he says, rattling the box again.

The diplomat turns, looks at them, and smiles.

"GashE, ye sport irdata!!" the other two chime in. The box gets rattled even more vigorously. The diplomat keeps smiling.

Now, "ye sport irdata" etiquette demands that if the person being asked has something to say or to give, the car window would open, and a few coins might be given out and they move on. Or, alternately, a hearty "hidu Tfu kezih, menaTiwoch!!" and a threatening gesture would follow. After a few rattles and chants, the kids understand they are in a new universe when neither happens, and the response is still that same gentle smile. Without talking about it, they spontaneously move into a new tactic. "Ye sport irdata!!" be damned, they were going for flattery.

"Ababa melkemelkam nachew!!" says one in a sing song voice. Matching the tone and timing, the second one pipes in. "Awo, ababa beTam qonjo nachew".

"Arif mekina alachew," says the third. By now they have established a rhythm.

The diplomat is still smiling.

Emboldened, they go on.

"Ababa yelebesut kot isat yelase new!!"

"Awo, yababa surim yeTalyan suri new!!"

"Pe! Ay yababa mekina stamr!! Arif mekina nech!!"

Their cadence is perfectly matched. They do not interrupt each other. The tone is still sing song. The diplomat's smile hasn't changed. Even though they are still kids, their sharp street sense has told them this poor man did not understand a lick of Amharic. Now, they up their tempo. One of them starts to pat his stomach rhythmically while flexing his knees and bobbing up and down.

"Awo, yababa borCH demo ager new yemiyaklew!!" he says. Neither his nor his friends’ expression has changed, but they are all bobbing.

"Pe!! Pe!! BorCHachew... borCHachew!!" adds the other.

"Yababa Trs demo welgada new!!" sings the third.

"Ay ababa, aynachew miTiTi nech!!" the first one says.

The diplomat's smile widens, and he starts to nod his head to the beat. By this time, the rattling box has become a percussion instrument, setting the tempo. The first one starts patting his head.

"AbEt yababa melaTa siyabera!!"

"Ababa meliT nachew, meliT nachew," repeats the second one. A few minutes of energetic sing-song abuse later, the car window suddenly hisses down, and the diplomat extends out a clenched fist. For a second, the kids are shocked into silence, and stand rooted to the ground. The fist opens. It is full of wrapped candy. The kids quickly grab it, and thank the diplomat.

"Ababa deg nachew, deg nachew!!"

They walk away, lazily sucking on the candy, and occasionally rattling the box. Perhaps thinking of the next prey who could be their sport, and give them an "irdata".