Our aunt Assegedu was born M’Ts-ing. I can almost swear to that. Emotionally at one time, something went brutally haywire in her sub-anatomy. She cries when she’s happy. She cries when she’s sad. The rest of the time? She cries. Our older brother, a rigorously practical specimen, once suggested that she have a “Fragile: Handle with Care” sign plastered on her forehead. “Mn larg b’leh new,” she said before starting to wail.

We don’t know anyone who could be so emotionally wrought over the most diminutive occurrence. One day, Assegedu dropped some tomatoes while making salad. “Wui! InnE lfreT,” she said, disturbingly seriously. “InnE dbn biyE lfreT.”

Oooooook.

“YenE neger! AyhoniliN,” and then, like clockwork, the waterworks. No one, at any given point, knows why Assegedu is crying. We just know that now we all hate tomatoes. Our father once looked her in the eyes and said, “Anchi! Ye Emba bank! Bitaleqshi ayalqm!”

Our aunt punctuated his… unnecessary assertion by letting a single, well-trained trail of tear march with precision and discipline down her sculpted cheeks. “M’Ts” she whispered, a broken woman.

Good going, dad.

We all glared at our father as we, with practiced efficiency, passed along a box of Cold Care Kleenex (her favorite brand) from person to person until it reached her. She sniffed into one, which she expertly plucked from the neat folds.

My grandmother was convinced that Assegedu was a “PEnTE” even though Assegedu’s Ginbot Lideta celebrations were legendary. (Complete with an after-meal “LidetayE, innde innE mannin twejalesh?” derert medeleq session that has escalated in recent years to unbearably hysterical intensities. This must put Lideta in an awkward position. No?)

Finally, one of us asked why Emmama Tiliquwa thought Assegedu was a PEnTE

“Innesu nachewa indih tolo miyaleqsu. Aynachewn atayutm? Tiqqqquuuur ayn. IndEt indemiay…?” Scientifically invalid? Maybe. But grandma is 90. A sharp 90, even as she can’t remember a time when Atse Haile Sellasie was not ruling the empire.

At our brother’s med school graduation, Assegedu finished clean a whole box of Cold Care. Our father to my brother: “Ahun hakim neh. Lezich setiyo mehanit felig.”

Nicccce one, dad. Why don’t you just tell her that you think she is a PenTE and get it over with?

Our father: “Bei alqishi demmo!”

Good grief.

****

When our father’s mother died, we drew straws on who would tell Assegedu. It might be OK to admit now that we rigged it so that our ferenjie aylut abesha 20-something brother got the short end of the stick. (Metaphorical pun intended.) At the time, though, we looked at him in feigned surprise, and then switched to overly done sympathy. “You do this for the gipper! Make us proud.”

Ferenjie aylut abesha youngest brother walked hesitantly into Assegedu’s bedroom and looked around her intimidating clean room, not saying a word. Assegedu had little time for nonsense like this. She hated the boys coming into her room because they do awful things like move the little Mariam and Gerbriel icons on her night table. They would strike the matches she used to light the many Twaffs on her corner table. Twaffs she would light during her nightly marathon prayer sessions. Our father, upon coming across the warm Twaff glow coming from her room: “Y’chi setiyo! BETun kalaqaTelech atarfm. Demmo aymoqatm?”

Assegedu gasped as our brother grabbed her prayer towel (the very one she drapes across her shoulders during prayer), fold it tightly, and then prop it against his head as he flopped on her bed, her bed being a single full mattress. She had not slept in a real bed since she left Ethiopia. Swore that she would not until she returned home. He stretched out his legs, complete with sneakers, across her pink and white kiroshE throw.

It was too much for Assegedu. She picked up her Bible and started to randomly beat our brother across the head. “Ante sEyTan! Diabilos.. deee-yaaaa-beee-loss! Mn litareg ezih meTah.. eko lemin… ?”

Our brother tried to shelter himself, but the pummeling continued. “Eko..” -pound!- “..lem’n abah..” -pound!- “…ezih..” -pound!-..pound!-“mn dirrrrrrish aregeh?” -pound!-

He let her have a few more swings and then interrupted the drumming… very politely, if we may say so ourselves. “Ok.. ok. Ok. ZEna aleN.”

ZEna aleN? Ehhh. Sending in our brother in to break the news?… Maybe not so hot a coup.

Assegedu paused, bewildered at what he just said.

“Mn zEna, zEna abatih y’Tfa!!! ZEna? Demmo inde gazETTeNa!”

Our brother settled back, leaning against Assegedu’s “headboard”, which, of course was the southwest wall of the first floor. He readjusted his towel-pillow.

“Ehhh… Ok, first.. tadiyas? IndEt nesh?” he inquired hesitantly, perhaps thinking that small talk was the perfect prelude to merdo. Assegedu went ballistic times two. She leapt to her feet and frantically looked around for something to break over our brother’s head.

Our brother, his instincts perhaps signaling to him that his unrehearsed modus operendai might not be going as smoothly as it should, rose to his feet also, summoning up gravitas. But he rose from the medab bed a little too quickly and stumbled against Assegedu’s nightstand, knocking down several Gebriels and at least four Mariam statuettes. He scrambled to make nice. He mamatebed very awkwardly and very quickly and proceeded to pick up a handful of fallen Mariams, hurriedly placing them upright, and placing them right next to a slew of crooked Gerbriels. He paused a moment to asses his damage control. Under his breath he muttered, “Ok.. boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, boy, girl. That’s wrong.” He fidgeted with the figurines a little more. “Ahh… boy… girllll, boy! Viola!”

“Yanvuwallihhhhhhhhhh! Qdus Gerbriel ke semai werdo yavuwalilihhhhhhh!!” screamed Assegedu, the thought of this unwashed miscreant manhandling her beloved M & G’s sending fits of horror down her perfectly straight spine.

“Qoi.. qoi… esti ... er, calm huNi.”

Hmmm, the boy could benefit from amariNa lessons.

He went on quickly, taking advantage of the temporary lapse in screeching as Assegedu took a break to gather her strength. “Emmama DinQEn tastawishachewalesh?”

Yegads! Now, on your average, everyday merdo-telling exploit that would have been a legitimate question, even a kind overture. But it was a badly misplaced gaffe in this case, since, well, there was that little detail that Emmama DinQE WAS ASSEGEDU’S MOTHER!

“Tasatawishaleshiiiiiiiii?….” clonk! “Ant ziTaCHam!”

We all got scared at this point and scrambled from the corridor where we were listening intently to the performance unraveling in Assegedu’s room.

Several minutes later we heared her door open and close and our brother’s sigh. We crept into the corridor and peeked out, in resplendent cowardice. We signaled him over and pushed him into the spare room.

“Yo, I told her, aiight!”

Yes, but how the hell did you put it, your twerp.

“I don’t have to take this. I’m leaving.”

Older sister grabbed hold of his sweater as her tried to escape the clutch of five pairs of eyes. She pulled him back into the room holding his sweater by her thumb and index finger, much like a scientist holds a lab rat by the tail.

“Ante fara! Tell us what you said,” she hissed at him. “And then tell us what she said.”

“She probably cried,” our little sister offered… quite uselessly. We paused to decimate her with glmiCHa.

****

We all headed to the study where our father had taken refuge. We passed Assegedu’s room. The door was shut, and no audible wailing was cracking the walls. Shock, it’s a good thing. The best ploy, was the consensus, the best tactic until we got our wits together was for us children to act as a buffer zone between our father and our aunt. Her hysteria, we have surmised from years of experience, was very coquettish. Lunges at you when you least expect it. So, Dad first, then half of us head to Assegedu. The two shall not cross paths for at least two days, or until other tliq sewech got here, whichever came first. Keziya wediya igzihEr yawqal.

We gave each other supportive glances and opened the door to our father’s study. There, on his couch he sat, a new desperate look having overtaken his youthful eyes. Next to him was Assegedu, both her hands holding our father’s hands, stroking them gently. “Ayzoh… ayzoh wendimiyE,” we heard her whisper. “Eswa indehon ke Ababa gar nat…Ayzoh yenE hod. Ayzoh wendim gasha.” No tears in her eyes. They were, this time, clamoring for space in our father’s eyes.

They both looked up when they realized we were in the room. Our father looked at us, wide-eyed and uncertain. Assegedu nodded silently, signaling us to give them a moment.

As we filed away we heard, from the recesses of our father’s gut, “M’Tsssss.”