The following is not a diatribe against Addis’ city planners, its architects, builders, contractors, or foreign and domestic investors. It just ponders a time gone by. And it misses the sound of a child’s laughter on an open field.
2005
I negotiated Addis’ hidden potholes and its equally treacherous minibus’s driven by kids with chat-glazed eyes on my way to my old neighborhood to visit an extremely wrinkled ninety-something-year-old grandmother. I was armed with an overpriced French perfume named after a number I furtively grabbed at La Guardia as well as several letters from family I would be reading out loud into the wee hours of the night. The lovely woman began birthing before the Italians arrived in Addis and it showed. Rheumatoid arthritis has gnawed at her fingers, and age has done its thing to her eyesight, teeth, and gait. I love her and she knows it. Well, I tell her so. And she regales me with undeserved mereqat which I know I will cherish for the rest of my life.
By the time I reached the old neighborhood, dusk had arrived in the city. Addis Ababa undergoes a complete makeover around this time, especially in the summers. The day is cooling down and the evening chill drives her residents to hastily wrap their heads in the warmth of their gabis. The air is filled with the smell of mender cooking: a mélange of berbere, Qibe, and burning eucalyptus. I rolled down my window and drew in this aroma unique to Ethiopia and one that summons pleasure-filled memories of a childhood now gone.
The dusk also brings out the young lovers. You can tell by the way they walk. Almost aimlessly, close to each other—but not too close, glances stolen, giggles sporadic, and faces washed in muted merriment. Surprisingly, in a country with one of the highest HIV infection rates in the world, public display of affection is a rare sight.
I took in these wonderful sights and smells as my car crawled over the korokonch my old man negotiated for years in his faithful bols.
The image I caught on the corner of my left eye forced me to do a double-take. The lush field surrounded by gigantic eucalyptus trees was gone. On its place was an unfinished concrete building, at least six stories high, and enclosed by cheap corrugated sheets that formed a complete fence around the construction site. I hit the brakes.
My field!
Back in the day . . .
Berhanu hadn’t seen us when he brought his dark and dimpled kuda (how's that for a throwback?) by the eucalyptus trees adjacent to the field. Oblivious to our presence, they looked furtively toward the football game and for what seemed an eternity, their afros merged into one. I couldn’t take my eyes away from dark dimples. Much shorter than Berhanu, pretty little thing stood on her toes to meet Berhanu’s hungry mouth. Egzyo!
I’m not sure when Berhanu started looking in our direction. His light-skinned face had now replaced the afro and his surprised look was turning into that of rage. He let go of his tiny squeeze and started in our direction. Behind him, dimples galore sent angry looks in our direction clearly pissed-off at the kiskessa interuptus. Let me take a brief moment during Berhanu’s walk in our direction to tell you about the brother’s football game.
It was breathtaking. I have never seen a player with as much ball control. He had this signature move: ball in possession, he would run straight toward defenders and naturally, several players would converge upon him. In the process, he would feign a direct strike in the direction of the goal but more often than not retained the ball. This allowed him to split defenders during their momentary confusion to penetrate the strike zone. Every now and then to make sure his feigned strikes received appropriate respect, Berhanu kicked the ball with all his might and the occasional non-believing defender who interposed his body between the strike and the goal would be seen doubling over in pain.
He played with demonic passion—a lefty, he was a wicked dribbler who believed in passing balls only when forced to. He had another trick up his sleeve—running. Berhanu ran as if diabilos himself was behind him. Whether attacking or defending, he ran full speed, red eyes peeled open, teeth bare and gnashing. I have witnessed kids who’ve let go of a ball at the mere sight of Berhanu’s violent dash in their direction.
Rather small for a ten-year-old, I loved football. But my buddy Taglo was a zealot. He loved football so much I’ve never seen him without his green tutas and mekeregna taketas. He came from a family of somewhat modest means—his father had one ferenj cow he milked to death and sold every drop that came from her udders. So his pops had Taglo’s taketas custom made at the local shoemaker. The upper section was a decent imitation of the real thing complete with three lines to imitate Adidas’s. The bottom was another story. Just think of a complete mess replete with rubber and leather pieces nailed together. Some of it came off when he played.
Back to Berhanu and lovely dimples. He was now dragging me and Taglo by our ears.
“Cigarettes! At your ages! I’m telling your mothers!” Berhanu was clearly pissed at the voyeurism rather than the half-smoked Nyala that lay smoldering at our feet.
We did what any reasonable ten-year-olds would do when faced with such a situation. We begged for mercy. But Berhanu dragged our whimpering faces through the field ignoring the shouts of players in the middle of a game. We were being mercilessly dragged to the slaughter houses our homes would soon become.
When begging didn’t work we threatened our assailant. “We will tell everyone you were kissing Gelila. We saw what you were doing with your tongues!” Berhanu simply kicked the ear-twisting a couple of notches. We returned to our whimpers, this time standing close to him to prevent our ears from being yanked out of their sockets.
Our own Ronaldo hand-delivered my ear to my mother and her plump fingers replaced his on my earlobe. Then she punched me. I pretended to faint and the ordeal was over for me. Taglo wasn’t so lucky. He limped for at least a week. He didn’t say what his father did to him but it looked like he was kicked in the balls.
And that pretty much ended our smoking days.
Ah, the field!
Everyday, around 5 pm, dozens of neighborhood kids met at the field. Surrounded by tall eucalyptus trees that withstood decades of bark-stripping, the field hosted all sorts of pickup and kebele-organized football events. Every now and then, the gigantic eucalyptus trees decided to drop a large rotten branch, providing firewood for the lucky family. But it was a quiet, serene place that brought the young, old, poor, not-so-poor, and well-off children together. At the field and beneath its surrounding trees, unforgettable football games were played, jokes were thrown, stories recounted, lies retold, cigarettes smoked, and yes, lips joined and hearts broken.
Seeing the building where the field once stood was a sad event for me. It actually infuriated me. Perhaps fresh in my mind was a conversation I had with a dutchman not too long ago. I was shocked to hear the weary traveler saying that Addis is an ugly city. “Where are your parks? Where are your fields? Where are public gardens? Where do the children play?” he rattled off leaving me with a blank stare.
Only the toothless and knowing smile of an ancient woman put it all in perspective. Life goes on and good times cannot be recaptured. But thank your maker for having them in the first place.
Andrew Heavens posted a piece today featuring David duChemin's photography. The above photo is one of 27 the travel photographer took in Ethiopia. We wish him luck in his transitions and thank him for the enduring images and his compassionate account of both Ethiopia and Haiti.
