Carpe Diem Ethiopia

I dedicate this piece to one of the greatest Ethiopians that ever lived, Belatengeta Tsegaye Gebre-Medhin . Farewell, hero. 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 ...

Months ago, I asked an extremely erudite Ethio pian friend why he doesn’t start a blog. Gifted and wise be yond his years, out of H’s mouth pours brilliance I wish I could borrow for a fortnight, to at least offer a solution to the quandary Ethiopia has become. H considered my question carefully through his thousand mile stare I thought had dissipated unanswered and only brooded over through the thick cigarette smoke that hung suspended at our favorite Ethiopian restaurant, but thankfully returned in typical quizzical look, yet shrouded in usual crypt. He asked, “how can I recall my bullets once I fire them?” Conversations with H often take on a Socratic repartee where answers are buried deep in parables. His reasoning struck a nerve and I took a mouthful of the pale ale in front me; the Yeungling went down in nervous gulps. I gave it my best shot: “I guess you don’t want to write things you will regret?” He slowly nodded, leaving us both to our thoughts and ...