I am not a coward usually. I am terrified now, however. It has been a long time since I started worrying about Sentayehu. As usual, it has been a long time since he has disappeared. It is more than three months. The last evening, I saw him; he did not resemble the man I knew before. He was not the laughing, playful, and generous Sentayehu I knew of old. He is very much amusing. “What is life after all without laughter?” He liked to say very often. That was why he was always laughing and making people laugh at the same time. When he has no more joke to tell, he asks me,
“Do you remember that joke?”
“Which one?”
“The third!”
We start laughing, remembering the third joke. We have given numbers to all the jokes we know. I sometimes find it difficult to remember a joke by its number. He never forgets anything. He has an impressive memory. He does not take notes. Since his school days, I have never seen him taking notes. Whenever one asked him about a particular event that happened on a particular day, he explained everything in detail. He has a mind that can copy everything, like a camera. Maybe this is why he is a writer, although I don’t know what makes someone a writer.
As a matter of chance, there is no other writer I know closely except Sentayehu Kalehiwot. However, if all of them are like Sentayehu, they are species one must keep at arm’s length. I am telling the truth. One writer is enough of a friend. And that at a high cost.
Poor Sentayehu! He is pushing things to the extreme. He drinks like a fish, loves like a dog in the cold season, gives away like a king, and when he is broke, he is like a rat in a church. He does not save anything for tomorrow. Everything he is doing, he does in excess. He wants others to laugh with him whenever he laughs and cry with him whenever he cries. “How can you know about life unless you live it?” He was often saying. There seems to be nothing he considers to be sinful. He says that one cannot live without sin, that there is nothing beyond sin, and that life is an end in itself. And he lives his life.
He also goes to the extreme when he starts writing. He does not lift up his head before pouring out his feelings onto the paper with beauty. He was fighting and quarreling with each word and phrase. He was falling in love with it when he is at peace, without taking food, drink, or rest. He does not talk to people and cannot have any other pleasure. He is under the spell of creativity. He completely surrenders himself to art and beauty. When I look at him sometimes, I have the impression that he is worshipping some invisible force or talking to it. If there is a god of beauty at all, I am seeing a glimpse of it on Sentayehu’s handsome face.
His handsome face sometimes brightens just like that, without any apparent reason. It becomes pure and lively. He becomes prolific. He looks breathless whenever he succeeds at doing something. “Has his heart stopped beating?” I sometimes wonder. Maybe beauty stops the heart from beating! Before the god of beauty, he looks young, a handsome young man. He completely forgets that I am near him. Once he starts writing, he does not care about anything outside of writing. I, too, do not bother him. I may not understand the beauty, anxiety, and happiness of creativity. “Why all this distress?” I say this in my heart and wait for him until the magic that possessed him passes. If the magic persists, I will leave him and go away.
Sometimes he lifts up his head, breathes in satisfaction, and asks me, “Are you around?”
“Yes, how is it?”
“It is beautiful. What time is it?” He says and rubbing his hands together he adds, “It was superb. Let us go out and celebrate this day. Long live gin with tonic… You know, today I have learned one important point about the nature of Man.” He says to me every time he learns something about a human being.
“What is that?”
“Someone who admires beauty is not such a bad man at hear. He can’t be. Don’t you think so?”
“Is that so?”
“Anyway, this is something I’ve learned from a character today. You learn from the characters you create. A writer who does not learn from the characters he is creating or does not write something new about human beings is a dead writer. Don’t you think so? Let us forget this now and let’s go out to have a drink. I’m in love with life. I would like to drink for the beauty of life.”
I don’t understand why he wants to get drunk on gin tonic. He is always delighted with life. He does not drink when he is only happy. He also drinks when beauty refuses to reveal itself to him. He looks to me suddenly old the day he is not dealing with beauty. His charm disappears from his face. his teeth are protruding. His forehead is furrowed. His life seems to be exploding as if caught up within himself. And he drinks. He drinks a lot when he finishes writing a book and conceives another idea. Then he becomes very silent. His silence is endless. At this time, he does not laugh even if you tickled him. He becomes pensive. His silence is impressive. It is captivating. It is moving. I have the sensation that I am feeling a marvelous idea pulsating in his mind. I read on his bright face something that seems to say, “What’s the dilemma? The beauty of life is in its living” And I want him to think and write always.
I do not try to talk to him. We spend many days and evenings without exchanging even a single word. I know him. He knows me. It is enough for us to keep quiet. We don’t have to talk to each other necessarily. So long as we are together, we take delight in our silence. In truth, I feel that there are many things we agree upon in our silence. Neither he nor I make a particular effort to please one another. We are friends at heart. That’s all.
I am more than a friend to him. I mean that he has already told me that I am more than a friend to him. He is writing for my sake. He keeps me sitting in front of him whenever he writes. He does not know any observer, witness or critic other than me. “Am I going to satisfy Hilina with what I am going to write?” This is his first question. By the way my name is Hilina. Let Hilina judge me. If he thinks what he is writing will not appeal to me he, does not continue with his effort. He kills it immediately. I don’t know how many good ideas he has killed because of me. I am sure they are many. I feel burdened by his responsibility. I say to him, “Who am I? Don’t worry about me and think about the other observers when you write. Leave me alone.” How much a curse I am to him or how much he hates me, he does not leave me.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m exhausted”
“Don’t kid!”
“I’m not kidding. There is nothing new I can say which is not already said by others before me. When you write and read more, and if you are smart, you realize that it is preferable to keep quiet. I tell you the truth. It is better to keep quiet than become an echo. Sinking in the depth of one’s silence is a beauty in itself.” He said to me.
“Why do you say that after writing only three works of fiction? I was expecting much more from you!” I told him.
“What if I can’t write more than three books? Nobody exceeds his limits. Some people stop after writing one book. Others stop after three books like me. More fortunate ones go beyond ten, fifteen or more. It is good as far as they can say or create something new. I am sorry for the foolish ones who want to go on without having anything new to say. What it the use of it? Those who have realized in time that they cannot contribute anything new and have chosen to keep silent are the smart ones. I too am smart unless you call me a braggart.’ He said to me and fell silent. I decided in my heart not to let him get away with this and shouted, “In truth, you are a kid!”
“How is it? Tell it to me!” He spoke.
I told him there is a great revolution underway. We see the old system dying and the new one sprouting. The entire community is in ferment. Each day is new. It is not an ordinary day that comes on the heels of the night as it was usual. I don’t think so. I on my part do not remember a day that I have found boring or long during the last eight years. Each day has its merit. It has its victory, defeat and beauty.
In this country, there is no new day that looks like the previous one. What richer gold mine can there be for writers than this? Go and write! Sing if you want. Cry if you prefer. Everyone has to struggle in his own chosen way. There is no life devoid of struggle. Struggle should start with oneself. The great human challenge is to struggle with oneself.
Go and write! Words have not become gravel or stone. Beauty is not dead and embalmed. There is plenty of new beauty, new truth, and new hope in every street, factory or farm. Go and write! An author who refrains from writing at this moment… I don’t know… I told him. I nagged him.
“I am telling you that I’m finished. Can’t you hear me? The god of beauty has turned his face away- That’s all!”
“I don’t believe you. Do you have any other reason?”
“What other reason can I have?”
“Maybe you hate the revolution. You creative people are temperamental…”
“You know that I trust the revolution and that I love humanity”
“What then is going on?”
“Why don’t you understand me when I tell you that I am depleted?”
“I don’t understand!” I said and I stood to go after knocking with my foot the glasses of liquor in front of us.
He looks as if he could not believe his eyes. He once looks at the spilled gin and once at me. He has never seen me in such a state.
“What has happened to you today?” He said to me.
“What has happened to me?”
“I am the same old Hilina”
It was obvious from his face that he was confused.
“Why do you spill the good gin man?” He said to me to make me forget the incident. “Enough is enough! I am no more your nurse. If you like you can drown yourself in a barrel filled with gin. I don’t know how you have suddenly become so coward. I thought you were courageous. Go to hell!” I said to him bitterly.
“Where are you going?”
“Go and look for another friend who drinks gin!”
“There is something you don’t understand…”
“Yes. Don’t run away from the truth!” I told him before leaving.
This happened a long time ago. Maybe he wanted me to suffer forever when he disappeared. After all I am his sole reader! He wanted me to suffer. I sent him to his death. What happens to a dead person? He is at peace. Let the living worry. Pity that I talked to him. My sin is too heavy. Tears came to my eyes, unaware. I feel angry on the other hand. Did he do that knowingly so that I can forget him forever? Who wants to go into oblivion even after death? A writer in particular! Let it be so. Why did he abandon me after attracting me to him? The devil!
I suddenly heard a knock on the door.
“Who is there? Come in!” I said.
It was Sentayehu. He looks like a healthy and handsome youth.
“Where have you been?”
“I have been through a long ablution…”
“I have been worrying badly. What have I done to you?”
“Do you also worry about people?”
“What do you mean; do you think I have a heart as hard as a stone?”
“I didn’t think you ever cared about people…”
“All those years we have been together…were you having the same opinion about me? It’s amazing. Why? Why do you say that?”
I did not say anything.
“But now you have changed.” he said to me.
“How is that? Tell me!” I said to him.
“Now you have a feeling. Before, I thought you were looking at everything coldly and from a distance. I see that you care now! I did not know that you have a feeling. I did not think the reader cared. Thank you anyway…”
“For what?”
“I have come to terms with the god of beauty…”
“Have you started to work on a new book?”
“I will tell you about it later on. I’m inspired by a beautiful idea. Let us go out now and celebrate the evening.” He said to me.
I did not lose much time. I was in a hurry to hear about his new book. We went out. A moon as white as milk is prevailing over darkness.
“Isn’t the moon impressive this evening?” I asked him.
“She is impressive indeed. She is beautiful. The world is smiling with her. Look at the stars. Look at the sky and at me!” he said.
I looked at everything, including him.
“It is good to be alive. It’s beautiful.” I said to him.
“To live and write—yes, it’s beautiful. By the way, I am not a coward.” He said to me, he was all teeth.
TRANSLATION BY MULUGETA GUDETA
THE ETHIOPIAN HERALD SUNDAY EDITION 25 AUGUST 2024
