A short story
Kaldis, the shepherd boy, was the grandson of the great herbalist and muezzin, Abbas Nuru. In his younger years, Abbas climbed the minaret ladder five times a day to call the believers to prayer. Judging by his skin texture, people often said Abbas resembled the legendary first muazzin, Bilal ibn Rabah, who lived in Mecca, the heartland of Islam. The Holy Prophet (peace be upon him) had asked Bilal to climb to the roof of the Holy Kaaba and give the call to Azaan from its top. From then on, Bilal became a symbol of the human equality for which Islam is renowned.
Abbas also told young Kaldis the story of the migration of Muslims from Saudi Arabia to Ethiopia, and then called Abyssinia. This story grew with Kaldis and remained vivid in his mind. He remembered it every time he saw his grandfather, who now walked with a stick whenever he ventured far from home to attend Friday prayers, weddings, or funerals.
Eventually, Abbas became a herbalist, fulfilling his lifelong passion and dream. He waited until a local cleric lifted his vow never to disclose the healing secrets of plants his father had taught him. It was agreed that faith did not prohibit the use of plants to cure various ailments.
Upon receiving permission from the local religious authorities, Abbas seemed rejuvenated. He eagerly embarked on his first trip in search of a plant that could combat the plague of forgetfulness, which had robbed many elders of their memories of the past and their village.
“We cannot afford to forget our history!” the elderly Abbas shouted, determined to identify the plant that could restore memory to those who had begun to spend their days in a catatonic state, robbed of the ability to think and speak.
“When people stop remembering, there is no reason to live and less to serve Allah!” he added, moving through the bushes and forests with his stick, using it to rummage through the plants until he identified the herb that could serve as a powerful antidote to the epidemic of forgetfulness affecting the centenarian villagers.
Before evening prayer, Abbas returned to the village, laden with plants, shrubs, tree trunks, and grass-like growths he carried in his long robe. He called for Kaldis to bring him a mat on which he could unload his bounty.
“I am coming!” Kaldis shouted, leading the goats to their shed before night enveloped the village.
Abbas paused to observe the goats running around the compound, seemingly enjoying the moon emerging from behind thin clouds.
“What happened to the goats?” Abbas asked, his voice raspy.
“I don’t know!” the little shepherd replied. “They’ve been acting like this all day!”
“Running around all day?” Abbas inquired.
“Yes, Grandpa!”
“In the name of Allah! What did you feed them?”
“Nothing!” Kaldis said. “I gave them the same grass and shrubs I always do!”
“There must be some opium in the field!” the old man exclaimed. “Otherwise, these animals wouldn’t have the energy to jump up and down like children who have feasted on holiday meals!”
Kaldis spent a few moments observing the goats and recalled that they had been behaving like this for much of the day. Curious, he brought the mat for Abbas, who poured out the plants he had gathered with such effort.
Afterward, Kaldis led the goats to their small pen. Long after he left, he could still see them hopping as if under the influence of some mysterious plant they might have eaten while he napped beneath a tree.
“What happened to these animals?” Kaldis wondered as he prayed with his grandfather and lay down for the night. He then asked the old man what opium was, his inquisitive mind recalling the day’s events.
The forest-covered hills loomed large in the distance, shrouded in fog that made them appear like half-naked, motionless giants tossed from the sky by an invisible hand. At the foot of the hills lay a thick carpet of greenery, which stopped at one side of the small village before continuing on the other.
The century and the years were unknown, as the art of registering memories had yet to be invented.
Soon, night fell, casting dark clouds that gradually engulfed the area from the hills to the village, where sparsely built huts provided shelter after long days of wandering in search of food and firewood.
Kaldis tossed and turned on the mat laid on the ground, images of goats running helter-skelter gripping his mind. He could not understand why the animals had behaved so unusually in the green field, where various plants provided their food. It remained unclear where they had found the energy to scamper about.
His thoughts jumped from the goats to the field and back again, creating a restless cycle. He hesitated to tell his mother about his experience, fearing he might become the subject of laughter among the adults or ridicule from the other children, who might dismiss his tale as mere fantasy, like the ghosts that supposedly haunted the dark.
Would he tell his mother about the dancing goats, or would he wait to see them again to ensure he wasn’t dreaming? The line between dream and reality blurred, as he had never seen goats leap and frolic after grazing on the same herbs he had tended to throughout his childhood. They were like friends, yet they could not explain why they were dancing and running as if they had consumed something magical.
His mind was restless, and his dreams were haunted by the same goats. “If only I could know why the goats are so happy after grazing on that herb… maybe I will try to taste it myself tomorrow and then bring it home so that the grown-ups can taste it… maybe we will jump up and down like the goats! Who knows?”
Sleep eventually overtook him, and in his dream, he saw a large cauldron over a fire, boiling herbs that produced brown syrup. Villagers gathered around the fire, eager to taste the syrup, hoping to jump like the goats.
BY MULUGETA GUDETA
THE ETHIOPIAN HERALD SUNDAY EDITION 15 JUNE 2025
