A Journey with The Ethiopian Herald, the Love of a Lifetime

part I

I clearly remember that fortunate day when I tiptoed into one of the offices of the Ethiopian Herald, which was then located on the seventh floor of the Berhanena Selam Printing Press, the behemoth of its time. That imposing building seemed to dance to the tune of the huge printing machinery that ground paper and ink on the fourth floor, spitting them out in the form of books, magazines, and newspapers.

The memory of the first day I set foot in that building is still stamped in my mind. The first question I asked was where the office of the Ethiopian Herald was located. I still vividly see in my imagination my first day in that imposing building as if it were a dream I had just last night.

I remember the fresh smell of ink and paper that welcomed me as soon as I entered. I decided to walk up to the seventh floor; I didn’t think about taking the lift. I was full of vigor, enthusiasm, and great expectations, and it was fun for me to walk up to the seventh floor. Along the way, I heard the printing machines humming, as if they were welcoming me to the place where destiny had brought me.

I reached the seventh floor in no time and walked into a corridor where I saw an office with an open door. I was the uninvited guest who had the courage to inquire, “Is this The Ethiopian Herald?” A man sitting hunched over his desk lifted his head at the sound of my voice. He stared at me and inquired, “What did you say? Oh! The Herald? Well, go to the other corridor on your left… and ask someone. They will show you!” I understood that it was my first misstep.

I walked through the corridor and reached another widely opened door leading to another long corridor. A beautiful young lady was sitting in one corner. “What are you looking for?” she asked me with a flashing smile that exposed her white teeth. “Yes, the Herald!” I said, a little embarrassed by her looks. “Knock at one of the doors,” she pointed with her finger.

I knocked at a closed door and heard a raucous voice inviting me in, “Come in, please!” I found myself facing a foreigner, an Indian-looking man. He had long, graying hair, a fading suit, and a red cravat, holding his cigarette between his fingers. He shook my hand and muttered, “My name is Mister Eswaran, from Bombay, India!” He invited me to sit on one of the sofas in his office and asked me in English, “What can I help you, young man?” He then stretched his hand, holding a cigarette pack, and said, “Do you smoke?”

“Thank you, sir!” I said with a smile, taking the cigarette. I lit it and took a few puffs. I instantly gathered the courage to face the man who had an intimidating air about him. Being young and smoking cigarettes was fun at that time. I discovered smoking at Cinema Ethiopia while watching John Wayne in a movie called “The Alamo,” where he was killing many Red Indians.

“So, young man… I guess you’re looking for a job. Am I right?”

“That’s right!” I answered.

“Are you a new graduate? Please tell me about yourself!”

“I’ve just finished writing my graduation thesis. Um… I would like to do some finger exercises until I’m given a permanent job!”

“What did you study, by the way?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and squinting his eyes to avoid the cigarette smoke. I told him that I studied Political Science, adding that I had a natural inclination to writing.

“Good!” my Indian host said enthusiastically. “Can you write a newspaper article?”

“I guess I can!” I said, enthused by his suggestion. “To tell you the truth, I’ve always wanted to be a writer!”

“That’s good!” the Indian said, adding, “I’m a senior editor, and this is The Ethiopian Herald! I hope you know something about it!” There was a tone of pride in his voice. My heart was pumping hard in my chest, and with the back of my hand, I wiped the thin sweat that appeared on my forehead.

“Let me give you an assignment for tomorrow! Can you take it?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Tomorrow… um… you’ll bring a freshly written article on any subject you like… um… we’ll see whether your work can be published or not. If successful, we’ll pay you 40 Birr per article. You can go now, my friend! See you tomorrow!”

I can’t tell you how happy I was. “40 Birr per article!” What if I could write two articles? That was a fortune for someone like me who had never worked for money. I left the office without ceremony, my mind already flying to the Kennedy Library, where I was going to research my article immediately.

As a student of politics, I found the Iraq- Iran war, which had started in 1980 and was in its second or third year, a very topical subject to write about. I spent the afternoon writing the article and returned the next day, got it typed by one of the secretaries at The Herald, and took the finished product to Mr. Eswaran, who started to read it immediately.

It took him less than half an hour to read it, edit it, and tell me the verdict.

“That’s good!” he said with a thin smile on his lips and the ubiquitous cigarette stuck between his lips. “It will be published tomorrow!” He offered me a cigarette, maybe as a gift for my breakthrough. I felt dizzy. I was not ill; it was my first test as a journalist, and I had passed it with flying colors.

No training, no second thought, no “come tomorrow!” It was an overnight success. It was dizzying, and it felt magical. Mr. Eswaran took me to the office of the editor-in-chief, Kiflom Adgoi to whom he introduced me as “a promising young writer!” Kiflom welcomed me with a broad smile and ordered coffee for the three of us. The next day, when I returned to pick up a copy of The Herald that carried my article, Kiflom told me to write more, adding, “I see maturity in your analysis!” It was an unexpected congratulation. I was on cloud nine.

I forgot about the payment and almost ran down the stairs, drunk with joy. That was my first moment of epiphany, and I was impatient to see my article published in The Ethiopian Herald.

BY MULUGETA GUDETA

THE ETHIOPIAN HERALD THURSDAY 3 JULY 2025

 

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