My Grandma had a father,
Who was also a foresighted teacher;
Who thought a women’s place
Is not in the kitchen
Nor to wash a thousand times
The constituents of a chicken,
As a result, he taught her under a tree
The same lessons he instructed boys for free,
She entrusted every bit
Of what she was taught to her memory
The miracles of the Saints
Including the Praise dedicated to St. Mary,
Recited them daily, digit by digit,
From four to six in the morning,
But never used her hand for writing
Or her fingers for the purpose of etching.
Yet, she was grand as all grandmas turn out to be,
Giving, in addition to blessings and bread,
Pure and nourishing milk,
Like the generous cow she raised,
And cared for and the only
One she owned.
Whatever her legacy.
All I remember her by
Was the chicken-soup she made
Without pepper for me as a child
Ready for a perilous trip ahead.
The Ethiopian Herald Sunday Edition 26 January 2020
BY BERHANU TIBEBU ZEWOLDE
