TRASNALTED FROM AMHARIC BY MULUGETA GUDETA
In his relatively short literary career, Bealu Girma has written many remarkable novels but only one short story whose title is “yemejemriyaw mecheresha” (The Beginning of the End). With this short story, Bealu has demonstrated that he was also an astute narrator with a modernist touch. This translator has changed the title to “Confessions of a Writer’s Friend” because the story reflects the life of the average writer and his relationship with his friend who is trying to understand the bizarre mannerisms or lifestyle of the major character. It is obviously an enjoyable story that sheds light to the inner world of a writer whose life alternates between pain and pleasure as he struggles with his dream of creating beauty and discovering truth.
The setting of the story is post-revolution period under the Derg regime and it reflects the mental torments a writer endures during those tumultuous times. As matter of bitter irony the revolution was also the one who claimed Bealu’s life whose death still remains a mystery. They said Revolution devours its own children.
I am not a coward; usually. I am very scared now, however. It is a long time since I have started to worry about Sentayehu. As usual, it is 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. Starting from 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 must be special creatures one must keep at arm’s length. I am telling the truth. One writer is enough as 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 is broke, he is like a church rat. He does not save anything for tomorrow. Everything he is doing he does it 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 feeling on to 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 or 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 talk to it. If there is a god of beauty at all, I am having 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 writing. I too do not bother him. I may not understand the beauty, anxiety and happiness of creativity. “Why all this distress?” I say in my heart and wait him until the magic that possessed him passes. If the magic persists, I 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 being is a dead writer. Don’t you thinks so? Let us forget this now and let’s go out to have some 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 drank 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 said.
I told him there is a great revolution under way. We see the old system dying and the new one sprouting. The entire community is in a 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.
The story does not end here. The ending is however as captivating as the beginning as the writer reconciles with himself and rediscovers his inspiration. It is a story with happy ending as one can see from the dialogue between Sentayehu the writer and his friend who is the first person narrator.
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…
THE ETHIOPIAN HERALD JULY 25/2021
