BY HENOK TIBEBU
(part 1)
The bright sun on the clear blue sky was shining on the majestic Addis Ababa having a cool weather that day. It was September first of 2014 E.C, a special occasion when Ethiopians welcome their new year. The departing year 2013 E.C. had passed horrifyingly as the nation went through several difficulties mainly due to the war between the TPLF and the government defense forces. Though the war was still going on, the New Year was being celebrated in most parts of the country.
It was unwisely the protagonist quitted his relatively high-paying job for a reason that never holds water. As such he didn’t feel like celebrating anything. He is a self-declared author. He had got published some few short stories on a magazine for which he was working for the past five years as a journalist. Some few short stories and he would quit his highly-paying job claiming that he has to become a full time author or writer without considering that he needs an income for survival.
He couldn’t even afford money for his small narrow room that stretches only one mattress on the floor. There is no extra space at all except from the door that opens to the outside to the mattress. For bare necessities he is leaning on the support of his good friends. But he still doesn’t try to get a job. The place where he rented his small room is a squalid village near the big bridge on a highway. Polluted dark water flows under the bridge. It creates a stench in the nostrils. No treatment seems to cure the murky water. Residents near the river dump their liquid and dry waste in it.
There in the slam are found several households that support their livelihood by selling Arake, a strong Ethiopian traditional ale to alcoholic youngsters whose lives are ruined by different addictions but mainly the Arake. He thinks he could find a story to write based on the alcoholic lives of these reckless young men and women who dropped out from school and left their families to spend their whole days and nights tipsy.
They nicked name the drink sipirri which has no possible meaning. The young author’s room shares a wooden wall with the small room which his landlady sells sipirri in. Most of the morning times he would recline on his mattress and listen to the conversation of the alcoholic young men and women who wouldn’t not be careless about celebrating holidays, a new year or success.
But they celebrate birthdays of one another with candlelight and bread. Most of the time, their food security proves gate crushing. Crushing ceremonies, be it holy or cultural (traditional) by showing up in somebody’s house without invitations. They don’t only eat and drink in that residence as informal or uninvited guests but also provoke the pity of hosts to take away foods and drinks for their friends waiting in the sipirri houses.
The author has been quite and observant most of the times. Nights that he spends with them, they call him the cool dude and even leave their seats for him when he arrives. Sometimes they say “Janis accompany is here” and give him a space on the wooden benches. Jani is one of the barflies around the slam and his best friend. He would sit and listen. As an author, he has to observe in silence.
“Happy new year everyone!” said Masho one of the young female alcoholics. There were about three young alcoholic men inside that sipirri house, which is separated by a wooden wall from the author’s hell hole. “Happy new year to you too Masho” replied those people.
The author woke up when he heard her loud scratchy voice. He hates her voice. Her voice is so scratchy that she sounds like a coffee boiler when the coffee is ready. It disturbs him whether she speaks lower or louder. Though she hasn’t done anything wrong on him he doesn’t like her at all. She is always against every alcoholic person when she is drunk, except him. She doesn’t fear him; for a matter fact she doesn’t fear anybody.
But she respects him even when she is dead drunk. She always says his name with obeisance while greeting him. “Hi Dani how are you?” she would say. His name is Daniel. “I am good. How are you?” he wouldn’t say her name. Yet he couldn’t understand why he doesn’t like her.
He would hear the young men talking peacefully as they drink sipirri for half an hour. He is still lying on his bed. He wonders “how could they be strong enough to start drinking this hard liquor in such early morning and keep on drinking the whole day?”
Suddenly Masho started screaming with that scratchy voice of hers. “Who are you to tell me to be quiet?” she screamed. “Woman I am not talking to you! Why do you always want to grab people’s attention?” this was Fapplaw. He is one of the young winos who left home and his family for the sake of sipirri. But he compromises the situation he is in claiming he has become alcoholic after the death of his mother. He is a light skinned, short and skinny young man. His head has started turning bold as he is losing his hair from the front side. He loves biting his nails so much that the back tips of his fingers have lost their nails halfway from where they are supposed to grow. He does not let them grow even half an inch that his fingers have made his hands look like the hands of a handicap.
“Who would want your attention?” she raised her voice again and then lowering it…“to tell me to be quiet and stuff……” she started murmuring like a stubborn house servant. Then Fapplaw said “hey woman shall I smack you once and wake you up!” and laughed with the others except Masho. Masho didn’t respond directly. She went on murmuring. “…… telling me to be quiet and stuff.Who does he think he is, the sheriff of this sipirri house? hahaha…”
This time Daniel the author has already made his ears wide open and alert in case he could hear something interesting for his fiction which he didn’t start writing yet. This time Fapplaw is gossiping about one member of their sipirri society.
“Awtaru was not deported from Saudi Arabia. It was rather from England…….” He said and went on “you see Awtaru is a very talented guy! His sister used to live in London when he was leading a life of sippirri and sleeping on the street. It was a hard life he was leading inured to dirt and all his body was bugging.
One day his sister came from London and started looking for him. She found him sleeping drunk and dirty on a street. She told him that she came to take him and has already processed his Visa for England. “I will move to London but under one condition!” he said to his sister. “What is it?” his sister asked him.
“I won’t leave my bugs behind. They have to go with me!” As his sister got so confused and embarrassed she would ask him “why is that?”
“They are the source of my talent!” said Awtaru.
“I don’t understand”
“You will”
Then his sister just asked him to wash up just to be at least semi presentable. He agreed and took shower and washed his dirty clothes but he made sure he still has bugs on them as many as he needs for his talent show. He moved to London with his bugs. Two months later he got registered for an audition on Britain got talent.
“The first day he got on the stage, Simon would ask him “what is your name young man?”
“Awtaru”
“Where are you from Awtaru?”
“I am from Ethiopia”
“What does Awtaru mean?”
“I don’t know”
“You don’t know the meaning of your name! Laughs. Anyways why did you choose Britain got talent?”
Guess what that dummy friend of mine said? “Fapplaw paused for a moment. His friend asked “what?” Masho is still murmuring. Tell me to be quiet and stuff…….”
Fapplaw went on telling the story. He said it was because there is no Britain’s got talent in Ethiopia!” The audience laughed thinking a comedian came from Ethiopia.”
“What is your talent Awtaru?” asked imon.
“Making beat that you have never heard in your life!” said Awtaru with full confidence. “I told you that guy is very talented then let’s hear it.” The stage is yours said Simon. That time Awtaru would start picking the bugs from his neck gray hair quickly and squashing them with both his thumb nails and make a wonderful beat that goes like “ttew…tta…ttuhs…tteesh.. …….” Then comes a big applause from the audience and the judges including Simon. Suddenly Simon would see the blood on both his thumb nails and was shocked. He has to ask Awtaru.
Awtaru you are bleeding?” We have never seen a man who sacrificed this much for the sake of art. Don’t you feel any pain?” “Not at all” answered Awtaru. The audience and the judges were so amazed that they gave him another round of warm applause. Then Simon asked “how is that possible?” this time my dummy friend instead of fibbing would say “it is possible because this is not my blood. It is rather my bug’s I made the beat by squashing my bugs.”
Right at that moment the beautiful black judge………what was her name? ……whatever… started throwing up. The whole audience followed suite. It was Simon who didn’t throw up. That guy is conservative. You know how conservatives are. He would ask Awtaru “how could you commit such genocide on innocent bug’s Awtaru?”
“It is easy. These bugs have been sucking my blood for years and they are never grateful. They always suck my blood and keep me restless like extremists round the world did to their poor people. You can’t understand that because you are a man of art. You don’t have to feel sorry or be humanitarian about the bugs.
“Let me just tell you one thing some governments do not feel sorry when they sell mass destructive weapons for Africans to see Africans spilling each other’s blood in civil wars that they never want to go through,” said, Awtaru without fear.
I told you that dummy was a philosopher too. Finally both Awtaru and his sister were deported because of those words. Meanwhile a rumor has it some have promised to support Awtaru with his talent.
(to be continued)
THE ETHIOPIAN HERALD THURSDAY 10 NOVEMBER 2022
