He is a victim of a hit and run and by the looks of things, his days seem numbered. On my left is my own eighty year-old beloved uncle with a broken pelvic bone and a sandbag strapped to his right foot weighing it down to keep him from moving it. He was hit by a taxi driver and abandoned before he could receive medical attention. In a bed next to him rests another man who was also in a car accident.

I enjoy driving most days. But these days in Addis the few times that I drive, I do so in paranoia and travel as a passenger with unease. Impatience and aggressiveness on the roads has long been a trademark of the city but nowadays either I have become slow or there seems to be a “crazy” spreading around to get “there” faster.

A month ago I witnessed a man run for his life leaving behind him someone’s loved one laying on the road surrounded by a swarm of people screaming. A few weeks back someone I know was in an accident, instantly killing his loved one who sat next to him in the passenger seat. Days ago I heard of a young girl punished with a 15 year imprisonment for running over and killing someone’s loved one as he crossed the pedestrian walk. And today a friend of mine tells me her co-worker lost her father – her loved one – to a traffic accident.

According to the Department of Forensic Pathology at Menelik II Hospital, from the 200 autopsies conducted in 2006, 80% of injury related deaths are due to automobile related accidents. That is a staggering figure. Even more staggering is that Ethiopia has the highest per capita rate of car fatalities in the world with 190 deaths per 10,000 vehicles. With a vehicle population of around 250,000 and about 60% of those concentrated in Addis Ababa, reckless driving, dismissal of pedestrian rights at crossings, inattentiveness of pedestrians themselves and drunk driving claim the lives of loved ones of many.

Although the new “Road Traffic Safety Regulations” of the Addis Ababa City Government which came into effect towards the end of 2009 introduce commonsense rules for drivers to abide by, the deeper impact is yet to be felt. Furthermore, I wonder if Article 538 of the EFDRE criminal code which states“Whoever causes the death of a human being intentionally or by negligence, no matter what the weapon or means used, commits homicide” and talk of vehicular homicide criminal charges, has turned would-be-assistance-givers into hit-and-runners. After all, how can we expect someone who may face imprisonment to remain and identify himself/herself, right?

The bottom line is that those regulations exist for our own safety. Not because some traffic police wishes we squirm in our seats strapped behind a seat belt or that we miss that “very” important call that we are not patient enough to pull aside and attend to. But we can only feel the positive effect of these regulations only when we allow them to translate into our daily habits. I myself have in the past been guilty of mild intoxication, talking and texting on my cell and eating while driving until some very close calls reminded me that I am not immune to contributing towards a traffic fatality and that it can happen to me too. I have many loved ones and I am someone’s loved one.

If we cannot let it sink in that we are all connected, then let us at least accept that we all have someone we love and that loves us. Let us not wait to wake until it hits closer to home!

Spread the word to drive responsibly and compassionately.

Dear Members;
It has come to our attention that some individuals have become an impediment rather than a driving force for the goals we have set out to achieve as part of Operation Team Work. We have had several complaints from fellow members that some people have refused to leave their egos at home when attending our weekly meetings and as a result have been distracted from maintaining a clear focus on the purpose of this operation.

It is most unfortunate that the quality of our project should be hampered by a few insolent and narcissistic individuals who have resorted to diverting the objectives of the project to satisfy their petty hunger for power and control.

Our repeated efforts to deal with such silliness in a compassionate manner have become futile, and as a result we have been forced to enact a few regulations that will prohibit digression from the goals set out in our terms of agreement. Effective next month, access to the project planning meetings will be denied to those members who refuse to part with their egos at the entrance. We understand that such a separation does not come naturally or easily for some and thus true to the value of compassion that we espouse, we are proud to announce the establishment of our on location Ego minding facility.

The daycare will be open for the duration of our meeting time and is equipped with state of the art ego pumping equipment. In addition, we are also pleased to let you know that professional care takers will be available onsite to ensure that your ego is stroked and tickled senseless with the finest awra doro laba. We take pride in our experienced staff and their diverse background, which range from amwaqiwoch, achebchabiwoch, and outright fogariwoch. We realize how important your ego is to you and rest assured that your valuable possession will be in good hands as will be evident by the size of your head after you reunite with your inflated ego.

As Operation Team Work is an important project to us and many others, we hope this brief separation with your prized possession will give you the opportunity to engage your sensibility with matters that actually MATTER!

Sincerely,

The Astedader

Take me to the streets of Bamako
Camel trekking to Timbuktu
Lead me to a silent prayer in Djenné
Barefoot dancing with the Tuareg in Essakane

N’Tesse by Bamada
N’Tesse by Bamada

Strike the balafon
“Anke dje, anke be” – Everyone gather together
Strike the djembe

The griot spins oral tales
He weaves me into a fabric of Malian existence
Hips oscillating to a talking drum
Head flings back, arms raised high, legs flaying back and forth
To a sounou dance – I’m in a trance

Rhythms of nostalgia
Caressing to calm my gooseflesh
Chants of an ancient kingdom
Engulfing me with euphoria
I’m set into vibration
The shaking, the rubbing, the scraping
Being made love to in sweet percussion.

Massakè by Bamada
Massakè by Bamada

Only her Mama witnessed that glazed look spread over her face. Mama saw the clouds cover her eyes as the sun shone on her heart. Mama knew what was happening and she warned

You better be careful now honey…you be careful now.”

But what did Mama know anyhow? She couldn’t wait to prove Mama wrong – she had it wrong all along! This was different. This was special you see.

No brush had ever colored the canvas of her heart like this. No fingers had fiddled the strings of her sensibility quite the same way. The two of them, they had heard unwritten hymns. They spoke in tongues of a two person nation.

They read in nocturnal bliss with the light radiating from their aura. They touched with hands etched with the healing power of an unbreakable bond. No perfumer could capture the natural aroma of two souls enveloped in the promise of an undying love.

In Fall, hope leaves changed colors, dried out and fell one at a time. But Spring came quickly to restore their original vitality. And when it rained, as the old saying goes, it poured!

Winter unleashed its venom in torrential rains that flooded the season’s harvest of trust, respect and security. But Noah of the heart quickly built his ark in time to save the two and float them to dry lands where the heat of the summer ignited fires of passion and forgiveness. And so it went like this in seasons. Every winter they fought off bolts of lightening. When hail the size of fists punched through roofs, they patched up holes and assembled buckets of compromise. When famine hit, they went into their reserve for sustenance until the next harvest season.

But slowly one reserve emptied out faster than the other.

She watched as the luscious grape he was in her eyes slowly spew out its moisture and dry out into a bitter raisin. The pot of gold she had put up on a high pedestal for the purity of its content had fallen from grace until all she could now see him for was just another empty vessel.

She donned the black shawl of death and mourned the loss of the unscathed love in all its virgin glory. The melodies of yesterday had faded now. Yet in her ears, Mama kept on droning, “You better be careful now honey…you be careful now.”

There are those that have touched me in so many ways. Some have left indelible prints on my heart while some but a whisper of a touch on my soul. To those I am grateful. Their essence is that of a baby’s first breath of life — so pure.

There are those that have enriched my life with genuine interactions. The type that have woven poignant memories into my tapestry of loving, of being, of life! By those I am forever hypnotized and held captive in the grasp of authenticity.

There are those whose kindness has mesmerized me and made me question my benevolence. Their compassion and generosity but a glaring ray of sunshine to my candlelit humanity. Their eternal light beckons me to rise above the bed of shadows I lay in comfortably.

There are those that have helped me create new words to measure my displeasure at them. Those that have enabled me to be an accomplished author. Who knew my thesis on ‘How much I hate you,’ would win me accolades?

Those that have encouraged me to discover how many ways I can distort my face in sadness, anger, resentment and bitterness until the mirror laughed back. To those I am forever indebted, for I know their task in life has been to teach me that what goes up must come down – only my ego did not have a parachute.

There are those who have presented themselves in hideous forms. Their presence annoying. Their existence disappointing. Yet they are the everyday reminders that there is still room within me to expand. To grow. To consider their horrible presence as one of a blessing in disguise! That blessing be the chance for me to see, what in them I hate, that I see in me.

And there are those who are at peace. Whose presence extends beyond boundaries of form. Whose essence sprays the scent of humility, of authenticity. Those who have a profound grasp on the formless and immaterial entities. I salute those for they have surpassed the limitations of sorrow and regrets and rejoiced in the depths of awakening. Those that enable me to feel the soft caress of kindness and sweet embrace of love shuddering from an orgasm of spiritual intensity.

That moment was special and worthy of savoring for it was one that did not come too often. It was not only her moment but one that everyone around her celebrated. Everyone that cared for her that is. The atmosphere was light and laughter was in the air. Her friends whispered amongst each other, “this is so rare – isn’t it amazing?”

He held her close and showered her with kisses as they swayed to the music. An abundance in public display of affection. Tonight she was the center of his world. Nothing could tear him away from his woman of five years and the mother of his child. Nothing! Oh yea? Well… nothing…. but a couple of shots of hard liquor and a chick clad in skimpy clothing.

Honey, while I’m at it, I’ll also attempt to hump your best friend on the dance floor and make a pass at women I don’t know while you simmer in your fury. Catch you when the next “moment” hits me again and I sure will throw you a bone then.

And just as it had crept in mysteriously, happiness performed its short number and bid her farewell. Hooraayyy sang anger and disappointment as they frolicked across her face and heart. These two have been permanent tenants for some time now.

All in the name of love she endured. Cheated on. Beaten up. Abandoned penniless with a child. Don’t wear that! Don’t do that! Do this for me. Do that for me. Me Me Meee!!! And when she’s just had about enough, he throws the bone. Let’s get engaged!

“I blame her – she’s the one allowing him to push the boundaries.” “She should know she deserves much better than this,” her friends discuss. “He is not right for you,” his own mother cautions.

But she is a woman whose love knows no boundaries. She endures. For the baby…she says. But he will change…she says. But he is not always like this…she says. But, but, but….
But how do you make a woman understand the toxic state she exists in?

Dedicated to all the women whose love knows no limit.

I was recently volunteering for a non-profit organization that was hosting a Pan African film festival as part of its racial tolerance and cultural promotion endeavors. In a city where a black face is pretty scarce, it’s events like these that draw all of us out from our little holes and bring us together to celebrate our cultural diversity through our unity in experiencing a common bond – that of our African heritage.

One of the videos screened that evening was a slideshow lecture by Dr. Kwaku Person-Lynn on African civilizations. I am not sure how many people are familiar with him, but this was the first I heard of him. The purpose of the film/lecture was to give a different perspective on origins of civilization – an African perspective as opposed to a Eurocentric view of the world that floods many history books.

You can watch part of the video here:

It seems that these days in academia there is a backlash against Eurocentrism. I often come across white folks that make a mockery of Eurocentric ideas and I question myself if it is a genuine thirst for a different perspective on their part or if it’s just the latest trend for them. The cool ‘must have’ – Afrocentrism! On a similar note, the Toronto School District is in the middle of a controversy after the School Board trustees approved, at the end of last month, a proposal to create Canada’s first black focused school.

This decision comes as the drop out rate for black students in Toronto hovers around 40%. Proponents argue that these students need to be offered material that they can relate to so as to keep them interested, though there is no saying if that would be the outcome.

Critics say this is a form of segregation, but I say bullshit!! How can it be a form of segregation if you are not banning any interested groups from joining? Yes, white folks are welcome if they’re interested in expanding their knowledge of African history, African contributions and the issues surrounding peoples of African descent. Yeah, there is some substance to the rhetoric of being all-inclusive. But how inclusive is the current school system with its one-sided view anyhow? So why the big fuss?

“Sile Mariammmmm, sile Giorgisssssssssssss,” they chant one at a time. Funny, I’ve never heard “sile allah or sile Mohammed.” Mothers with babies nestled in the crook of their arms – at times tugging on a visibly malnourished breast – sometimes the babies are dolls covered in netela.. “Sile ayne birhannnn,”- the blind, grasped at the wrist and led by a human walking stick. “chinkkk kechinkk kechinkk” flip about and sing the dull amst ena aser santim lying on his palms. The walker, as always, dons his nonchalant look silently coaxing you to cough up that coin and let them be on their way.

The monokses shrouded in their orange garb sit in a row inside the gates of Bole Medhanialem. “Mtssss, lijée” they drawl, waving their half closed palms up and down in that reversely hypnotic movement. “Mtssssss, enatéeee,” I want to sing back and then run to knock my forehead and kiss the betechristian gedgeda in that exact order – if I do three of those, I might be forgiven completely for mocking them. But they’ve already captured my heart. The really young and old ones always do!

Act I

It’s a Sunday afternoon. I walk home slowly, soaking up the sun as mamush approaches me head bowed down. Once eye contact has been established the chief conductor directing mamush’s orchestra of tears waves his baton to signal the beginning. They roll down in little balls at first and then stream down as they gain momentum. “Enate ketranye tefach. It’s getting late and I can’t wait for her anymore. But I don’t have bus money to get back to Mercato.” Those huge wet eyes and defeated posture have already made a claim for a 1 birr note. I walk away contemplating if I should accompany him. No need! The same story is being told to another passer-by. I’ve just been duped by a 7/8 year old.

Curtains.

Act II

Stadium pit-stop. I’m sitting in the back of the mini-taxi chatting away with my girls while the weyala continues to load passengers. I’m distracted by a very disturbing sight. He makes his way on his hands towards the taxi doors, dragging his crippled legs behind him. The lower portion of his face is distorted from being stretched by some large discoloured object protruding out of his mouth. Lehach dribbles down his naked chest as he babbles sile mariammmm. The words are not clear, but who can’t recognize the accompanying melody and hand gesture. I’m stunned to silence by the sight before me and my eyes slowly expand until the sockets beg for mercy. Good lord, what on earth is wrong with him, I scream inside, totally fixated on the bizarre contortion and debating how much I should give him. While his face shocked me, my face must have amused him because he started laughing. I realize that the protruding object is a big chunk of ice, slowly melting to create that constant drool. I laugh at the realization. He laughs at my laugh and I at his inability to continue begging because he’s laughing at me. The laughing cycle continues for a bit, till he takes his man-made distortion to another taxi. I’ve just been duped by a cripple.

Curtains.

Act III

Stopped at a red light near National theatre, sweltering in the midday sun. A group of young boys snake their way around cars, stopping at random ones and singing in unison “godana new bete, godana new.” That song has now become a cliché, so no luck today – no charity. They disperse in subunits of two to three boys. I roll up my windows quickly as one unit makes it my way. “Sisteriye eraben,” they beg and I ignore them and stare ahead, silently begging the God of traffic lights to turn it green. One stays glued to my window and keeps asking me for a tsemuni le dabo as I keep ignoring him. A few seconds before the lights go off, he bids me farewell with “min, dihenet migaba meselesh ende?” I’ve just been humbled by an 8/9 year old! A few years later those parting words still haunt me.

Curtains.

Begging is a performance. The most creative performers get the big bucks. Give me your best comedy or tragedy and I’ll give you my best dollar. Hit me with a unique line, and I’m unconsciously game to toss a coin or two your way. The only thing is we pay inadequate amounts for the amount of creativity that goes into some of these performances. Do I feel stupid for being lied to one too many times? Yes I do. But I probably deserved it. If the honest “I’m hungry” cries are not enough of a rude awakening to the conditions of the impoverished, then maybe we all need to be lied to and seduced with sensational stories to rouse our own creativity in finding sustainable solutions for the needy.

On lazy Monday evenings when there’s really nothing interesting enough to watch on my meagre twenty-eight TV channels, I watch ABC’s reality show ‘Wife Swap.’ I find amusing the ridiculousness of polar opposites butting heads as they try to impose their personal beliefs onto another family.

This hour long reality show follows two American families as each woman becomes a wife and mother to another family that differs from her own in some extreme ways.

Atheists are matched with devout Christians; urbanites with farmers; control freaks and conservatives with liberal junkies. The extent to which extreme opposites who are set in their beliefs are sought after and paired is hilarious and is the mitmita in a recipe for katelo.

However, at the end of such an adventure, it is assumed that the couples will have a newfound appreciation for members of their own family as well as the valuable lessons to be learned from an interaction with the opposite world.

More than the minor value of entertainment and temporary distraction such shows offer, sometimes I find myself fully engaging with arguments ignited by what one of the personalities says or by how one of them responds to a particular event. The latest episode proved to be a stirrer of some sorts, as a stay at home mom comfortable with her role as a subordinate member of her family lashed out to the other wife “this man here is walking around with a vagina.”

Hmmm, well good for him – as far as I know the vagina has been a hub of pleasure! C’mon now, it even had a monologue dedicated to it.”

Anyways, what I would consider as being a mereqat was used by her as an ergeman instead. Home boy was being accused of cooking for his family, he was soft-spoken; he sometimes styled his wife’s hair and painted her toe nails. He didn’t watch sports and his two sons were into ballet and tap dancing.

In contrast, the “manly” menin her household were an obnoxiously loud feisty bunch. As a man you should watch sports. A man should not be in the kitchen – that’s a woman’s place. Ballet and tap dancing is for girls, she further commented and encouraged him and his sons to take up boxing instead. While the show was just that – a show, I couldn’t help using it as a point of departure for an analysis of the gender misconceptions that children are fed from the beginning.

Current development theorists have evolved their model from the early nature vs. nurture debates towards a more interactionist approach that pays heed to a complex mix of both nature and their immediate environment to explain life span development. However, I can’t help being convinced that the types of gender roles children grow into is more a product of what society has decided is fitting of each sex.

Is it a boy or a girl? The first question most people utter upon the introduction of a new born. Pink, floral prints, dolls and emotions are for girls. Blue, gaming consoles, toy soldiers and a tough-ass attitude are for boys. Our shopping habits when we go gift hunting for a new born or even a toddler reinforces such stereotypes of who should have what. If either sex bypasses these societal boundaries and stereotypes then the labels are flung across – “‘ oh, he’s so gayyyyy.‘ ‘ Look at her, she’s such a tomboy.‘”

Whatever happened to respecting personal preferences?”

Many of the explanations I have been given for maintaining the gender status quo have been a reference to how “girly-boys or boyish-girls are not normal.” Isn’t ‘normality’ a decision you along with like minds consciously make to view the world only the way you think it should be? 3C= N. Conservative, Conventional, Conformist = Normal. Anything that challenges our firmly established principles and beliefs is outrageous, out of the norm and therefore unacceptable.

Then there is the controversial issue of immediate identity assignment for intersexed individuals. It’s sad to know that the fate of one’s sexual identity is in the hands of parents and doctors who reach their own conclusion as to chopping it off and making her a girl or sewing it up and making a man out of him. After all, why would you want to let it be until the child is old enough to make their own decision? Oh yea, I forget – lekas it would not be normal to grow with two genital organs. Ere demo, we have to hurry up and assign them characteristics too, eko!

I am curios to know how a very traditional colleague of mine trained in Adlerian psychology that focuses on social equality balances out her conservative personality and professional background as she watches her three-year old son form his identity. She tells me that she gives him room to explore and grow from his experiences and make his own choices.

“Mommy, mommy, I want a summer dress,” he has once asked. And he has it; he wears it. But I know pretty soon she will take away his summer dress as yet another semi-blank slate is programmed to delineate the border between what is feminine and masculine.

I am no parent yet. And I don’t claim to be an expert on the intricacies of raising a child. Perhaps when in the same boat, I might find myself conforming to these ideals of ‘normalcy’ for the sake of shielding my child from confusion and social isolation. “Weldesh kemeshiew,” she usually says to me. “Mamaye, I’m not into feasting on babies,” is my reply. She megelamet’s me and cracks a tiny smile.

“So, what brings you here today,” he asked.

“I have not been feeling well for a few months now. I’m always fatigued, severe morning headaches, sleepy all the time, backaches, irritable, trouble concentrating, hungry all the time…”

“Okay, sit up over there and let me check some things.” This mini Ye Genna Abaat look-alike proceeds to check my blood pressure, listens to my heart beat, shines his light in my eyes and takes a glimpse of my soul. He steps about six inches back and looks at me.

Really looks at me and asks, “How are you emotionally?”

Ye Genna Abaatiye had no idea what was coming his way as the gates containing months of internal discontent and self damnation burst open and formed the type of ye enba fuafuate that would send Tis Abay into ye qenat dankira. He panicked. He hugged me. He let me go.

He ran out and brought tissue back with him. Then he hugged me again and responded with ‘it’s okay, it’s okay’ to my attempts at stifling the tears. The longer I witnessed his mebreQ’reking and the concern in his eyes, the louder I wanted to wail.

He said he’ll run a few tests based on the symptoms I stated, but he suspected clinical depression. I went home and hoped the test results would show some thyroid disorder that resembled some of the conditions in mention rather than a confirmation of his prognosis. After all, for those who have never been through it, some kind of physical disorder holds more weight than matters of the emotion.

A week later another doctor delivered the news to me that all the tests came back negative. My internal system and organs were perfectly healthy. Neger Gin, “You’re mildly depressed.” Elelelelelele…give yourself a pat on the back girlfriend…. she said it’s MILD! If you ever get depression, make sure it’s mild eshi! She slapped an assortment of Paxil and Prozac boxes in my hand and bid me farewell so I can rush home and begin my solo nausea, constipation, anxiety and diarrhoea fest.

Kezam eko you’re warned of the impending loss of libido — *Ahem.*

Humour aside, I refused to start on the medication in fear of experiencing all the side effects, of not being able to get off them once I started, and of course because of the stigma attached to it. How do you even begin to explain to friends and family when you don’t quite understand it yourself?

The reason for posting this goes beyond the desire to simply share a story. It’s to share a reality. It is one that so many in our own in the abesha community go through. Yet the attitude of most towards matters of the psyche is either a harsh criticism of a person’s ability to deal with the challenges of life or to simply dismiss the problem and let it simmer in its own stew.

We hear about Abebe who broke down after his divorce and we say he should get his act together and move on – there’s plenty of fish in the sea. We hear about Bekelech who lost her job and with it her desire for life, and we tell her to suck it up and thank her god for the time she enjoyed having one. We hear of Chala who appeared to have it all but lost it all when he chose to end his life. And we think, “He was so selfish, so lazy.”

Yeah, it’s very easy to analyze a problem from afar. But until we have walked in Abe’s, Beke’s and Chala’s footsteps and drank from their cup while eating from their plate then tossed and turned all night in their bed, we’ll never understand. Until we’ve visited the dark side and watched all the candles blow themselves out, one by one by one, we will never know why Chala did what he did.

The concoction of emotional turmoil, imbalance of brain chemicals and physical pain associated with clinical depression is manifested in social withdrawal, apathy and a constant magnification of the negatives, which has the effect of crippling one’s feelings of worth. If left untreated, clinical depression can destroy lives – figuratively and literally!

One can’t efffff malet and blow away depression like he/she would of ye’ocholoni geleba. We can’t tell someone to snap the hell out of it and expect them to. Negotiating through the emotional baggage, the physical pain and the questions of what it all means is burden enough without having to deal with the external nuisance of daring stares demanding you to get back on track.

In my case, I had the unconditional love, understanding, and constant support of two amazing people; one of whom I am forever indebt for allowing me to mezebarek, to wail like an infant and to talk and talk non stop when I needed to. Their reassurance and advice coupled with the fragment of motivation I had left in me, re-injected optimism and allowed me to resurface before I had plunged in too deep.

To those who witness a loved one experience this, I ask you to load up on patience. Understand and question before eagerly passing judgement. Learn about the condition and offer hope and help in whatever form they will accept. Listen again before you decide you heard it all. And watch with a very cautious eye.

For those who travel this journey as we speak, I ask you to not feel ashamed and worthless. This can happen to anyone at any point in time and there always is light at the end of that tunnel. If you cannot muster up the courage to be proactive in your own treatment, then allow others to intervene and hold you up for as long as you need to be held. Break free from the bonds of silence and seek a free ear within your vicinity. And remember, yehem yalfal!