fitsum on his wife: “she will come from the sky like a queen and have true love for me.”

cell phones.
besides the government and corporate monopoly on cell phone service in the country (there’s only one provider), there are other more pressing issues. like, does your cell phone even work. half of the time, no it won’t. you will hear “no service at this time.” the lines are down. texting is obsolete (though for the millennium, the country was promised texting service again. and it did come back. for a day.) people accept this without a fight. it is accepted quite complacently in fact. when the cellies do work, all over the streets and shops you will hear “hello, hello, hello.” atleast three “hellos” usually acknowledges some sort of connection has been made. some will hang up if they don’t hear atleast three of the hellos- thinking that the service cut out for some reason. the practicality of this is hearing if the phone connection is actually working. it is humourous and has made a few jokes amongst us ferrenge. especially when fatoom answers his phone at the dinner table. (we of course let him know that answering your celli at the dinner table, is like singing at the dinner table for abisha. a no, no.) the oldschool cell phones in this country are also funny. and hard to use. but, Ethiopia, as we’ve suggested, is a bit 80’s style. welcome to the past….




fitsum and temeskin.
it is common. there are many street kids. some get luckier than others. some have more potential and drive than others. it’s an age old tale. back when Ahmed was living in Addis, two, young neighborhood boys hung out around the café. temeskin’s mother has eight children to deal with. her husband has died. fitsum has a mother and father and several sisters and brothers as well. the bwois needed direction and a bit of guidance. ahmed noticed and aimed to set them up right. he helped them get some clothes, paid for school fees and had them start helping out at the café. now they are both bonafied husslahs. fitsum likes to play the part more than temeskin and does it so well it is fully believable. fitsum’s celli is always ringing. he’s always on call. his top three buttons of his shirt, always unbuttoned. a chain shows around his neck. when he stands in place, he usually incorporates a little swaggery dance to it. “what does he hussle?” Miranda asks ahmed. “people.” ahmed responds. he takes things to people. carry’s things, carry’s people. shuffles things around. ahmed might call him to pick me up at the Sheratin and bring me home. or uncle Rashad will call him to fulfill a task somewhere in Addis. he works for multiple people. multiple sources. he knows the streets. well. everywhere we go, fitsum is greeting someone he knows and saying hello. he likes to play the part. he’s sauve. his character is large. they call him “the Investor” in his hood. he’s sixteen. with a huge heart and a knack for languages and speaking. his counterpart, temeskin is quite the opposite. soft and gentle. few words. tight curly head of hair. his heart speaks before he does. you can’t help but hug him. he defines the word adorable. his style of jeans is uniquely temeskin and reminds me of 70’s style. these two are obvious soul brothers. they speak the same language. a language they only know. their job is a big responsibility and I have often felt the pressure on them. they are good at what they do. and do what they are good at.



mi’tu and sarah.
sometimes you run across little souls that inspire and bring the awe back. the day I met Mi’tu and Sarah, I was reminded. Mi’tu: a petite and clear-eyed child with a perfect smile and eyes that read your thoughts. her closest comrade, sistren and protector is Sarah. a bit older than Mi’tu and a foot taller. she resembles Mi’tu. is full of hugs. invites you in with her heart and won’t let you go. her smile is brilliant and her eyes sparkle. we dance together on the street. they teach me songs. we know what move is coming next just by looking into each others eyes and reading body language. we read minds. such a rare connection. we admire each other with long looks. hug each other tenderly as though we were long lost family. they have so much love to give. uncle Ahmeds tells us horror stories outside the café one day. street kids are at immeasurable risk in multiple ways. they often have no family to speak of. they’re on their own trying to live. eat. sleep. hussle. families and businesses often offer some relief to the lucky ones. either with some food, a little work, maybe some clothes or school tuition. at night, they find a spot of street to sleep on. no protection from sexual forcefullness, the cops or the weather. uncle Ahmed explains that many of the female beggars with a child strapped to their back, have been raped. they most likely did not choose to have a child. but because you can get more money this way, it often works in their favor. (though some just rent a child from someone else in order to get a few extra burr.) Mit’tu and Sarah both sleep on Temeskin’s stoop for a burr or so a night. I can’t bear the thought of either one of them being raped continuously through out their lives. especially through out their entire childhood. uncle Ahmed breaks down the reality. “they don’t know any difference.” he explains. no one has ever schooled them that this isn’t normal or ok. consequently, they never discuss it with anyone or try to prevent it. these thoughts are unusual to me. but make sense. Mi’tu and Sarah are golden children. they have the spark. and they will be brilliant in any capacity. but they are from the street. and it will take huge shifts for this to be otherwise. though they’ve been taken in and brought to the family home, the girls eventually run off. back to the streets. their home.



the last night.
it started off strange I suppose. considering I missed hopper and ahmed while I was out making last minute calls and buying my 3 kilos of buna before departure. they obviously we’re anxious to break fast. it was after 6:30 (12:30 abisha time.) by the time I got back to the house, the car and the bwois were gone to the café. only a note and a celli were left for me. I called ahmed and in between bites, he let me know that he’d send temeskin for me and no worries we’d catch mini bus and see you soon. my packing was going well. all the Ethiopian goods made it into the red suitcase. Temeskin arrived and we walked to the hustle and bustle of Bole where we hopped on the mini bus with the man hanging out the sliding door yelling “mexico!!” fool, bread and veg made especially by the kitchen for me. last meal at the café. I give long thanks and praises before I depart…..we drive home. Abraham, Fitsum, temeskin and hopper in the back. it doesn’t look like I’ll get sleep before I have to be at the airport at two a.m. so we start a lil’ rager. Abraham is hittin’ the chat hard. but no one notices. (we’ve been hangin’ with Gash Umar after all.) sittin’ around the round table, reggae vibez loud, rollin’ massive spliff action and conversing. as per usual. only tonight, minus the large group of people. at some point Abraham starts his freak out episode. I enter the scene after he runs to the porch and repeatedly washes himself with water then sits in a chair clutching the Ko’ran muttering chapters to ward off satan. his heart is beating fast and his breath is tight. he eases up, then becomes vicious suddenly. he tears off down the drive yelling and screaming and climbing up the front gate. the bwois run after him in a panic. it takes all four of them to hold him down and pull him off the gate. he doesn’t let up. his yelling intensifies. the neighborhood wakes up. lights turn on all the way down our street. a wombyn from her fourth floor apartment sticks her head out the window and hollers to quiet down. a pack of dogs is speaking and adding to the commotion. the cops arrive. ahmed runs into the house in sheer panic. “get rid of the ganja!!!” he yells to me. we frantically eradicate all the greenage in the house. stashing it. throwing it. hiding it. my heart is beating fast. Abraham is still in destruction mode. the boys are still trying to hold him down. they try to calm him. but in his craze, he bites ahmed through the shirt, drawing blood and leaving huge teeth marks. by now, the guard and the lady in the back and her sister have arrived on the scene to see what the issue is. “should they bring holy water?” they ask. the cops seem to have disappeared, but the tension is still thick and fierce. the house dog is standing near. we watch. we wait. we mutter prayers and positive thoughts. his breathing calms. his mind seems to have let up. the boys lift him and carry him to the house. seeing him in the light, he is noticeably pale. I take his pulse and place my other hand on his heart. I start to breathe deeply and put my intention on prana. his breathing lengthens and becomes shallow. he starts to snore softly, his eyes closed. we prop his head up with another pillow and try to remove any remaining chat from his mouth. hopper stays near and keeps vigil. I light a candle to entice the angels. we gather in ahmeds room to rehash and discuss the events. temeskin and fatoom have seen this before. they are convinced it is spirit work. work of satan. it is common in Ethiopia. very common. they say. holy water and sometimes exorcism is the only answer. ahmed and I exchange glances. “it wouldn’t hurt.” I say. we realize the time. I have to be at the airport in 35 minutes. I gather my belongings. I give my hugs, my blessings and best wishes. I tear up as I hug and kiss temeskin and fatoom goodbye. “two years time.” fitsum says putting on his macho attitude and trying to be brave for my departure. temeskin looks at me and gives a nod. “in sha’Allah.” I say. Ahmed and I drive off. down the dark, bumpy alleyway to Bole.


broken. but in tact.
mild issues I carry home with me. souvenirs. my stomach is still talking back. I believe there to be some small critters in habitation of my gut. my skin is broken out, peeling, itchy and is in desperate need of a facial. I have remnants of bites and bugs all over my body. do I still have fleas? several hours in cairo left me dry and in need of hydration. yet, my spirits are high. I am filled with joy and new overstandings. the African reality has left a lasting impression. a sense of groundedness has seeped into my being now. I am infused with the rich roots of the African continent. the low chi. the spiritual force. the natural essences of life. I’m feelin’ the vibezz.

note to self:
in need of demitasse set and silver tray. macciatos are a must!