‘Why can’t we decide?’
‘Because we’re poor. God said we’d inherit the Earth, but He didn’t say when. I trust His word. It will happen. It’s better to be poor and enjoy the glory of God with all its promise. The rich can only cower in His presence. They know He can take everything away, any time He decides. They’re living in fear . . . they have everything to lose! But us . . . we have nothing to lose. We can only win.’
‘So, Mum, you feel happier being poor?’
‘Poor but happy.’
‘So rich but happy is not an option?’
‘An impossibility.’
‘But we were rich . . . once.’
‘And God didn’t like it . . . He had His reasons.’
‘I love you, Mum.’
But it isn’t what I want to hear. Can’t we sidestep God’s reasoning sometimes? It doesn’t always make sense.
‘I love you too, so much,’ she whispers.
‘I know, I know,’ I murmur.
The hand falls back in place on my waist. But it has temporarily lost its powers of sleep-promotion. To persuade Mum, I need an ally.
*
Nati, fourteen, and Henok, fifteen, are the two boys who trailed down the same narrow canal as me, fortunately a little while after my trip. Mother pushed us all out a year apart. Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!
As first-born, I am the fastest of us, in wit and verve if not sheer speed, while Nati is the slowest of thought and easiest to manipulate but has the athleticism of a leopard. Henok, in the middle, we do not make jokes about. Facially, we are virtually identical; my brothers are me, minus the understated natural beauty.
Henok thinks constantly but speaks seldom, perhaps once a day, always deliberately, wisely and with great effort. Should he speak, we stop whatever we are doing and listen intently, enjoying the novelty of his quiet voice. Henok has never said anything funny, ever. Instead, he stews on pointless dilemmas, causing blood to trickle from his nose as though something is broken inside his head. He studies hard and is plainly intelligent but in a secretive way. He hoards his intelligence, like Nati would hoard food if he could restrain himself from eating it.
Unlike Henok, Nati fails to study anything at school. He routinely attains zero in his tests but, as he explains to Mum, ‘at least zero is a number’. Nati’s simple engine runs on Mum’s cooking, Arsenal Football Club and strident chatter: with staggering frequency, his opinion is both unconsidered and improbably accurate. Nati’s intellect defies scientific explanation, and mine. He’s unsuitable as my potential ally but slightly less so than Henok. So Nati it is.
‘Mum! Look at the moon . . . it’s so big and bright! I’ve never seen it like that,’ he says to Mum, on the evening of a full moon.
‘That’s because you’re poor. Only the rich hold their heads up proudly and see the moon, while we trudge and traipse. We bear our burdens with bowed heads. The moon is a sight reserved for the rich and the arrogant.’
‘So you’re telling me not to look at the moon?’ says Nati downheartedly.
‘Look at it, but it won’t do you any good.’
Nati’s contrary reaction is to walk tall for a couple of days, head held very high, never glancing downwards. Arrogance dallies with absurdity as Nati navigates the track outside our house with its haphazard selection of badly fitting rocks capable of tripping up a snake. Hanging at head-height, the washing lines dangling across our alleyway force us to duck as we watch our feet: Nati’s new gait quickly earns him scuffed knees and a nasty rope burn on his neck. He sensibly adopts a different approach: for five minutes every night, he stands outside our door and stares at the moon.
‘For five minutes, I stand tall and feel rich,’ he explains to me. ‘For five minutes, I’m on the same platform as the affluent of Addis. We all have the same view of the same moon.’
I notice the scar on his neck.
‘I can still see the rope burn . . . looks like a love-bite,’ I chuckle.
‘Yeah, Sis, the poor hang their heads because their washing lines are too low . . . it has nothing to do with bearing our burdens.’
Barely into adolescence, this wooden post of a boy is almost lofty enough to hold up our corrugated iron roof with his head.
‘You’re so tall. What happened to you? Yesterday a boy, today a man, tomorrow . . .’
‘A president,’ says Nati hopefully.
We slump onto the old sofa. This is my chance.
‘President? You’ll need more than a few injeras inside you for that. I can’t believe where the last ten years have gone . . . what have we done since we moved here?’
‘Well, Sis, I played football and ate a mountain of injera, you drank coffee and slept a lot, Mum went to church every day and scraped together a living to feed us, Henok stayed silent and studied . . . oh, and we watched Haile win the Olympic gold on our neighbour’s television.’
Nati’s summary of our life is horrifically exact. That is it for ten years: a family’s life in a sentence.
‘But life is going,’ I say urgently. ‘It’s too fast! At sixteen in Ethiopia, I’m already through one third of my life expectancy. By breaking up lifetimes into days, lots of days, God has fooled us into thinking there’s more of it than there really is. He’s engineered time to appear non-threatening, to lull us into dull routines . . . but step back from it, Nati . . . what do you see?’
‘What do I see? Nothing! We’re too poor to step back from it, Sis. If we can’t even enjoy the moon, how can we look at time? Haven’t you noticed, Sis . . . time’s invisible!’
‘Nati, just try it. You’ll see people hurtling towards their deaths at a panic-inducing speed. If everyone could see it, there’d be total chaos. Days are good for sedating most people . . . like sleeping pills . . . days are sleep-ing pills . . . but they don’t work on me any more. I see what’s happening now . . . at sixteen, I’m practically dead.’
‘Sis, have you been eating chat?’
‘I’ve drunk too much coffee.’
‘There’s nothing we can do about time, Sis. Or is there?’ asks Nati, unsure whether the passing of time can be manipulated in some way, like the passing of a football. He has the ability to lob it, flick it, whack it, bend it, backheel it or waste it. What tricks can be done with time? All we’ve done so far is waste it exceedingly well.
‘I tried school and now I’m trying work,’ I say. ‘The pay is only a little more than a damp rag in my hand . . . meanwhile, time is running away down the hill, laughing its head off like a crazed lunatic.’
Nati yawns aggressively. I sigh as though struggling for my final breath. Moments bloated on boredom sneak away like nifty babies crawling towards blazing fires when nobody is watching them for a split second.
‘It feels like we’re waiting for something to happen. Are we going to stay like this forever, Sis?’
‘We’ll die one day . . . so, no.’
Come on, Nati, bite.
‘We need money, Sis!’ he shouts. ‘Not just small money for meat and coffee . . . real money.’
Yes!
‘Yeah, you’re right . . . money. It’s all about money. We’ve never had enough since we came here. But Mum’s not interested in getting a load of money. She has the Bible.’
‘Maybe I should play for Arsenal,’ he suggests with a straight face.
‘Maybe I should be a servant in Lebanon,’ I say, casually enough.
‘That would be easier,’ replies Nati, no shock visible.
‘How would I tell Mum I was leaving her and may not see her for several years? And it’s just for the money . . .’
Nati strokes his slightly stubbly chin. This usually prefaces improbable wisdom.
‘My suggestion . . . wait until she’s really, really happy so the bad news doesn’t sting so much. I’ll help you, Sis.’
In Nati, I hav
e my ally.
The Right Moment
Outside, Mum has arrived home from evening prayers, her head and body swathed in the white chiffon netela and kemis that women wear to enter an Orthodox Christian church.‘Stop at the door!’ screams Mum from outside, as Henok comes back from playing with friends in the street.
A daily occurrence, Henok has to stop at the door. He removes the stinking trainers and socks from his feet. Beside him sits a metal bowl: these bowls are generally used for covering chickens with severed necks, slowly perishing before being plucked, scalded and boiled for dinner. But chickens for most Addis residents, including us, are a treat reserved for special religious occasions only, especially Christmas and Easter.
Holding a lemon to her nose, Mum throws the metal bowl over the trainers and socks in a single swift movement, as though trapping a speedy rat.
‘Got you!’ she shouts victoriously.
Mum says it’s a bone problem. Apparently, a foul-smelling fungus is nibbling away at Henok’s metatarsals, particularly voracious during the rainy season, which is now. As one of gangrene’s gentler cousins, the solution is happily less painful than amputation, requiring two fresh lemons, sliced in half and squeezed onto the bare feet, before hard scrubbing into the skin. His feet are soon sticky with lemon juice, the citrus tang pleasantly sharpening the air. We can all relax and breathe inwards.
Having completed the lemon juice treatment, Henok wears sandals to go outside and wash his hands under the tap. Tadelle arrives at the same moment, watching Henok carefully.
Tadelle is becoming as dispiritingly regular as the metal bowl ritual. Inside the doorway, Tadelle instinctively glances at the metal bowl. It all seems so obvious to him. He thinks Henok is washing his hands because he’s been slashing the neck of a chicken now twitching away under the bowl. Tadelle theatrically sucks in the air of our house.
‘Ah, lemons again!’ he says knowingly. Typically, lemon juice is used with salt to clean skinned chickens before cooking. Tadelle’s saliva glands are instantly activated.
I often imagine Tadelle has been plucked from the Bible and placed two millennia hence without physical alteration. The shaggy beard, ragged tunic, haggard looks, tattered sandals, cracked staff and shattered body is not an affected image: he is an Old Testament natural, most at ease on Moses’ shoulder forging across the Sinai Desert with a couple of heavy stone tablets under his arm. The Old Testament is for Tadelle a statement of fact, a guide to life. The coming of Jesus was an unnecessary appendix, an anti-climax no less.
‘Judaism was already gathering pace. Jesus just rushed things along. His miracles throw doubt on the Bible’s authenticity . . . we don’t need the New Testament’s superficiality and its easy answers . . . before Jesus came along, we had the Testament . . . no silly comparisons of old and new . . .’ Tadelle is explaining to Mum in the doorway.
‘You said that yesterday,’ says Mum. She says that every day to Tadelle.
‘But it’s still true today, Werknesh.’
Of course it is. They are inside an eternal loop. Repeated conversations are part of the conspiracy to blind us to the speeding sands of time. God allows us to repeat ourselves ad infinitum: we think we’re being fresh and clever while we butcher the precious minutes, shifting lifecycles along a notch or two for no particular reason, though He must have His motives. Whatever those are.
‘Sit down and drink coffee . . . we’ll talk about it a little more,’ offers Mum.
Urgh. Again.
Perhaps Tadelle thinks Mum is ‘available’. He looks considerably older than her. Mum retains areas of skin where wrinkles are scarce: her cheeks, for example, are as smooth as the neighbours’ television screen. Unfortunately, her lack of teeth adds twenty years every time she opens her mouth, but like a television, we can buy a new set when the suitcase of money arrives. Mum can pass for thirty-five outside of fasting periods. Her actual date of birth, like many born outside Addis, is pure speculation. As for Tadelle, there has to be an Old Testament chapter and verse referencing his birth, but we haven’t found it yet.
‘Hello, Meron. How are you today?’ he asks.
‘I’m fine, thanks. And you?’
‘Fine! What have you done today?’
Thanks. More seconds of my life butchered in the abattoir of pointless patter.
‘Nothing. How’s Moses today?’
‘Wonderful! He says “hi”.’
Tadelle probably hopes my mother will nurse him through his old age, as well as caring for his four children. According to rumours, his wife died from being struck by a bolt of lightning. That strikes me as a decent Old Testament death and carries a strong message that Tadelle should happily accept: God prefers him single. Don’t embroil my mother in your sordid plans, Tadelle; she’s still nursing us out of childhood.
Tadelle stares at the metal bowl, up-ended at the entrance. He always does. Only the rich eat chicken every day. Maybe this is why he lurks around my mother.
‘And what about the love thy neighbour as thyself passage . . . albeit from the New Testament . . . but what a thing of beauty . . . it does of course refer to sharing . . . sharing of possessions when a neighbour is needy . . . of food . . . when a neighbour is hungry . . . be it injera, coffee or chicken . . .’ continues the crafty old bandit.
‘Yes, Tadelle,’ says my mother patiently. ‘Listen, today, stay for dinner if you’re really hungry . . .’
‘Oh, wonderful, Werknesh! Thank you so very much!’
Tadelle nods at the metal bowl, as if to say ‘Did you hear that? You’re working for me today.’
At dinner time, Nati comes home. He’s always through the door at the exact moment of dinner: he has to be, or the best of our dinner could be lost to another stomach. But seeing Tadelle still sitting on the sofa and Mum not yet preparing the food, Nati makes a logical deduction.
‘What’s he doing here? Mum, I have to eat now!’ he erupts.‘Sorry about my son, Tadelle . . . really rude.’
‘But we have to eat!’ shouts Nati, again.
In his world, nothing and nobody must be allowed to stop food.
‘Tadelle’s staying for dinner . . .’ starts Mum.
‘Your mother very kindly invited me to stay for the chicken,’ beams Tadelle, using his wooden staff to tap the metal bowl tunefully.
‘Chicken?’ exclaims Nati, immediately detecting something awry.
‘Yes, it’s just like a holiday, eating chicken together. Wonderful!’ enthuses Tadelle.
We’re all grinning at each other. Even Henok sneaks out a rare smirk.
‘Okay . . . come and have a look at it . . . a really big one today,’ offers Nati beside the bowl.
Tadelle clambers to his feet. Within a single short stride, his face suddenly fervent and predatory, he is doubled over, only a nostril whisker from the metal bowl. I have never seen him like this before, certainly not during the Old Testament discussions with Mum.
‘And here it is!’ declares Nati, yanking up the bowl to reveal putrid footwear.
The stench hits us all hard. Tadelle staggers backwards in shock, hand instinctively cupped onto his nose.
‘I’m so sorry! I thought . . .’ Tadelle stutters through a nasal muffle. He grabs his staff and reels out of the door. Nati hastily replaces the bowl in its correct position.
Mum roars with laughter strong enough to fan a fire. It’s an extraordinary moment. Nati catches my eye. It’s a Lebanon moment.
‘My own feet are a little itchy,’ I say.
‘Use some of the lemon juice,’ suggests my mother through her snorts.
That subtlety hasn’t worked. Cackling away, Mum serves our usual dinner fare of injera and shiro wat, a spicy chickpea stew. I will just have to say it.
‘I’m going to work in Lebanon as a maid,’ I say, loudly.
‘Meron, don’t spoil it with one of your
silly lies,’ chortles Mum.
‘It’s not a lie, Mum. I mean it.’
Absolute silence descends within a second. I have just killed one of the funniest moments in the family’s history.
‘What are you talking about? You’re happy here,’ begins Mum.
‘I want to do something with my life before it’s too late. I’m wasting my time here. The years are passing too fast. I want money, I want confidence, I want to be like Selam,’ I blabber. It all sounds so weak. My timing was dreadful. Why did I listen to the advice of a fourteen-year-old boy?
‘Habesha girls don’t come back from Beirut. Why are you even considering this?’ she reasons. ‘I try my best to make you happy. Every day I work hard for you, I pray hard for you . . . what’s the problem, my daughter? Can’t you trust in God to care for us . . . for you?’
‘I’m not sure any more, Mum . . . maybe His care is overstretched . . .’
A huge well of sadness is opening up. This has been buried for years and here it is again, spreading right across her face: fresh, raw, heartbreaking grief.
‘Don’t worry, Mum . . . you’re not losing me, I promise I’ll come back. After two years in Lebanon, I’ll probably buy us a condominium . . . ha!’
‘Think of the money she’ll send back! And more food for us! What’s the big deal, Mum? Let her go and we’ll be rich enough to stare at the moon all day,’ rejoices Nati, supporting me at last.
‘Or all night would be more fun,’ I correct.
We sit in silence for a minute. A droplet of blood forms on the end of Henok’s nose.
‘I can’t let you go there,’ Mum starts. ‘It’s God-less and dangerous.’
‘Mum! I can look after myself now . . . I’m not a kid! I need to do something outside Addis. You said we need change . . . ’
‘When did I say we need change?’
‘That day we had bread instead of injera . . . the same day I saw Selam.’
‘Uh?’
‘And you’re right . . . we need change . . . here it is!’
Henok is clutching a tissue to his nose, the tissue quickly reddening with blood. If only he would say something.
No Lipstick in Lebanon Page 3