No Lipstick in Lebanon

by Paul Timblick

  The iron footbridge from the station side to the slum side was a hundred metres across. Plumb in the middle, equidistant from old and new home, Henok pulled hard on my hand.

  ‘I want the toilet!’

  ‘Hold on, Henok . . . you go in our new house, okay?’ I said, dragging him behind me. He wailed pitifully.

  ‘I need poo!’

  ‘Why didn’t you go before we left?’

  ‘I forget.’

  ‘Mum, he needs a poo!’ I called ahead to her. Onlookers guffawed. They lived for this.

  My mother stopped dead in her tracks. She didn’t even turn around. I thought she must be furious.

  What halted her had nothing to do with Henok. Tadelle was standing there in Muslim clothes: full-length white galabiyya tunic and matching white hat. The same chat-chewing, egg-faced Tadelle who had escorted Kebebush to our house only two weeks earlier.

  ‘Tadelle, what in God’s name are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah, Werknesh! Going to the mesquita to pray. What does it look like?’

  ‘I thought you were Orthodox Christian . . . you certainly were when we last saw you,’ she said.

  ‘Well, that was then. But now it’s Ramadan so I’m Muslim. It’s an important time of year for us . . . for me.’

  ‘Do you eat with two knives?’ asked my mother, invoking an analogy that I didn’t understand.

  ‘No, I usually use my hands, like most people in ­Ethiopia,’ replied Tadelle, sniggering.

  ‘Your neck must be tired,’ continued my mother, un­deterred.

  ‘Not really . . . I raise the food to my mouth with my hands. Why would my neck be tired?’ asked Tadelle.

  ‘In the street, you’re constantly turning your head . . . first to a Christian, then to Muslim, Christian, Muslim, Christian, Muslim . . .’ she explained, twisting her head around from side to side. ‘You change religion like other Habesha men switch between football teams when their side is losing. One minute Arsenal, next minute . . .’

  My mother didn’t know any other teams.

  ‘Yes, Boiled Egg! What are you? Arsenal or Muslim?’ I demanded of him at last, slightly confused by the conversation but sure that Tadelle needed confronting on this vital matter.

  ‘Ha, ha, ha! I’m Arsenal, little Meron . . . but please don’t call me Boiled— ’

  ‘Don’t change the subject, Tadelle,’ said my mother, irritated.

  ‘Werknesh, relax! It’s the same God. It just makes things easier economically, if I keep an open mind . . .’

  ‘You get money from the Muslims at Ramadan if you happen to be Muslim.’

  ‘Yes! They choose to give it to me . . . the poor. I am the poor. I can’t stop them from doing that . . . it’s the marvellous generosity of the Muslims. If the Orthodox Christians could compete with Ramadan, well . . . who knows? Of course, Christmas and Easter are monumental for the Orthodox Christians, and this helps to spread the goodwill throughout the calendar.’

  Tadelle found original ways to make enough money for himself and his chat. No shame or embarrassment emerged from his words or manner: no sense of dignity ever sought to trip him. Becoming a local politician would be a natural progression.

  ‘Where’s that woman?’ asked my mother aggressively.

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘You know who I mean . . . the ex who came to the house. What did she want?’

  ‘Ah! You should have been a little friendlier, Werknesh. Life is smoother that way.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Nothing! I am called to prayer,’ he announced piously.

  ‘There’s something, isn’t there, Tadelle?’

  ‘No!’ he fired back too quickly.

  ‘Come round to my new house . . . I’ve brewed some highly alcoholic tella . . . okay?’ offered Mum, apparently forgetting Tadelle’s two knives, his tired neck and his ­winning-football-team approach to religion.

  ‘Okay. Why not? And in the meantime . . . could you lend an old friend a couple of birr?’

  Surprisingly, Mum gave it to him.

  ‘I shall pray for you ardently, Werknesh . . . your birr helps rush me to that cause.’

  ‘And to chat-eating,’ added my mother to his back.

  Tadelle skipped along the footbridge with a bounce, white cap wobbling precariously on the side of his skull. I wished it would topple onto the tracks below but luck was running with the Boiled Egg. My mother, however, was deep in thought, unable to take a step forward. I tried to snap her out of it with distracting detail.

  ‘Mum! Henok needs a poo!’

  That would surely take her mind off all the problems. Henok bawled helpfully. She grabbed us and we rushed along the footbridge. As we veered right, into our new neighbourhood, we tripped and scrambled on the rugged track comprising a stew of awkward rocks lodged between ditches of greenish-black mire and slime-lined puddles. Local kids chuckled as we fell. Our new ‘street’ was not designed for rushing.

  ‘Come on, Henok, we’re nearly there, good boy . . . you can be the first to use the toilet in our new house!’ I said encouragingly.

  We followed the procession of furniture through a dark green corrugated iron door into a tiny yard, leading without breath through another doorway into our new house.

  It took a few seconds to adjust our eyes: it was like an instant nightfall.

  ‘Mum, where’s the house?’ I asked.

  ‘I think we’re in it,’ she said uncertainly.

  Our possessions were dumped in the middle of a blackened hovel of walls made from railway sleepers, underneath a loose corrugated iron roof. Fortunately, strong winds rarely visited Addis.

  ‘Isn’t this just a shed to leave our things?’ I asked hopefully. It couldn’t actually be our house.

  ‘This is the house,’ said Mum, now certain.

  ‘But there’s no window.’

  ‘It’s fine, we’ll leave the door open and use the electric light.’

  ‘Where’s the toilet, Mum?’

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘Henok needs it, remember?’

  ‘I don’t know where the toilet is.’

  She shuffled through the gloom towards the back of the house. This took no more than a moment. ‘There’s no toilet.’

  Taken aback, I tried to look hard at Mum but I could barely see her.

  ‘No toilet?’ This was an alien concept to me. ‘So what do we do?’

  I began to panic. Maybe we could never go to the toilet again? We’d surely die in agonising convulsions. Hanging onto pee for an extra five minutes is painful enough but to do it forever . . .

  ‘It’s outside, around the corner,’ said an uncle, picking up Henok under his arm.

  ‘Outside . . . oh God, help this boy,’ muttered Mum.

  This would be a challenge for Henok, with his deep fear of outside public toilets. As my uncle carried him off, Henok began to scream. Warily, I looked at Mum again. She was weeping but I beamed at her excitedly, a moment of clarity suddenly upon me.

  ‘Mum, it’s okay . . . if we need money, we can change religion, like Tadelle. If we do that, we can buy a new house with a toilet. Easy! But don’t forget to tell Dad so he knows where to find us, if he ever returns. What do you think, Mum?’

  Her head dropped and her crying intensified. I changed my mind about really looking hard at her. I couldn’t bear to lay eyes on such a miserable hunched-up creature. It was a shock. My mother’s dignity was cruelly stranded in the lovely old villa on the other side of the bridge, together with Dad’s charity, the stout maid and our blissful past as a complete family.

  Familiar chairs and tables gradually ambled into the new shack like a reunion of childhood friends who had jumped into old age in the blink of a lifetime: all recognisable but suddenly depressingly ragged within the scenery of a slum. In the vill
a, nobody had noticed.

  Within an hour, the new residence was almost too full with tatty furniture for anything else. When the sacred coffee stool finally arrived, space was cleared around it: my mother hastily sat down and arranged a coffee ceremony for the seven or eight cousins and friends hanging around, all young men hoping for some recompense for the furniture removal. Squatting on a grubby floor and supping freshly brewed coffee was the best we could offer.

  My mother roasted some beans over the small charcoal fire, wafting the aroma into the faces of those gathered around her. This is customary. After a few minutes of light roasting, she energetically pounded the darkened sweet-smelling beans with the mortar and pestle, scooping them into the jubena, the clay coffee pot, along with hot water. We waited for it to boil up. At least three small cups would be consumed by each guest, some preferring to add butter and salt to the hot drink. Nobody could decline.

  As difficult as everything was now, my mother seemed to be visibly relaxing as chatter and coffee warmed our new home. If God was preoccupied elsewhere, there would still be the coffee ceremony for solving problems and elevating moods.

  A rattling knock on the dark green door took my mother outside.

  ‘Ah! Tadelle . . .’

  ‘Werknesh, sweet Werknesh! Welcome to my neighbourhood!’ he cheered too loudly.

  ‘Are you merkinyalo?’ asked my mother, instantly recognising the signs of a chat high.

  ‘I’m . . . oh, yes, good good chat . . . and I’m pushed for time . . . picking up new television . . . got to go . . .’

  ‘New television? How can you afford that . . . ah yes, the fruits of Ramadan. Won’t you stay for a swig of tella, Tadelle, and we can talk for a while?’

  ‘Give me milk and I might find you some words,’ he stuttered. Milk was the usual remedy for chat-induced frenzy.

  ‘Milk? I don’t have milk. So, tella then?’

  ‘Tella . . . yes . . . close enough to milk.’

  Tadelle slumped on the floor and swigged a mug of the heavy beer.

  ‘Werknesh . . . how you manage now . . . no work, three kids, no money?’

  ‘Lemma’s railway pension . . . should be available after a few months . . . just waiting for the court to clear it, just a formality. Until then, we rely on help from family and friends.’

  ‘But Werknesh, maybe it’s not coming . . . the pension . . . you got to be nice to the ex-wife . . . maybe she’s not ex . . .’

  ‘Eh? What are you talking about? Who is this woman?’

  ‘Nothing! Nobody! But she’s poor . . . from the countryside. Lemma left her there when he came to Addis . . . left her with family . . . she got a boy . . .’

  ‘A boy? So what? I don’t owe her anything. She and Lemma divorced, went their own ways . . . what was she doing back here before he died? That was hideous,’ she said, glancing at me furtively. Did she say ‘died’? Before Dad died?

  ‘Werknesh . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘More tella . . .’

  My mother obliged him. I could sense her unease.

  ‘Listen, Werknesh,’ he slurred, ‘don’t want to see you hurt . . . but . . . but!’

  He laughed hysterically.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But! Boy is Lemma’s son . . . she need the pension for him . . . very poor . . . still got marriage certificate . . . she married him before you . . . she got the rights . . . but I don’t know . . . the court will decide . . . I’m here to drink.’

  ‘Hoh! I knew there was something. You can get out of my house now,’ said Mum.

  ‘See you after Ramadan . . . don’t worry, I’ll be Orthodox Christian again. You’ll love me and vote for me like the rest of the sheep.’

  Mum and I watched him meander a few metres along the track. He entered a particularly filthy-fronted house. I thought animals lived in there.

  ‘I live here!’ he shouted back victoriously at Mum, laughing stupidly but losing concentration on the jutting stones. He stumbled and bashed his head on a protruding corner next to his front door.

  ‘Bye, Boiled Egg!’ I shouted.

  Mum slammed shut our door. I had a morbid curiosity to know what he had done to himself. I thought the ‘egg’ might have been broken.

  ‘What about the ex-wife, Werknesh? You believe that?’ someone asked.

  ‘Lemma divorced her before marrying me so I can’t see the problem. His mother witnessed the divorce. Why should the ex-wife get the pension?’

  She left it hanging. Nobody spoke more. It was late: everyone shuffled out, the long day complete.

  ‘Mum, why did you give Boiled Egg so much tella?’ I asked, hoping to delay my bedtime in the new hovel.

  ‘To get some truth out of him.’

  ‘What’s wrong with coffee, Mum? I thought coffee could do everything . . .’

  ‘No, my baby, not true.’

  That was a surprise. I thought coffee was second only to holy water.

  ‘What happens if you don’t like the truth?’ I pressed.

  ‘Well . . . it’s usually good to know the truth . . .’

  ‘And sometimes better to lie . . . yes, Mum? Like Tadelle pretending to be Muslim.’

  ‘Wrong!’

  She slapped me hard on the leg. That bitter slap was not enough to pre-empt a lifetime of lying.

  ‘Lying is bad! It’s in the Ten Commandments!’ she shouted.

  ‘But Mummy . . . you lied about Dad. Said to me that he went to Dire Dawa for work, but said to Boiled Egg that he died,’ I spluttered. ‘You lied to one of us!’

  ‘Hoh! You’re too sharp. That was to protect you . . .’

  How could I be too sharp? How was she protecting me when she had just smacked me? How could my father be dead? Who was this newly wretched woman? I hated Mum then as much as Madame now, but I see a clear difference: my mother’s unattractiveness was elicited by poverty and grief, Madame’s by wealth and greed. One had a better excuse than the other.

  Ramadan (653 days left)

  It’s early October, on the International Calendar. This means Ramadan on this year’s Muslim Calendar. My host family is Sunni Muslim but, with the exception of Abdul, the people residing in this apartment are not obvious with their religious devotion. Abdul prays five times a day, as expected, while the others are far more discreet with their worship. That is, until Ramadan, when I am at once surrounded by Islam’s most dedicated of disciples for thirty days of undiminished commitment. If they want to do it this way, let them, but please do not drag me into it.

  ‘Maybe you do fasting with us for Ramadan,’ suggests Madame.

  It starts tomorrow. I have no interest in being a Muslim. I’m hungry enough without extra fasting. Fasting for a month would probably kill me, completely.

  ‘I’m not a Muslim, Madame, so how can I?’ I reason, as I scrub Madame’s fingers and toes clean of nail varnish, which must not be seen during Ramadan.

  ‘Easy. You just eat when we eat . . . between sunset and sunrise . . . food is plentiful . . . be better if you on same schedule as us . . . many leftovers.’

  Wait, this is interesting. A month of good leftover food beckons if I pretend to be a Muslim. But I risk becoming Tadelle, with his two knives. I’m sorry, Mum, but now I will do anything for leftovers.

  ‘Do I have to pray, Madame?’

  ‘You can if you want it, but not excuse for doing less work.’

  So there’s no point.

  ‘I’ll concentrate on the fasting, Madame, and eat all the leftovers.’

  On the first day, everyone wakes early and worships at the dawn prayer, the women praying in their white hijab tunics, headscarves and quiet contemplation. Before they leave the house, Madame and Nazia change into their regular outdoor clothes, though more downbeat than usual. Modern is exchanged for modest. They seem humbled and eve
n nice. Shafeek is dressed in a typical stylish suit. I eat breakfast the moment Shafeek has gone, my fast immediately and purposely broken. I drink water regularly through the morning and take an early lunch. Nobody can expect me to fast and work.

  But I have to labour harder than ever during the day, preparing the evening’s iftar, the daily fast-breaking meal. By sunset, a banquet has to be ready for seven weakened disciples who have consumed not a drop of liquid or crumb of food since dawn. There will be seven courses, commencing with the traditional handful of dates to break the fast. It will last for two hours. They will sleep until half an hour before dawn. Those who need extra sustenance – Shafeek in particular – rise for suhoor, a final meal before fasting recommences with sight of the new day’s sun. Food also has to be ready in advance for suhoor.

  Shafeek is first through the front door, not quite the usual charging hippo. He creeps up to me, face drawn, lips dry. This dramatic transformation disorients me.

  ‘Hello, Meron, how are you?’ he whispers.

  He’s asking me?

  ‘Erm . . . okay but tired, really tired . . .’

  ‘Take a rest.’

  ‘Thank you, Mister . . . but no time.’

  He will not be so generous of spirit if his iftar is delayed by even a minute at sunset.

  They take it in turns to pray in the lounge: there is only one prayer mat. Shafeek insists on praying at exactly the prescribed daily prayer times. The others follow after him.

  When Madame and Nazia are home at their usual time – mid-afternoon – I am laying out cutlery and plates on the balcony. Seven courses for seven people: all other duties abandoned.

  ‘How your fasting going, Meron?’ asks Madame.

  ‘It’s hard, Madame . . . I’m parched . . . and so hungry,’ I say, letting my tongue dangle for effect.

  Nazia’s dark eyes flash the strike of two lit matches.

  ‘Mum, what are you doing? Meron isn’t a Muslim . . . she’s not eating iftar with us . . . this is our special time. How can she fast and work? It’s not practical,’ says Nazia, reading my mind with extra-large subtitles.