1987 – Nazreth, Ethiopia

It was a bright Saturday morning. My brother Nur, and I were taking turns at skipping rope. A big pot of water was being heated on the coal burner in the front yard. My mother came out and poured the boiling water into a plastic bucket. She filled the pot with cold water and put it back to heat. She took the bucket of boiled water to the tap and mixed cold water until it was the right temperature and called me inside for my weekly bath.

I stripped my clothes off and stepped inside the cut out metal oil barrel, which we used as a bathtub. My mother was quite as usual. She lathered a wet face towel with a Lux, her preferred bar soap and scrubbed my body. She rinsed my body with water and repeated the scrub again. Finally she wrapped a towel around me and helped me step out. Just then I heard my fathers voice greeting our neighbours, as he stepped inside with Nur and a strange boy slightly smaller than me.

I will never forget my mother’s expression when my father cleared his voice and said. ‘Kids, this is Leul. He is your brother’.

Years later, whenever I remember this incident, ‘Crestfallen’ is the nearest expression I could come up with to describe my mother’s expression that day. She didn’t utter a word. She simply got up and went to the bedroom but her expression said it all. Her shame, humiliation and dejection were all too apparent. I hated that strange boy for causing my mother so much pain. I hated my father as well, but as usual I could never stay angry with him for long.

That was the first time I went into my parents’ bedroom and packed a bag for my mother, and left it at on the bed. At the age of seven, I wanted her to leave instead of living in misery. The next morning, I found my mother cooking breakfast as usual. My father had left the house early. When I went to their bedroom, I saw the bag unpacked and stowed away. I wondered what made my mother so complying.

[image error]My maternal grandmother was a force to be reckoned with.  Historically, Harari are the elite tribe in Harar. My grandmother however, born of a prominent Argoba Muslim-Oromo mother and a rich Kotu farmer father, still had a good stead in Harari society. Although the Oromo were known as an inferior tribe in Harar, my grandmother was known as a wise woman in the community. Widowed relatively young, she was a matriarch in her own right, and lived in a small town located near city of Harar, in Eastern Ethiopia. She often told the story of how her own mother torched the Egyptians who burned her village.

Whenever my grandmother told this story her strong deep voice assumes a melodic tilt, as if she wanted to sing praises of her mother.

‘Although the Egyptians Occupied Harar for a short time, their rule was harsh and cruel. The Emirate of Harar has been an independent territory for over two hundred years. Like all emirates we were technically under the protection of the Ottoman Turks until the Khedives occupied it in 1818. Then they started treating our people, as if they were slaves. They annulled our ownership of properties. They often found excuses to flog our people with a Kurbash, a heavy hide whip, or cut their hands. Fortunately, the Englise defeated the Khedivate and ordered the Egyptian garrisons in Harar to withdraw.

 Before departure, these cruel masters wanted to give us a memorable farewell. They burned some local villages including a village that my parents’ used to have a large tenure in. Our people were furious. They organized themselves and went to have their vengeance. While the men were away, my mother assembled the women and ordered them to build a grass hut. When they brought the leaders with their hands and legs tied, she requested for them to be placed inside the freshly made grass hut and torched it.’

It is a shame that my mother did not take after her strong maternal linage. Instead, I think she grew up being intimidated by the powerful women in her family that she ended up being timid. ‘Poor Ima’!

(Excerpt from my work in progress – Part One: Laila).