Addis Ababa was hardly recognizable, a city casting itself into a new mold: taller, more modern, more planned and plotted. I�d gotten used to crossing construction sites with big boulders and chiseled stone, so I was surprised when I tripped. Looking down, I saw a reclining man reaching for me. His head leaned toward his legs, his hands outstretched and clasping. He looked familiar, though it was unlikely that I actually knew him � I lived in the States now, and rarely made it back. It was hard to see him clearly in the long afternoon shadow of the cathedral. I knelt beside him to make sure he was okay.

�Are you hurt?� I asked, and tried to lift his head. I thought about calling for help, but he started talking without any introduction.

�Listen, my child.� His voice was barely a whisper so I had to bend down. �One night near the end of the rainy season, I got caught in a storm,� he told me.

I reached into my shoulder bag to offer him some water, but he shook off the gesture and kept talking.

�I found myself jumping over the flooded gutters as I ran from the minibus toward home with my jacket over my head to keep myself a little drier, but you know how it is with the rainy season � a losing battle. The whole bus ride, I had to fight for space next to a boy and his damp, smelly goat; that boy showed no respect for his elders standing next to me like that. I was tired, and there was the boy and his soggy little beast, and the rain, and outside there were rows of yellow Mercedes, which I always thought I�d look quite good driving.�

I was surprised by this deluge of narrative coming from a stranger, and then tried to do what I thought I should: I felt his forehead, which wasn�t hot. I checked his pulse, which didn�t race. I rolled up my sleeves and sat down beside him. I tried telling him to take it easy, but he had more to say.

�So that night was � how do they say it in the movies?�� a dark and stormy night,� he went on in English.

�A dark and stormy night,� I repeated. �That�s what they say.�

�Besides the rain, the power outage made it hard to see except for the bursts of lightning that lit up the street, lit up the homes, lit the acacia trees on the hillside. The lightning flashed just as I was about to take out my keys and open the gate, and that�s when I saw her: Marta Kebede standing under a big black umbrella, looking the same as the day she was arrested back in 1980. I hadn�t heard of her or seen her since, though I�d thought of her often, of course.�

With the words �of course,� I knew I had to interrupt, because I thought, This man has mistaken me for someone else. He said �of course� like I knew him well, like none of this should come as a surprise to me, and on top of that, the way he leaned his head close and whispered into my ear felt intimate, as did the soft way he grasped my hand. The only thing I could think of worse than unrequited intimacy was mistaken intimacy.

�Sir, I think you have me confused with someone else,� I told the man. �Just rest. I think you�re hurt. Let me get you a car. I could give you some money.� When he declined, I looked again for a wound or sign of injury, but couldn�t find any.

He didn�t seem moved by my concern and just said, �If you have a minute... I just need to rest a minute. If you have a minute, I will take that.�

I didn�t really have time to spare. This was a short visit to see relatives, and almost every moment was accounted for. Yet I felt like I should stay with him just a little longer.

He didn�t wait for my response and simply continued his story: �So I�d just seen Marta, the first time in decades, and there she was, caught in the middle of a storm. The lightning stopped for a moment and I could no longer see her silhouette. I tried to speak into the darkness, but thunder smothered my hello. I jogged toward where she had stood, moving with both excitement and hesitation, for the sight of her made me feel conflicting emotions: elation, dread, and also grief. Isn�t that the way it is with grief, though? First we mourn the grief we bear, and then later we mourn the grief we�ve caused.�

As he said these words, the helplessness on his face that I�d taken for kindness seemed to vanish. I thought that this switch was strange, that his emotions could change so easily, so suddenly and completely.

�So that night on that dark street, I called out again to Marta, saying the only words I could think of: �Let�s go for dinner.� It was an awkward thing to say, but once I had said something, I started saying everything. �It�s me, Gedeyon. Don�t you remember? We were students in the same class at university � you were getting your degree in pharmacology, and I was studying chemistry. I asked you out on a date the first week, and you said no, and you made fun of my shoes, saying that they were farmer shoes, and that you wouldn�t date a boy with farmer shoes because your father would kick you out of the house and your mother would drag you to the priest and drown you in holy water. I saved up a whole half year to buy new shoes, really nice ones, and I asked you out again, and you didn�t know who I was. I told you I was going to be a professor and you said you wouldn�t go out with me, but this time you didn�t bother with a reason. I guess I must have loved you. How else could I explain the lengths I went to get your attention, your approval? I wish it hadn�t happened that way, and I still wonder if we would have turned out differently if things happened some other way.� Isn�t that a lot to say into the darkness?� Now he gripped my arm and lifted himself onto the boulder to sit upright.

�Yes, it is a lot to say.� In any light, I thought.

�If she had acknowledged me, if things had gone a little differently between us, maybe I wouldn�t have accused her. Did you ever live here during the Derg?� he asked, not giving me much time to consider what he�d just revealed. �I think you didn�t. I think you lived somewhere Western, some wealthy country with peace and freedom.�

�I know the Derg,� I replied. �I was a child of the Derg, born of that era.�

Gedeyon shook his head. �Those of you who left here when you were young, without a scratch, and had the luxury of living somewhere else don�t know what some of us carry. You know what the Derg technically is, but you don�t truly know. You know the Derg as a definition, a Cold War junta that lasted too long and did too much harm. But those of us who got to truly know the Derg, who knew it as an uninvited guest dropping in on each meal and in every interaction, well...�

I felt my face flush, and now it was the grip of guilt that kept me there as he went on.

�I had been tortured by the Derg � that�s how I got to know it. Some of the students avoided school back then to reduce the risk of being arrested and just stayed home. But I was poor. I went to school every day, whether there was a demonstration or the threat of arrest or nothing at all because we got free lunch at the university, and if I didn�t go, I didn�t eat all day. It was a simple fact of life. So I went to school every day and was arrested, and who knows why back then. Maybe I had a friend or associate who was suspicious, or maybe my hair was too long or too short, or my fingernails were too clean or too dirty. Maybe it was on account of my nice new shoes � who knows? But when the Derg interrogated me, lashing my feet, asking me to name names to get myself free, I gave them Marta�s name. She was wealthy, had power, and I thought she could escape, that she�d have a better chance of surviving it than I would. And it�s not that I hated her, but she�d stung me. Marta had stung me. Those subtle stings to pride � they�re worse than the big ego blows because they�re not like some obvious pebble you can remove from your shoe. They are like shards that you know are there but can�t find and can�t get rid of. Oh, Marta, I wish she�d never made fun of my shoes.�

�So did Marta accept your dinner invitation during the thunderstorm?� I asked, trying to keep him awake since I saw his eyelids beginning to droop.

�Well, I kept asking her to dinner, but she didn�t say anything. I stood there waiting for another bolt of lightning, and when it came, I saw her far down the street talking to someone, but I didn�t know who. The dark, the rain � everything was obscured. I approached her cautiously, ducking behind a tree, waiting for the right moment when I could finally go up to her and try to speak again. After another strike of lightning, she was alone at the minibus stop where I�d just come from. I walked over and stood next to her tall, illuminated figure. I just stared, hoping she would recognize me and start up a conversation. She eventually turned toward me, even smiled, and said, �Good evening.� She offered to share her umbrella, so I shifted closer to her. But she didn�t seem to know who I was.�

�You said you last saw her in 1980? That�s a long time ago,� I said.

�Not long enough to forget a friend.� The way Gedeyon twisted his lips with spite made me think this was a man of impossible expectations. �She should have remembered,� he said. �The thing is, she has always been on my mind. I wrapped all this guilt up around Marta, all this significance and longing; so much so that I could recognize her anywhere, even in the middle of a blackout with just a flash of lighting to reveal her face. It never occurred to me that her feelings wouldn�t mirror mine, at least a little.�

�So what did you do then?� I asked, hoping he�d just wished her luck and walked away, but I already knew him well enough to know that he hadn�t. And I couldn�t walk away myself because his story now had a hold on me.

He continued: �I responded to Marta, �Good evening to you as well,� and added, �Don�t I know you?� I thought that maybe she just hadn�t given me a proper look yet, but when she turned and looked me up and down with that judgment-filled face, she said, �No, I do not believe we have met.�

�We began to talk. I didn�t say much, just listened. She said she was going to stop by church to give thanks for how life had turned around for her. I realized this was my opportunity to ask about her life � maybe she would have a flash of recollection then. She told me some general details. She said there was a time she�d been in prison during the Derg, but that was then. I told her I had been thrown in prison too, by mistake, and she said, �What a shame.� She leaned a little closer to me, so I got the courage to ask why she�d been arrested, and she deflected, saying, �Oh, I don�t remember, and besides, does it even matter?� �Of course it matters,� I said. �Oh, I don�t know,� she replied. �They�d target you for the most absurd things.� She shrugged as if she didn�t want to give it much thought. I imagined exactly what they must have said to her anyway. They�d accused her of being a bourgeois princess, more interested in the state of her closet than the very state in which she lived, skipping rallies to do her hair and dodging speeches to read fashion magazines. That�s what they might have said to her because that�s what I�d told them. That she was a nonbeliever, a threat to the cause. Those were the words I�d used to trade her freedom for my own. It had to be done.�

I didn�t know what to say to that.

�I�m sure you�d rather not be here.� He stared at me with despair. �You left and avoided these difficult truths. You haven�t had to see the heavy weight some of us carry around. Do you think I�m ashamed of having survived the way I did? Why should I be?�

I didn�t defend myself; what had I done?

�I never said I�m a good man,� he went on. �I was just a regular man, but the Derg, it made me... it made me and it unmade me. It took a regular man and then heightened my worst instincts. It gave me the permission to be worse than I was ever meant to be or would have been in another place, another time. It gave my sins a platform, gave them cover, gave them cause. And for whatever reason I still can�t explain, I took the Derg up on this opportunity to abandon my good senses and do as I pleased. I believe � really believe � there was good in me once. I guess I don�t know that for sure, but I think it�s true. I think I was decent once. I could have been a regular kind of man. Maybe I didn�t have the courage to be better, or didn�t have the luxury to be better. I couldn�t avoid the hard choices. I was here, made here, unmade here.�

He clasped my hand and held it closer, and the warmth of his breath on my skin began to repulse me. Why did I feel like I owed this stranger something? He seemed frail, and despite his bitterness toward me, I felt like he needed me. I felt his forehead again, which was a bit hot. He put his cheek to my hand, pursing his dry lips.

�So the rain was just pouring down now, and the cars were whizzing by loudly, and Marta was almost shouting, telling me she�d not only survived the experience of prison, but that it also made her more self-reliant and tough. As awful as prison was, she had to invent ways to endure what she thought would be unbearable, what she thought would break her. She said she struggled but eventually created a space to be calm within herself. Gradually she was able to create a space to let joy enter her life as well, even there in prison � they were the most fleeting moments, but they were something. She found a way to make those fleeting moments last. She found a way to forget, which was the hardest accomplishment of her life. And when she learned how to do that, she found a way toward purpose. She hadn�t cared about school before because she hadn�t cared about much, she said. But she made a choice to get educated, and she was able to do it. The Derg loved to throw intellectuals in jail � the students, the professors, the writers � and the prisons during the Derg were the best schools in the country, as some say. Marta also met her husband there, and when they were both released or escaped or otherwise got free, they fled together to America, swept up in that wave of refugees, and landed safely on a shore called New England where they went back to school and started a family. She got a good job and didn�t look back on that time except to acknowledge that she was lucky in the end.�

Gedeyon stopped to catch his breath, and I said, �Well that�s about as good an outcome as you could hope for.�

�You could say that.� He pressed his head to my hand once more. I could feel his fever now. He told me that he�d forgiven himself for the wrongs of the Derg, and damn anyone who judged him for that. �Damn you too, if you�re judging,� he said. But he hadn�t found a way to forgive himself for his other sins, and I saw then that he was making me his confessor.

�Is there someone I can take you to talk to?� I asked him.

�Would you rather me tell this to a friend? A friend who I want to respect and remember me well? Or tell my priest, who I have known all my life and who I respect? My family, who will carry forth my name? My colleagues in whose esteem I hope to remain? Would you rather me call it out from the rooftops and confess to the city?... Or should I tell a stranger visiting from halfway across the world who looks like she doesn�t make the return trip all that often? And who has managed to be a child of the Derg without carrying the same load, but who should shoulder it as well?�

And he paused, and I saw the evidence I�d been searching for all along, an empty bottle of pills falling from his pocket, and I couldn�t tell if these had been to help him or if they were what made him sick. I couldn�t even tell if he�d taken them.

When I asked him, he just said, �Listen, child, to my last words.�

What could I do but hear him out and share the burden of his secret now? I knew if I said nothing, he�d continue, and he did.

�I asked Marta, �What was it like, being a refugee?� �It�s not for the faint of heart,� she said, sweeping her short curly hair off her face with her left hand. The strands caught the light and shined, and I thought I�d never seen her look so sophisticated, so strong, so completely out of reach. I was drawn to her, so I pulled in a little closer to listen.

�She told me, �Not even my mother knew where I�d gone when I fled Ethiopia, not at first, but eventually I was able to send a letter, and then we corresponded as much as we could. When my family finally saw me after thirty-five years, they told me how good I looked for someone who�d come back from the dead.�

�I was gazing at Marta, clenching my fist so tight I felt my fingernails bending back, so I put my hands in my pockets and looked at the beams coming off the car headlights, circling her like she was encased in jewels, her body haloed by the glow of the streetlight behind her. She is still something, I thought. Not just someone who has reclaimed what�s lost, but someone somehow ennobled by loss. I don�t know how to explain this, but I looked at her like she was either my proudest creation or my most wretched punishment. I don�t exactly know what I felt, but with false pride I told Marta about my own life, the basics: I was a chemistry and math professor, had a wife once, but it didn�t last long. No children, my family mostly gone. I lived freely. Mine was what I called a content and unencumbered existence with routines, stability, and modest comforts, which was more than I�d been born with, and so I felt successful, for what was success if not to die with more than what you had coming into the world?

�Marta said I must be proud of all I was able to accomplish despite my time in prison. She added, �Sometimes, things even out in the end. Karma, justice, and all of that.� �Like an equation,� I replied. �That we�re always balancing.�

�She said something I couldn�t hear over the rain, so I stepped a little closer, and when she craned her head to see if the minibus was on its way, I fixated again on the light glistening off her hair. I reached out to her by instinct. A car sped by and honked and I pulled myself back, which sent her umbrella out into the darkness, as if a strong gust of wind had caught it. Marta lost her step. She slipped on the muddy curb and fell onto the street, her ankle stuck in the gutter.

�She reached out, and I leaned toward her. She needed me � for once. So I reached for her, my hand nearly touching hers, and Marta whispered, �Kind stranger.�

�And I froze, because even now, especially now, the Marta of my dreams and nightmares and fantasies, haunting Marta who had scolded me for wearing those old shoes, who had failed to recognize my achievement getting the new pair, who had talked to me for half an hour that very night and still had no idea who I was, now called me a stranger.

�I realized then, as she held her hand out to me, that she hadn�t even introduced herself that night, hadn�t told me her name, nor asked for mine. I was a stranger and always would be to her. I was frozen and the cars honked their horns, unable to stop, the beams of the headlights closing in, overtaking her, and she lunged desperately for my hand, almost a helping hand, almost a friend.

�When the ambulance came, there was really nothing left to do. I knew I could say with some degree of honesty that it had been an accident � a horn, the umbrella, Marta stumbling, me somehow not being able to get to her in time. I try to make sense of that moment. I thought it was my chance to leave the past behind. But that was not the way, was it?�

He was posing a question, but not to me, whose name he�d never asked, a stranger who was there for him in his moment of need, something he didn�t seem to recognize.

�Tell me what you think of my story,� he said, and I didn�t speak, didn�t move as he leaned forward and rubbed the dirt off his shoes, caring for them like they were his salvation.

Meskerem didn�t believe in fate.

Fate was one of those silly things her Orthodox aunties whispered about in their singsong voices, starry-eyed and full of desperate, ill-advised hope for something, anything. Fate was for people who had abandoned control, the last refuge of the weak and uninspired. Fate was for women who didn�t know any better.

So when the call came from back home that the aunt who had named her � the great-aunt who shared her birthday � had died, she felt no grand cosmic realignment, only a churning grief, the kind that empties out your stomach and makes unseasoned mincemeat of its remains.

Almaz had loved Meskerem with a kind of uncommon, unreasonable fervor that bordered on desperation. From the moment she first learned of her youngest niece�s pregnancy, the stern woman had softened her heart for the child no one else wanted. This child would be born into blame; this child would need protection.

The ostriches are so vivid to me still, as if I had photographed them with my heart. If it weren�t for their small bulbous heads and huge round middles, they would have blended in with the iron bars of the palace fence that ran the length of the avenue that my mother drove down daily. They used to observe us, standing in twos and threes, or alone, deep in the tall grass; willowy creatures as mysterious as everything else in the palace compound beyond that fence.

I never noticed them until my mother pointed them out, to help me power through my terror of a rise halfway down the avenue, a speed bump that to six-year-old me was pure torture because on every lead-up to that momentary bounce, I was horrified that my heart would fly out of my mouth. As we approached the drop to that avenue, I would beg my mother to let me get out and walk. She convinced me that the ostriches came and stood near the fence every day just to see if I would be brave once again. It worked. Every time I survived the bump with my heart intact, I would lock eyes with one segon and feel all its approval.

But one afternoon during my first year of school, I forgot all about the ostriches because I saw a man sprawled on the ground where I would normally brace for the jolt. After we passed him, I watched him receding through the rear window. He was lying on his side on the lane closest to the palace sidewalk. His legs were bent as if he were running. A newspaper hooked to his shirt, flapping his chest. He was yawning in his sleep and his hands were outstretched. Maybe he had been reaching for something before sleep overtook him, or he was holding that thing in his dream.

My mother usually kept her window down, resting her left elbow on the edge and driving with only her right hand. After passing far enough down the avenue that I could barely see the man on the ground and I began to wonder if he had been there at all, we emerged from the shadows of the trees and into the light, crossing a short bridge over a dirty stream. I turned and saw that my mother had rolled up her window. She held the steering wheel tight with both hands and leaned forward as if there were something written on the hood of the car that she had to read.

Seeing people on the street was nothing new in Addis Ababa, but I had never seen one asleep on the asphalt.

�Why was he sleeping there?� I asked.

My mother braked suddenly and shot out her right hand toward the passenger seat, as if my voice, coming from the back, was an animal that had darted in front of the car. Slowly, she pulled back her hand and picked up speed past the church, racing across Revolution Square without checking for merging cars from five other roads. Overlooking the square was a big poster of three Russian men in profile. We were on our way to pick up my father from work. His office was in the direction of their gaze, but my mother took the road behind them, which leads to the airport.

�I missed seeing my segon today,� I said.

Realizing her mistake, she turned onto another street. A tear rolled down the side of her face.

�It�s okay, I�ll see it tomorrow,� I said. Her tears multiplied. �Won�t I?�

�Sit quiet.�

We crossed the square again, this time slowly and carefully, passing under the billboard of the three Russian men who watched us disappear up the road that led to my father�s office.

Once there, he stepped into the car and kissed my mother hello where the tears had been. �You�re late.�

�We took a wrong turn.�

�I saw a sleeping man on the road.�

Before my father could tell me for the thousandth time not to interrupt adults, my mother said, staring ahead, �Expect us ten minutes later from now on.�

My father forgot about me but said what I was thinking. �Why?�

�I�m not driving past the palace anymore. I�ll find another way.�

�But that would take longer. There�s no sense in that, with the gas rations.�

She shrugged.

�But that�s the quickest way home.�

My father waited. I knew that wait. It meant that their conversation was one response away from becoming a fight. All it needed was for her to say words sharper than his. Unlike other adults, my parents never hid their fights from anyone. They believed that disagreeing was normal and good, and always kissed afterward, no matter who won.

But my mother didn�t respond that day. She let the silence be. It lingered even after my father rolled down his window to the sound of the city.

They nicknamed him Abba Dabo for the bread he offered the poor each Sunday. Devout as dawn itself, he would rise, say a prayer, iron one of his two good shirts, and climb the steep hill to Guardian of the World Church. He nodded kindly at the white-shawled women who sold candles along the road, while two of his little orphans struggled to keep pace behind him, lugging a golden loaf the size and weight of a table.

Abba: Father. Dabo: Bread.

The drunkards in the tavern, still up from their endless night, would feel a rare sweet lump of sorrow in their throats as they watched them pass.

�There goes a good man,� one would say.

�You mean a smart man,� came the reply.

�What�s the difference?� another would say.

�If you don�t know, you must be a good man.�

Back and forth they would jest until the warmth of a new day covered their mouths with sleep.

Waves of progress were crashing over the city, but washed along the gates of Guardian of the World Church was what the tide had left behind: legless old men dragging themselves through the dirt, blind girls nursing howling babies, listless boys from the country, all begging for spare change from the sweet-smelling churchgoers who had come to pray away their sins. Every week, Abba Dabo would stand before the hungry and unveil the loaf from its muslin cloth. It drew them in like iron filings to a magnet. They would tear eager handfuls so quickly that the taste almost immediately became a memory.

�Come with me,� Abba Dabo would tell the children. �We will feed you like this. We will love you as one of God�s chosen, and we will find you an earthly home.� A cloud of wispy white hair ringed his shiny pate.

�Like the halo of an angel,� said the churchgoers, who bowed and blessed him as they passed.

The children who returned with Abba Dabo to his orphanage had traveled from the parched villages of Arsi and the flooded farms of Gurage. They came from the fertile Omo Valley where foreign investment had bared its teeth. Most would only stay a few weeks before they were lured away by the promise of the sprawling city below, never to be seen again. Only the most desperate stayed with him long enough to find homes elsewhere in the wealthier parts of town or with families abroad. Of course, many of the children were suspicious of his generosity, casting wary glances at Abba Dabo and quietly leaning against the crumbling stone wall of the church to finish their bread.

�He can keep his love,� they�d say, �but I�ll eat the bread.�

When she spoke, the room filled with yellow. Her tone could paint the whole house in one stroke, walls suddenly blooming with perennials and adey abeba, floors caked in branches of tsid, and corners sprouting with the blue of kiremt rain. The air would become thick and creamy, and if anyone happened to listen to her voice at that specific moment, they would be in awe, as they were most of the time in her presence. It was not what she said that fascinated them, but the way she said things with such elegance, such poise.

Weyzero Fantish did not know this, of course, but she did know a lot of things she ought not to, which was perhaps the most obvious reason for her untimely death. When she was found, the big black eyes of her teenage son Amare were resting on her limp body. She could see a blood clot forming around his neck, and though tears did not rush to his eyes, his fists were clenched as if he were ready to explode and spread himself thinly around the room. Weyzero Fantish saw this and observed the rest of the room: it was still as spotless as she�d left it, but drawers had been opened and closed in a hurry, and the walls no longer resembled the blue of the lake where she was born. Instead, they were sagging with a somber deep green. That was when she knew she would not be coming back.

Weyzero Fantish peered into the boy�s eyes. She could tell he had aged so quickly, so quietly. She had seen this before, the way grief appears suddenly and claws its way into the insides of people without their knowing. It was happening again right in front of her, and this time, she was the cause for such sorrow.

When she looked up, he had found the handgun that was clenched in her left palm; he knew who it belonged to, but she didn�t know yet. Amare released the weapon from her grip and was caught by surprise � his mother�s body was still warm. Weyzero Fantish stood next to him, and for a moment, he turned to her as if he saw her, but she quickly realized he was staring through her, to the walls. He sensed the change in colors too: the blooming buds must have shrunken themselves back into dry seeds. He found the Bible right beside her body. He split the pages open and read the first thing that caught his eye � something about a valley of dry bones. He closed it quickly, grief leaving him and replaced with a shadow that inhabited the hollow sockets of his eyes.

Weyzero Fantish followed him out. Her lean body still fit elegantly into the white dress, her head still wrapped in netela, hands resting on her belly as if she were observing something she had never seen before. Her black eyes darted quickly, right to left to right, long lashes flickering with the rain. It was only midday, and a light drizzle was turning the neighborhood into a grim gray.

For the first time, Weyzero Fantish regarded her son as if he were a stranger. She followed him from behind and noticed the ampleness of his shoulders, marveling at how long his back was. If uncovered, Weyzero Fantish knew she could find entire continents worth of pain on his shoulders alone � the invisible scars of siblings from different families, the bigger scar left from his own father. Amare walked briskly and did not respond to passersby greeting him. They noticed the blue shadow behind him but could not see Weyzero Fantish fluttering in her white dress, walking as quickly as she could, careful not to stain her dress in the viscous mud.

Amare went straight to the house of Weyzero Asnaku, their neighbor and his mother�s close friend. He aimed the gun at the woman, who was staring at him with a horrified look on her face. She demanded to know what he was doing there, and if he had gone crazy. She is arrogant even in her fear, Weyzero Fantish thought.

Amare turned the gun away. He didn�t need to say what they all knew: the gun belonged to Weyzero Asnaku�s husband.

�My husband is not home,� she said.

�Your husband is never home,� Amare replied bitterly. He was referring to the man�s multiple affairs with the women of Yerer Ber, including his mother, Weyzero Fantish.

Weyzero Asnaku insisted that her husband was at work. She told Amare to come back later to get the answers he needed, and suggested that he leave the gun with her, for safety.

Amare was not listening to her. He was looking past her, to the room behind her where the bed was still unmade, and suddenly he smelled it: the scent of a man, reeking of sweat, like a body that has stayed in the sun for too long or got caught in the rain and brought all the elements of the kiremt weather with him into the house. He could smell the colors too: vivid purples and fuchsias, mixed with freshly brewed coffee in an old jebena.

He knew then: Weyzero Asnaku was involved in her own love affair.

Amare put the gun down. Weyzero Fantish left him momentarily to check the bedroom: hiding under the bed she discovered the short figure of Ato Belayneh, the detective. She whispered something in his ear and though he didn�t hear her, he was startled and bumped his head, his breathing suddenly quickening; Weyzero Fantish already knew how much he would lie later to keep his affair a secret.

When she left the detective and returned to the living room, Amare was gone.

I spotted the ad about a night job in Bela Sefer at an Internet caf� in Mercato:

Although I knew I qualified for all the criteria, the sexual element of the job kept me from sleeping well for days prior to calling the agency. The �earn up to $500� was persuasive. After all, I thought, this would be a one-off job. Take the money and leave.

But there was another reason that I repeated to myself on the way to the agency. I observed my city through the window of the bus, the city I had hoped to never have to leave even if buried inside me was a part of myself I was scared to show the light of day.

Looking for a young man with feminine traits. Perhaps then, in my Addis Ababa, I could be my full self. Even if for just one night.

6:15 p.m.

He was sitting at the Terrace Caf� somewhere in Haya Hulet and watching the people going up and down the road. The day had been long, and the setting sun seemed to promise an even longer evening. His body was tired, but his mind continued to churn with a nagging persistence. It had been more than fifty hours since he last slept. He feared if he went home he would not be able to fall asleep and would have to walk through the streets again. Based on how he was feeling now, he was unsure if he would ever sleep again.

The street was bustling with cars and people on their phones. Across the street, there was a private hospital with visitors pouring in and out and tires squealing when they pulled into the parking lot. As he ordered, he remembered that coffee had caffeine, then realized the caffeine would have no purpose since his body had stopped responding to stimulants.

The girl who served him gazed intently at his face as she gently set down the cup. She was expecting him to recognize her, but he was too tired to recognize anyone, and focused his attention on the oily-looking liquid in front of him. When the girl started to walk away, however, he began to notice her, especially how her pants fit her so well that day. Her body almost seemed malleable, taking the shape of the clothes she wore. He stirred the coffee, thinking about how the fabric looked so rigid that it must be abrasive.

When he turned his head toward the street, he sensed that the rhythm of pedestrians and cars had quickened, and his heart began to pick up its pace as if to match the commotion outside. He pressed his hands to his temples and felt them throbbing. I must get some sleep today, he promised himself. The noise was making him more and more tense. Amid the traffic, taxis stopped and lured people with their honks, and people were running around with seemingly no sense of direction. The laughter, the whispers, the woman pulling along her children with runny noses, parking attendants writing on tickets, tacking them under wipers � all of this brought up an urge in him that he had to fight against. He could visualize this so clearly, the bottle of Baro�s dry gin just at his fingertips. While he was fighting the urge, the madness of the street seemed to settle down. He eased into a daydream, thinking of the woman with her lipstick-smudged matchbox and her laughter. He caught himself getting lost in the wheels of memory, and returned his attention to the street.

He saw a group of girls all in the same clothes and walking in perfect sync. He studied them closely, wanting to register them in his catalog of beauty. Then he counted more than a dozen men who had shaved heads � the local skinheads with their shiny scalps. Looking at them from where he sat, he imagined how cold they must be and began to worry because he believed their heads were made of something soft like the shell of a boiled egg.

There wasn�t a single day Woubshet didn�t wake up at dawn grumpy. His neighbors to the left and right of his rented room were like law-appointed alarm clocks: the loud prayers of the woman who just recently converted from Orthodox Christianity to Pente, and the ear-piercing music blasted by the banker who sang along in hopes of drowning the woman�s prayers, woke Woubshet up each morning. On top of everything, the landlord�s cow also contributed to the cacophony by making strange loud sounds: either it was protesting being milked or declaring a longing for its calf.

But today, he awoke to the sounds of a fire truck, the I am coming for you declaration passing through the area. He sat up on the edge of his bed, trying to open his eyes. He sent his legs to the floor in search of his slippers. He couldn�t find them. He couldn�t remember where he had thrown them the previous night.

He knew he had slept in. How could he have slept this much on this day? On this special day! Angry with himself, he made his way to his shelf in search of his watch. It read 9:30. As he had feared, he was late. He dressed quickly, and hurried his way up Africa Avenue toward Abyot Square. His rushed movements made it look like he was being chased by an angry ostrich.

His long legs felt the strains of fatigue, and couldn�t satisfy his heart�s desire to travel faster, but his long strides sufficed in swallowing up the road quickly enough. After passing the Flamingo restaurant, he paused briefly, looking at churchgoers dressed in white, walking up and down the stairs of St. Estifanos Church.

He bent his head in the direction of the church, crossed himself, said, �Help me spend a good day, hold back my enemies, my Father,� to St. Estifanos, and then went on his way. He walked by Addis Ababa Stadium toward Churchill Avenue.

He slowed his pace. He realized that he was sweating when he got to Ras Hotel from Churchill Avenue. From the left pocket of his wide coat, he took out a blue handkerchief and smiled to himself as he dabbed the perspiration from his face. He could sense it was going to be a good day � Roha Caf� would be filled with excitement. He couldn�t even remember the last time a poetry night was held at Roha Caf�. It must have been over ten years ago. Renowned and esteemed poets, homegrown critics, journalists scouting for gossip, actors whom he saw daily enjoying the morning sun at Beherawi Theater would all come.

From Ras Hotel, he started moving at an even slower pace. He put his hands on his shirt to check that his collar was placed properly under his sweater. He then glanced down at his shoes and noticed that they weren�t clean. He called out to the listero boys sitting in the sun across the main road. A listero in his midteens came sprinting toward him. Without removing his eyes from Woubshet�s shoes, the listero dropped his box on the ground, knelt, and started wiping his shoes. Woubshet, with his shoe on the listero�s box, drifted away in thought, thinking of the evening ahead and the short speech he�d make.

�Going to Megenagna?� asked the weyala with half his body sticking out of the minibus. He was looking at the people huddled on the side of the road at Arat Kilo. For the weyala, there were two types of people: those who go to Megenagna and those who don�t go to Megenagna. Many people were crowded around the taxi stop. A few were actually waiting for taxis, but most, having nowhere to go, were pretending to wait for taxis rather than appearing to be doing nothing.

Tearing herself from the group, a young woman wearing sunglasses headed for the passenger door. Moving quickly, a student from Arat Kilo University who had been standing behind the young woman, admiring her, opened the door. She got in and looked at him sideways as he stepped in behind her and sat down. The weyala collected their fares.

A shoeless man wearing rags approached from the row of waiting people. �Sir,� he said, bending his neck toward his left shoulder, �I am headed to Megenagna... but I don�t have any money.� The weyala looked toward the driver.

�Let him in,� said the driver.

The ragged man got into the minibus and, avoiding the seats, squatted on top of the spare tire.

The young woman with sunglasses was seated in the front passenger seat and now saw that the guy next to her had turned to talk to her. She did not give him the opportunity; lowering her head, she began playing with her cell phone. Without meaning to, she called her aunt, who answered on the first ring. The young woman told her she had bought a new gabi and dreamed she was eating white injera all last night.

�You have a wonderful voice,� said the student as soon as she hung up.

�Thank you,� she replied, without turning to look at him.

The student tried to think of what to say next. He had to get her number by the time they reached Megenagna.

The weyala went to the back of the minibus to collect fares. The passengers there looked as though they�d been born attached to one another. Next to an older fat woman was a skinny man with his face hidden behind a newspaper who looked as if he could have been her left arm. Then there was an old man holding a cane under his right armpit with his young son tucked under his left one. The space was so tight that there was no place for the boy�s arm, so he was forced to stick it out the window.

The backseat of a minibus was intended to seat four people. But there were now five passengers lined up on it, plus the little boy. The weyala began collecting the fares. When he came to the old man he was handed a tattered five-birr bill. �Take my fare and give me the change,� said the old man.

�What about the kid?� asked the weyala.

�The kid? Why should I pay for the kid? He is only a child, isn�t he?� He looked toward his son as if to confirm his age. �I do not want my son to go through the same childhood I did. I feed him well enough that he looks older than he his; he isn�t ten until July 12.�

�Pops, we board the kid, not his age; what can I do about his age?� said the weyala.

The other passengers all laughed.

On the second-to-last seat, a drunk passenger breathed tej fumes as he slept. He was awoken by the laughter and looked around the minibus with squinted eyes. �What�s going on?� he sputtered. �The driver we had before was bald; this one has hair. What is that about? Either you moved me to another minibus when I was sleeping or the other driver has been fired! Who is going to explain this to me?� Without waiting for the explanation, he leaned into the headrest in front of him and began snoring again.

The student in the front seat regarded the young woman out of the corner of his eye. Sunglasses covered half of her face and he was eager to see her eyes. It was not difficult for him to guess where she was going, probably a date with her boyfriend.

�A lot of my friends tell me I sound like Angelina Jolie when I talk,� she said without turning to look at him.

The student remembered that he had commented on her voice a little while ago. �That�s right, but...� He was straining to recall who Angelina Jolie was. �But your voice is more original.�

Who is Angelina Jolie? He racked his brain: a journalist, an actress, a model? To avoid further discussion on the matter, he turned to the driver. �Doesn�t your radio work?� he asked.

The driver began fussing with the radio dials with his free hand.

�What do you like about Angelina Jolie?� asked the young woman.

What the student had feared was now happening. Pretending he had not heard, he studied the faded picture on the windshield. It was of a pair of wings, though it was unclear whether they belonged to an angel or an eagle.

�What do you like about her?� she repeated.

�I like the respect she has for her profession,� answered the student. Not wanting to give her the chance for a follow-up question, he added, �Your sunglasses are really nice.�

�Thank you. They were a present from my boyfriend.�

The student went quiet.

In the meantime, the old man with the cane sitting in the backseat had turned his attention to his son. With a voice loud enough for all to hear, he said: �If you don�t rank first this semester, you are not my son. How long are you going to come in second place?�

�Is he in school?� asked the fat lady. Without waiting for an answer, she went on: �There is nothing that can compare to an education; not being educated has many downfalls; among them...� She nodded suggestively at the man squatting next to the tire who was getting a free ride. In turn, the man in the tattered rags looked toward the drunk still sleeping against the headrest.

�Today�s teachers are good; they don�t beat the students,� said the old man. �In our time��

�There are still teachers that beat their students,� interrupted the skinny man sitting next to him who had been shielding himself with his newspaper, hoping that his interruption would mean that the old man would stop this trek down memory lane.

�In our time...� the old man continued, �the teachers used to beat the students severely. There was one teacher who used to amaze me. If a student was bad, he would make them select the very stick that they would be whipped with. What a guy, Teacher Chekol! I will never forget what he did to me once. He told me to go and get the stick I was going to be whipped with. Oh, beautiful youth... I said okay and left the classroom.�

The old man paused and studied the passengers, who were suddenly turned toward him in anticipation, fully engaged by his story. He was shocked. He knew that the story did not have an ending that warranted either interest or laughter. He regretted that he had even begun it, and looked for some excuse to stop. He began coughing, resting his head on his son�s shoulder. But then his coughing fit would not subside.

�Pops, quiet down your hacking, we�re trying to listen to the radio,� said the weyala.

The passengers who had been saving their laughter for the old man�s story released it instead at this snide comment.

The fat woman�s phone rang in the backseat. She answered it and began talking in English: �Hello, yes, I am inside this taxi. Yes, inside that minibus. You are inside the minibus also? Yes, we can see each other tonight.� While the fat lady was talking, she threw angry looks at the other passengers. She suspected they were judging her questionable command of English. �Stop the taxi please!� she snapped.

�Stop,� said the weyala. �Stop for her,� he repeated. The passengers watched her quietly as she got out of the taxi.

�I also had difficulty with English.� It was the drunk. �I�m telling the truth; when it got too difficult for me, I hired a hopeless Indian guy to teach me for four hundred birr a month. A year later, the Indian had learned perfect Amharic and then we began to communicate really well.�

The student sitting in the front passenger seat had remained quiet after the young woman�s mention of her boyfriend. When he heard laughter from the people in back, he thought they were making fun of him.

The young woman was in fact on her way to visit her boyfriend, who she saw once a month. He would meet her at their usual caf� and then, just like the month before, treat her to a slice of cake and a macchiato; after that they would start talking. What they had to say to one another would be over in the span of a few minutes, and then they�d stare at each other. Because silence freaked him out, the boyfriend would ask for the bill. To fill in the silence while they waited, he�d pull out the newspaper he had rolled up in his back pocket and begin reading. She would pull out her organizer and mark the day of the next lottery drawings and the beginning of her next menstrual cycle. A few minutes later, they�d get a room and hurry to the bed. Another few minutes and he would turn on the television and begin watching a European football game. Lying beside him, she�d count the pimples on his back.

Sitting next to the student in the taxi, thinking about her life, it all seemed as bland as an old silent movie. �Why are you so quiet?� she asked the student.

�I was thinking about something,� he answered, perking up.

�What about?�

�About your boyfriend... If a woman is desired and liked by many, her partner should be happy. A musician would not write a great song and then insist on being the only one to hear it. When a guy has a beautiful girlfriend and buys her huge glasses like yours to shield her eyes from onlookers, it seems a shame to me.�

The young woman tried to think of some way to contradict the student but the radio was blaring, �Last week saw the passing of St. Valentine�s Day...� She decided to just listen to the student talk about love.

Encouraged by her silence, the student was about to continue when one of the passengers in the back said, �There is no such thing as St. Valentine! Only Christ Jesus is blessed!� It was the short skinny man hiding behind the newspaper.

The weyala turned to the short skinny man and was reminded of the sermon in which he�d learned that the flesh is the dwelling of the soul. This skinny guy�s soul must be homeless, he thought to himself.

The driver now turned around and joined the fray: �The Holy Mother has the power to plead!�

�Good point! But I prefer not to talk about things that are not written in the Bible,� answered the man without meat on his bones, preparing for a good debate.

�What are you implying about the Holy Mother?� said the man in the tattered rags enjoying his free ride. All eyes turned to him; the beggar wanted to repay the driver�s kindness while at the same time participate in a discussion that would allow him to be forgotten as a beggar and remembered as a spiritual debater. He saw the opportunity rolled out before him and jumped on it. �I don�t think you have read what Prophet Isaiah said. He said, um... Isaiah said��

�What did Isaias Afwerki say?� the weyala interrupted.

Most of the passengers laughed, but the beggar with the free ride was immediately forgotten.

The student sitting in the front was not happy with the turn of this spiritual debate. He was afraid religious talk would make its way to the front and hinder his attempts at getting the young woman�s number. His fears quickly came true.

�You�re suggesting something God wouldn�t like,� said the young woman with a frown.

He didn�t want to have to backtrack now; he had learned from the story of the Queen of Sheba that love is the art of deception. He understood he would not be able to get rid of the religious air that had surfaced in the taxi. So he attempted to use it to his advantage. �I don�t know much about the Bible,� he said humbly, with a smile, �but I read that David took Absalom�s wife even though he had many of his own.�

�You�re wrong, it wasn�t Absalom�s, it was Uriah�s,� she said.

�You�re right... Anyway, no Bible forbids the exchange of phone numbers. Will you give me yours?�

Without hesitating, she gave it to him. He then gave her his number, which she saved on her phone under a girl�s name before leaving the minibus. He turned to look at her after she stepped out and noticed that as she got farther away, she grew more beautiful. He wished the cacophony of the minibus would disappear so he could keep her voice in his head, but the debate in the backseat was heating up.

�The Lord is the driver of the universe! For example, you drive this minibus; we trust you and ride in this minibus; you take us where we want to go. In much the same way, the Lord is the driver of this earth. In the end He will come; let us make ourselves clean and wait for Him, my brothers. Let us not be faced with what the proverb says: The wedding guests are here, begin preparing the berbere.�

The driver was flattered to be compared to the Lord by this backseat preacher and so kept quiet.

�Yes, my brothers,� the preacher continued, �let us make ourselves clean and wait for Him. �

�Say what you will, the price of berbere has nothing to do with me,� said the drunk who had been half listening. �The doctor told me to stop eating it while prices are still low.�

From there, the discussion turned to berbere, salt, and other goods. When the student heard this, something occurred to him. Spending four years on the university�s campus, he never once worried about the price of goods. He had forgotten that the market existed at all; he had even forgotten that injera came from tef. The institution where he was spending four years was a place of knowledge. Yet he did not even know who Angelina Jolie was.

�It�s not my fault,� he mumbled to himself.

He stepped out of the minibus and stood on the side of the road to wait for the bus that would take him back to Arat Kilo. The weyala looked at him and shrugged.

Helen knew the moment the new housemaid said �Meron� that it couldn�t be her real name. Even without the traditional ear-to-ear tattoo that she tried to hide under a scarf, or the accent that twisted the city name, or that unmistakable odor of sheep hide, Helen could still tell the new housemaid was from the country. Later, when Meron had been with Helen and her husband Dawit for so long that domestic chores felt impossible without her, Helen would feel guilty for disdaining Meron that first day. But today, staring at Meron�s Kebele ID card after she�d disappeared with the 35,000 birr from Helen�s closet and finding out that Meron was really Aregash, Helen wished she hadn�t stopped intuiting.

The heat was unbearable. The afternoon sun beat down on Tadesse, causing beads of sweat to drip into his eyes. He covered his face with one of his books, but it did little to cool him down. He looked small in his oversize hand-me-down uniform, walking along the left side of the road, as was customary for pedestrians. Through squinted eyes, he saw dozens of police officers marching down the path ahead of him, many of them carrying assault rifles and batons.

Tadesse�s entire primary school had heard about federal police whipping several students from a neighboring school. But they hadn�t been punished for offenses committed in class. They were whipped for attempting to join an antigovernment rally and allegations of inciting violence.

The episode had prompted his teacher to hand out a weekend homework assignment: Explain the differences between human and democratic rights in our constitution, and identify which specific articles guarantee these rights. If you have trouble, ask a grown-up.

�Are there any questions?� the teacher had asked.

Tadesse raised his hand.

�Yes, Tadesse?�

�Which grown-ups should we ask?�

�You can ask your parents, older siblings, or teachers. Anyone you think could help.�

�Thank you, Mr. Dargie,� Tadesse said. A few other students had groaned.

Tadesse now realized the police had closed off the road to traffic, presumably because someone important was arriving in town. He wondered who this person could be. He wanted to ask, but he was nervous � so many of them held rifles, and there weren�t other pedestrians in sight.

He approached an unarmed officer and said in a small voice, �Sir, can I ask you a question?�

The officer spun around, his eyes widening in surprise. �This area�s off limits. Get out of the street!�

Startled, Tadesse ran back down the asphalt road. He was shaking. He didn�t understand the officer�s hostility. He decided to take a safer route home. The dust on the unpaved road was thick and awful. He tried to ignore it, but it burned and stung his eyes. He could see that some of his friends were also marching home in a similar fashion, attempting to block the wind with their books. Hungry and tired, he dreaded the rest of the walk.

Tadesse had paused to rest when a massive military truck came speeding down the road, raising a cloud of dust that covered everyone in its wake. Tadesse coughed, covered his face, and quickly turned onto another paved road that led to his home. Putrid odors emanated from an open roadside sewer. He felt nauseous and thought he might vomit from the smell.

When he arrived home, he climbed onto the bed he shared with his two brothers. The coils of the mattress almost touched the ground, as if they were as exhausted as he was. Just as he closed his eyes, he heard his father�s angry voice.

�What are you doing? Getting in bed with your dusty uniform? I raised you better than this!�

Tadesse sprang up in fear but his father grabbed him by the collar of his shirt.

�I don�t have the money to buy a new bed.� His father�s breath smelled sour. The man didn�t earn much for the family as a carpenter, and what he did earn he spent on alcohol. �This one will be completely ruined if you track dirt and grime onto it. You better care for it, if you know what�s good for you.�

Tadesse�s mother, who was soothing his infant brother, hushed her husband. Tadesse wriggled free from his father�s grip and ran to his mother. He looked up at her and rubbed his belly. She frowned. Tadesse�s older brother had already eaten the meal she�d prepared that day. There was leftover injera bread, which she sold to people in the neighborhood, but no stew to go with it. She made Tadesse pepper flour and oil to supplement the injera, so that he could partially satisfy his hunger.

Tadesse ate then went out to the yard to study. He didn�t know what Mr. Dargie had meant by �democratic and human rights.� He thought about his encounter with the officer on the road. He was nervous to try asking another grown-up. Then he remembered Private Teshale, a friendly police officer who lived in the building next door and regularly bought injera bread from his mother. He didn�t think Teshale would shout at him like the other officer had.

Tadesse sat in the yard as the twilight grew deeper. When the sun had nearly set, he saw Teshale walking up the road toward the house.

�Excuse me, sir,� he said before Teshale could go inside, �can you explain to me which democratic and human rights are guaranteed by our constitution?�

Teshale paused, his hand resting on the doorknob. �I�m not a teacher. Ask someone else.�

Tadesse was frustrated, but he didn�t want to give up quite yet. If the police weren�t going to help him, he�d have to go elsewhere. He stood by the door, waiting for another of his mother�s customers to stop by for injera. Everyone who passed through the door ignored him � they were tired and hungry and had no time for questions. They only wanted bread. Tadesse was imagining the excuses he would have to tell Mr. Dargie on Monday when another customer approached the door. He tried one more time: �Excuse me, sir, I�m supposed to ask a grown-up for help with my homework, but no one will do it. Can you help me?�

The man smiled at him, which gave Tadesse a glimmer of hope. The man seemed to be interested, but after listening to Tadesse explain the assignment, he sighed and said, �Oh, my son, I wish I knew.� The man went inside without saying more.

Tadesse�s mother had overheard her son�s requests for help with his homework. She tied the birr she�d collected from her clients into a scarf and went outside to speak to him. �My son, don�t worry. I�ll go ask Mrs. Tewabech�s daughter Gelila to help you. She�s a smart girl.�

Fortunately, when his mother arrived at the neighbor�s home, Gelila was there. She agreed to help Tadesse and followed his mother home. Gelila patiently explained how the constitution protected both human and democratic rights, and helped him copy down relevant passages from a pocket-sized copy of the country�s constitution she�d brought with her. Once he�d finished his homework, she stood and said, �I hope that helped.�

�It did, thank you very much.�

Gelila was touched by his humility, and by how quickly he seemed to absorb knowledge. �Of course. Don�t hesitate to ask me any other questions you might have. You know where to find me.�

Tadesse smiled and nodded. His mother invited her to stay for dinner, but Gelila apologized and said she needed to get home.

Tadesse immediately got lost in thought. He pictured what Monday would be like: Mr. Dargie would collect the exercise books, then ask for volunteers to explain the homework aloud. Tadesse would be the only student to raise his hand. He would explain the constitutional nuances so eloquently that Mr. Dargie would ask the class to stand and clap. At recess, all of his classmates would want to play with him. He�d be the most popular boy in school. He wished time would speed up.

Gelila, who was still standing behind him, smiled at his faraway expression and patted his head. �Don�t worry, Tade. You�re a smart boy,� she whispered.

�Thank you, Gelila,� he said, his cheeks warming.

She began asking him about his favorite subjects in school when Tadesse�s nineteen-year-old brother, Anbesse, bolted into the yard, a stream of blood running down his forehead. His eyes were swollen, his cheeks bruised and pale. He looked like he�d seen a ghost.

Gelila screamed, �What happened to you?�

Their mother came running outside at the sound of the commotion. Seeing her son bruised and bloody left her speechless.

�Who did this?� asked Tadesse.

Anbesse was silent. He didn�t want to explain what had happened to him. He knew something just as bad, or worse, could happen to his family.

�It was the cops,� he said finally, after further prodding from Gelila. He spit a red-tinged glob of saliva into the dust. �They beat me mercilessly, for no reason at all. When they finally released me, they admitted I was innocent � they knew it all along.�

�But that�s illegal! The police can�t go around beating people,� Tadesse said. He watched the blood run down his brother�s forehead. �Everyone is equal before the law until they are convicted.�

Their mother remained in a state of shock. She examined the extent of Anbesse�s injuries as tears flowed down her face. Gelila was furious. She paced back and forth.

Anbesse was, despite everything, a tough young man. He never gave up, especially if he believed there was an injustice to be corrected. Once, he�d had a dispute with their neighbor over a sewer pipe that had been leaking into their yard. The stench was making his family sick. He had confronted the neighbor and demanded that he fix the pipe. The neighbor had called over his security guard. Anbesse still had a scar on his forehead as a result of the encounter, but he�d convinced the neighbor that he wasn�t someone to trifle with, and the pipe had eventually been repaired.

Their mother brought a jug of warm water from the house and washed the blood from Anbesse�s face, attempting to soothe him as she checked to see whether his nose was broken.

Gelila was trembling uncontrollably. �I still don�t understand. Why would they do this to you? What exactly happened?�

Anbesse sighed, then winced as his mother wiped dirt and blood from his nose. �It�s all a blur. I saw a group of people running toward me, so I assumed something bad was happening behind them, and I took off as well. But in the chaos, I tripped and fell. The cops caught up to me and immediately started beating me with their batons, as if they were trying to smash me into the gravel. I tried to tell them I hadn�t done anything, but they wouldn�t listen. So I curled myself up, hoping that if I was still enough they�d leave me alone. If I�d tried to resist they would have killed me.�

�How did you manage to escape?� Gelila asked.

�Luckily, another person the cops had detained admitted that I wasn�t the man they were looking for. He told the policemen that the suspect they were pursuing had already escaped. The cops had no choice but to let me go, saying, Well, you shouldn�t have run.�

�They should have taken you to the hospital. I�m going to go deal with this.� Gelila started walking toward the road.

�Where are you going?� Anbesse asked.

�To the police station. They must be held accountable. You need medical attention.�

�Gelila is right. They have to do something for Anbesse,� Tadesse said.

Tadesse, Anbesse, and their mother decided to follow Gelila to the station. But before they had gotten far, they encountered three police officers on a nearby street.

�There they are!� said Anbesse, pointing to the men.

Gelila approached them swiftly and confidently. �What nonsense is this? You beat my friend for no reason, and now you�re strolling in the street like you�re peacekeepers. Shame on you!�

One of the cops frowned. Another said, �Who are you?�

She ignored his question. �You�re supposed to protect and serve the public, but instead you are beating innocent people. What happened to justice? Is there no law in this country?�

�I have no idea what you�re talking about, you crazy bitch.�

�You nearly beat this young man to death. If he was guilty of something, you should have arrested him. You can�t go around beating and humiliating innocent people.�

�We did no such thing,� the cop said.

�What is this blood, then? All of us have witnessed your bullshit!� Anbesse shouted.

The officer relented: �We thought you were the guy we were chasing.� He kept his tone even, trying to calm everyone down.

�So what? You still ambushed him. We want justice!� Gelila said.

One of the policemen grew angry: �This is none of your business. You must be one of them. You are antipeace, antidemocracy, and antiorder.�

�This is nonsense, you can�t just go around punishing someone whenever you want.� Gelila took a step closer to one of the officers.

He drew his arm back and slapped her in the face. She blinked, mouth agape. Then she screamed so loudly the neighbors came out of their homes. The three policemen realized they were outnumbered and started waving the crowd back, yelling at the gawkers to disperse.

Tadesse was frightened. He cautiously watched each movement the officers made, from behind his mother�s skirt. Anbesse, emboldened by the gathering crowd, rushed toward one of the policemen. The officer quickly lifted up his baton to strike Anbesse on the head.

�Don�t hurt him!� Tadesse screamed. He forgot his fear and took a step toward his brother, wanting to protect him.

The policeman swung his baton to strike Anbesse, but missed � and hit Tadesse instead. Tadesse fell to the ground, his body limp. In the weak light, Anbesse knelt down to lift up his brother. Tadesse�s head flopped back like a rag doll.

An old man cried out from the crowd, �What have you done? He�s only a child!�

Someone else screamed: �Please call an ambulance!�

The crowd gathered around the two brothers, and in the commotion the policemen took off.

�It�s too late,� Anbesse said quietly. His brother felt so light.

Their mother laid her head on her oldest son�s shoulder, and wept.

I am in exile in Europe, while my friend Muze is a rich man in Ethiopia. I left behind all that is of value to me, my family, my culture; and today, while eating breakfast, I read in the newspaper that Muze is depositing what is valuable to him into Swiss bank accounts. The newspaper said that the Swiss banks are feeding off poor Africans and other third world countries and now it is �Ethiopia�s turn.� Muze and I were best friends, comrades for the revolution, and now we are worlds apart. Or maybe we are still friends, in spite of everything. Let me tell you a little bit about him and me. Let me tell you how we became friends, and how our friendship has ebbed.

My name is Waaqoo. Waaqoo Bonayaa. I am from Borana, an Oromo clan living in southern Ethiopia and northern Kenya. I am my family�s first son. Since my father is Qallu, an Oromo spiritual leader, he used to tell the people when the gada election would be, when the incumbent Abba Gada in power would leave, and when the new Abba Gada would be anointed. His duty as a religious leader also included forecasting the time for religious activities like the Irreecha and other public festivals.

My father would burn fire in our yard every Friday evening, spending the night outside praying to God. He would examine the stars and prepare a calendar based on astronomical principles, calculating dates for every activity.

My father never carried weapons. He did not slay animals because he was not expected to do so. He was calm and always spoke gently. He was so religious that I never saw him get angry. Other than that, he watched after God�s safu so that the laws would not be broken or overlooked; hence everybody could live up to his or her expectations. He taught others to act in the right way.

His other duty was to make sure the animals intended to be slaughtered for festivities had nothing wrong with them; animals that have spots, that are lame, or that have any defects cannot be killed for festivals. The animal chosen to be killed must also be uncontested, with no other claim of any sort made on it. If it is to be bought from someone, the seller shouldn�t be a person accused or suspected of murder, theft, betrayal, rape, or any other crime.

I had such a good father and I was proud of him. Many people, especially my schoolmates, were envious of me. Girls of my village wanted to marry me. Some of them even fell in love with me. My father told me that the first Qallu descended from heaven and was found among the Matari clan; Qallu is said to be the son of God.