A Time To...

  Al and Tadesse looked dumbfounded at each other. “God? What God?” Al responded after Tsehye’s surprise wore off and his question registered.

  “”OK. I see. You are one of those,” Tsehye replied with resolve.

  “One of what?” Al shot back.

  “One of those people who turns their back on God when some tragedy or painful experience happens to them,” said Tsehye as he sipped his coffee.

  “Who are you?” Al asked.

  “I’m a wise old man. Probably too wise for my own good.”

  “Why did you lie about your English? You were a student at Oxford, but you’re living like a poor peasant in the middle of nowhere. Something is not right. No more lies. Explain yourself,” Al demanded.

  “Yes. Don’t treat us like fools,” Tadesse added.

  “You came to me. I’ve shared my thoughts with you. Treating you like fools?” Tsehye repeated with a hint of irritation. “I lied about my English to protect myself. I had to be sure you were not a threat. You said yourself, ‘Change is in the air ... big change.’ You must know there are government agents everywhere, ready to arrest anyone who would like to see change.”

  Tadesse and Al looked at each other, hoping to make sense of what was happening. Finally, Tsehye intervened since only he could resolve the puzzle he presented.

  “I was poor. My family couldn’t afford to send me to school. But I was able to get an education by working odd jobs at a Christian mission. I did everything from making charcoal to washing clothes. In return, they paid me money that I gave to my parents. The missionaries let me live with them, and they schooled me. I was a very good student, they told me. So good, that they helped me get a scholarship at a prep school in Addis Ababa. By the time I graduated, I was the top student there. I became somewhat of a celebrity because of my humble family history. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was in England, attending Oxford. A rich businessman paid for it,” Tsehye said while shaking his head as if his story was hard for even him to believe.

  “I never met him. He never contacted me. Several years after I graduated and returned to Addis, I heard that he had died. A part of me wished that I would have had the opportunity to thank him, and a part of me wished that I had had the chance to curse him. You see, I was a misfit, a man without a culture. I preferred Western music, art, literature, clothes, food, and even English. It was what I had come to know best. My goals, my success all told me that Western culture was superior. Nobody came out and said that, but it was implied. Nobody ridiculed Ethiopian culture; it just didn’t matter. So when I returned to Ethiopia to live after graduation, I couldn’t relate to most Ethiopians. And they treated me like the Foreigngee I had become,” Tsehye said as he closed his eyes and turned away. The pain in his voice explained the tear that he wiped from his cheek. “Excuse me. I don’t know why I told you this. It is the first time I spoke these words to anyone but myself.”

  “You talk about faith and God like you know them well,” Al said, as if walking on thin ice. “How has your faith and God helped you? Look at what you’ve become.”

  “Ah, yes, by the grace of God, look at me now,” Tsehye said with pride. “I’ll finish my story another time. Now, I want to hear yours, the reason why you have come to see me today,” Tsehye said as he sipped his coffee, looked into Al’s eyes, and nodded affirmatively.

  “Tell me. This God that you talk about, is he good?” Al asked.

  “Of course--the ultimate good.”

  “Is he all-powerful? Can he do anything, even miraculous things?” Al continued.

  “He can and does move mountains, heals the sick, and raises the dead, if that’s what you mean.”

  “OK. Then why does he let things happen that leave innocent people dead or behind bars for the rest of their lives? I’ll tell you why. Either he chooses not to act to prevent these things from happening, which makes him less than good. It makes him cruel and indifferent, like someone standing by and doing nothing when he sees a child about to be hit by a car but doesn’t push that child out of the way,” Al said with a bitterness that was displayed in his voice and on his sour face. “Or he doesn’t exist. I think he doesn’t exist because how could an all-powerful God live and not save innocent people from untimely deaths or injustices,” Al added as he slapped the rock they sat around.

  “What can I say? It sounds like you have already made up your mind. But maybe not, since you’ve come all this way to talk about it,” Tsehye said. “How long have you felt this way?”

  Al looked at Tadesse then into Tsehye’s eyes and said, “Ever since a friend of mine killed someone to protect me. It was a big mistake. The guy he killed was just playing around with me. My friend is now spending the rest of his life in prison to pay for his mistake, and the guy who was playing around is dead. Two lives lost because of me,” Al confessed. “And because there is no God.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Tsehye told Al.

  “Sorry about what?” Al blasted.

  “Sorry you have suffered so much. I know there is a God. Blaming yourself for those things is wrong and just because you say there is no God doesn’t make it so.”

  “How ... how can you say all this? How do you know?”

  “First of all, you’re not responsible for what others do. God is not even responsible for what people do. Only we are responsible. God has given us the freedom to do as we please. For some, this is a blessing, but for others, it is a curse because they make bad choices. To make matters worse, some of those who do terrible things don’t accept responsibility. Some even say God told them to do it,” Tsehye lamented.

  “Yeah, crazy people. Only crazy people hear God talking,” Al interrupted. “God never said anything to me.”

  “Ha ha ha. Are you sure?” Tsehye asked. “Maybe you’re not listening. Maybe he’s speaking a language you don’t know.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Hell, you’re speaking English and I don’t know what you’re saying. So I guess anything is possible.”

  “OK. Let me try to say it another way. God doesn’t speak to us with words, except those in the Bible. He speaks to us through our souls, our spirits, that part of us that is not of this world. It’s only when we engage our spirits that we can hear God. After all, he is not of this world. He just created it. To say there is no God, when we have Bibles and houses of worship all around the world, makes no sense. It makes a lot of sense to say God has spoken to the writers and the builders, and those who have revered their divine creations. Do you really think this is all just a collective fantasy?” Tsehye asked.

  “Yes, wishful thinking for a God who takes care of those who pray to him. It hasn’t worked for me.”

  “Ah, so you did believe at one time.”

  “I told you, if He exists, and I doubt it, he’s turned his back on me, and lots of others. Just look at the news every day. Look at the poor, starving people in your country. So I’ve turned my back on him. I treat him as if he doesn’t exist. It doesn’t make any difference to me if he exists or not. Either way, I’m living my life without him.”

  “Are you sure?” Tsehye asked Al again. “Your bitterness speaks loudly. It tells me your soul is in pain. Listen to your soul tell you there is a God, a mysterious God who doesn’t seem to care about you and others in this world. You wouldn’t be so angry if you didn’t believe. God is alive and well in your anger. Can you hear your spirit talking to you?”

  “No. I don’t hear anything,” Al said with a hint of confusion and some disappointment.

  “Then I can’t help you, not now. You’re not ready,” Tsehye told Al.

  CHAPTER 47

  The Cost of Living

  “A dollar! A dollar! No! You’re joking, aren’t you?” exclaimed Al when Hassan—the owner and proprietor of Nekempte’s only general store—told Al, in broken English, his new price for one roll of toilet paper.

  “Mr. Al, I sorry. I no joke. My costs are now much more. It’s all fault o
f the greedy Arabs. Damn Arabs. They stopped their oil. So now there’s very little petrol for everybody. Now, the price of petrol is very big. The lorry drivers who bring my goods make me pay bigger price. So I must make my prices bigger,” Hassan explained before adding, “Damn, damn Arabs.”

  “But aren’t you an Arab?” an amazed Al asked Hassan.

  “Yes. Yes, and I ashamed ... very ashamed.”

  “Two weeks ago toilet paper was fifty cents for one roll. Did you double the price of everything?” Al wondered with alarm in his voice.

  “Oh, no, no never. I cannot do that, Mr. Al. Nobody would buy my goods and I must then close my shop,” Hassan said with equal alarm in his voice.

  “So you only raised the price of toilet paper?”

  “No. Everything is raised, but some raised more, like toilet paper.”

  “What other things are doubled in price?”

  Hassan looked around his small, simple shop, which was little more than a store front with a wooden counter separating Hassan and his goods from his customers. His inventory was either displayed on the shop’s back wall of crude wooden shelves or in large burlap sacks, wooden barrels, and metal drums on the floor for the bulk items, like cooking oil, laundry detergent, and sugar, which Hassan carefully measured and packed for his customers.

  “Batteries, chocolate bars, peanut butter, jelly, cookies, and Coca Cola,” Hassan said as he moved around his shop, pointing to each as he named these foriegngee favorites.

  “Wow, that’s all on my shopping list,” Al said, shaking his head in amazement. “Why? Why are the prices so much more for these things and not the others? Don’t all your goods come to you on the lorries?”

  “Mr. Al, are you calling me a cheater? I am no cheater. Don’t call me a cheater,” Hassan said, raising his voice with indignation as he talked.

  “No! No! You misunderstand me. I am just trying to understand your new prices. I am sure they are justified and fair.”

  “How did America get so rich?” Hassan continued with righteous indignation, clearly not listening to Al’s response. “I will tell you. It is because your country cheats other countries. I don’t know how. I just know the rich are rich because they cheat the poor. I don’t mean you. America is the big cheater.”

  “Hassan, that is not true. America is a very generous country. It tries to help poor countries help themselves. That’s why it sent me here.”

  “Oh, Mr. Al, you don’t have to pretend,” Hassan said with a sly smile.

  “I know who you really are and what you are doing here.”

  “Pretend?” Al said while pausing to contemplate Hassan’s comments. “Oh, so you don’t think I’m really a Peace Corps Volunteer? You think I’m just pretending to teach tenth grade English five days a week at the high school, and in my spare time, I’m really a CIA spy, collecting important information about Ethiopia that America can use to get even richer at the expense of Ethiopians?”

  “Shush,” Hassan said with his finger across his lips. “I don’t want you to get into trouble. You are a good customer. I don’t want to lose you,” Hassan whispered.

  “Hassan, I don’t have time to talk anymore now. I have dysentery and need a roll of your toilet paper right away. Here’s a dollar,” Al said as he placed the bill, with Haile Selassie’s portrait, on the counter.

  Hassan handed Al the roll and smiled as Al rushed over to Ephram’s Buna Bet across the street to use its outhouse. “Mr. Al, a dollar is a good price now, yes?” Hassan shouted with a chuckle.

  “No!” Al shouted back before telling himself, “Hell, I better get well soon. Can’t afford to shit this much for long ... damn Arabs.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Political Turmoil

  Al quickly made his way through Ephram’s, past a couple dozen tables, about half of them occupied. The only women were those preparing and serving drinks and food. Several customers recognized Al and waved, but he rushed through, hoping to go unnoticed with his roll of toilet paper partially hidden under his arm, keeping his eyes only on his destination: the hallway leading to Ephram’s outhouse.

  It took Al just a minute or so to accomplish his mission. To say he simply relieved himself would be a gross understatement. It would be more accurate to say that the demon that had been inflating his intestines to the bursting point had just been exorcised. The piercing pain in his stomach and the beads of sweat that dripped down his face were now gone for at least a few hours, maybe more if the medicine he had started taking the day before began working.

  Al’s sense of well-being was short-lived. Shouting, screams, breaking glass, and gun shots grew louder as Al retraced his steps back into Ephram’s. He stopped suddenly when a few people ran hysterically out of the coffee house past Al, one of them pushing him back as if to tell him not to enter.

  It was Ato Timeskin, a teacher and friend from the high school. “Run! Run away, Mr. Al!” he implored as he ran without elaborating or waiting for Al’s response. By the time Al opened his mouth to reply, Timeskin was gone.

  Undecided which way to turn, Al froze in place for about a minute. In that time, the commotion from inside subsided. All was now quiet except for the anguished cries of several women that rose above the animated chatter of two men. The only Amharic words Al could understand from their conversation were doctor, hospital, and dead.

  Curiosity got the better of him, so Al walked cautiously to the doorway that led into the coffeehouse, where he stopped to survey the scene. On the floor was a man bleeding from his abdomen and shoulder. Two men were crouched down near his head, blocking Al’s view of the man’s face. The pair was comforting the bleeding man as best they could.

  Behind the bar’s long serving counter were three of Ephram’s waitresses, weeping, each with one of their hands covering their mouths in horror and grief.

  After peaking into the room, Al stepped back to avoid being seen, but continued to listen in an effort to learn what he could about what had just happened. With his heart pounding, he gleaned just a few Amharic words from the conversation, words that Al knew well: school, teacher, and foriegngee. Could they be talking about him? Was Al involved in what had just happened in some way?

  As these questions presented themselves, Al grew more uneasy, which prompted his immediate exit through Ephram’s rear entrance.

  Al’s questions were answered early the next morning when he was woken by loud knocks at the door of his home. Al rarely had visitors, and never so early in the morning. Half asleep, he opened his door to find Gebremedin, a student of his.

  “Mr. Al, please come with me. Ato Tadesse wanted to talk with you,” Gebremedin said with great urgency.

  Trying to make sense of what was happening, Al asked, “Why ... why didn’t he come himself, and why so early?”

  “Ato Tadesse is in hospital. Somebody shot him with a gun.” Gebremedin’s sad face echoed the tone of his voice.

  “No! How bad is he hurt? Please tell me he will live!” Al said as he threw on a jacket.

  “Yes. The doctor says he will live,” Gebremedin reported.

  Al left immediately with Gebremedin, alternately jogging and walking to the town’s hospital, which was really just a clinic with a few patient rooms and very basic medical equipment and supplies.

  “What happened? Who shot Ato Tadesse and why?” Al asked between breaths as they rushed to see him.

  “People told me that a university student whose family lives in Nekempte got angry about something Ato Tadesse said and then shot him. They said the student was drunk.”

  “What could Tadesse have said that would make someone shoot him? Tadesse isn’t one to start a fight,” Al told Gebremedin.

  “I don’t know,” replied Gebremedin, as if he really did know, but would not say. “Ato Tadesse will tell you what he said.”

  Al suddenly added everything up and moaned, “Oh no! It must have been Tadesse who I saw lying on the floor of Ephram’s yesterday with two bu
llets in him. And I ran away.” Al sobbed as the irony punched him in his gut.

  When they arrived at the hospital, there was a long line of people, mostly women and children, waiting to be seen by the one doctor. Gabremedin ushered Al past them all and into Tadesse’s small, stark, whitewashed room. Tadesse had a large, bloodied bandage wrapped around his midsection, and another around his right arm. The sight watered Al’s eyes, but before a tear fell and Tadesse saw him, Al composed himself.

  Tadesse looked frail and listless as he laid in bed, but his face lit up as Al entered the room. Trying to brighten the moment, Al said, “I wish you were more afraid of guns ... at least as much as your fear of change.”

  Tadesse smiled before replying, “Don’t worry, my friend. Now guns are my biggest fear. What do you think Ato Tsehye would say about it?”

  “He’d probably say, “To end your fear, remove the risk,” Al replied. “Or, in other words, stay away from people with guns.”

  “But what do you do when you don’t know somebody has a gun, and he doesn’t have a sense of humor?” Tadesse asked to explain what had happened to him.

  “Are you OK? What happened?” Al asked earnestly.

  “Stupido,” Tadesse replied with a pained sigh.

  “’Stupido’?”

  “That’s Italian. Some Italian words have become a part of our language, I guess because Italy occupied Ethiopia for a few years during World War II. I don’t know the English. What is the word to describe when someone does something stupid?”

  “Stupidity?”

  “Yes. Stupidity,” Tadesse confirmed. “I was shot because of stupidity. A university student, who thought he’s very smart, said very stupid things to me. When I corrected him, he got very angry and shouted, ‘Ethiopia first!’ before he took out a gun and shot me. It happened too fast.”

  “Ethiopia first? What did he mean by that?”

  “I don’t know. I never heard that before,” Tadesse shrugged.

  “What did he say before that, the stupid things?”