“You can’t because you are a girl!” I cannot recall an incident when I was told I can not perform a specific task only because I was a female. I heard other people giving testimony on getting prevented to do something only because of their gender. As I am aware of such prejudiced comments and opinions which belittle women, I always thought I would not be surprised if someone said it to me. However, when I was told, for the very first time in my life, “You can’t because you are a girl”, I was just shocked. I was caught off guard not only because I got the comment but also because it came from the people I least expected.

I got tickets to the premiere of This Is It, and tried to think of appropriate wear for the occasion. Short of a bilichlich (flashy) wrap around each ankle cuff, all I could think of was an old t-shirt of my brother’s, sent from Amerika and prized until Micheal’s teenage face was badly scratched by a frisky kitten.

The music of Michael Jackson was the soundtrack to Addis childhoods. 

By Sehin Teferra.

 

I was at Alize one Monday night a few weeks ago and the new band was rocking the place. I had convinced a childhood friend to join me, and in between admiring the music that fused jazz beats seamlessly with kirar strums, we started the usual litany of complaints about life and work in Ethiopia. We talked about the deadening reception in some bureaucracies, how it is all about connections and who can scratch your back, and how impossible it has become to get anything done without the ‘unrecieptable’ expenses of gubo. My friend has particular angst against ‘old-timers’ who explain to anyone with a gram of ambition that he is moving too fast up the ladder, and the old-at-heart who are too busy tripping up those around them to run their own race. I told my friend that I have learnt to deflect hookup requests from random people who figure me connected, and we went over the oft-repeated debate along the lines of ‘if someone will be paid, it might as well be me.’ We concluded with the usual question to ourselves: why do we stay?

I love this town. I love its humbleness, its simplicity, its sweet attempts to modernize a space effectively trapped between a rock and a gigantic mountain that peers down from every angle so that it’s almost claustrophobic.

In the musical Rent, the chorus sings:

525,600 minutes, 525,000 moments so dear/ 
525,600 minutes - how do you measure/
Measure a year? 

And a soloist rejoins:

In truths that she learned, or in times that he cried/
In bridges he burned, or the way that she died?

I started asking myself how I measure a year while doing my birthday journaling a few months ago. What did I achieve during the weeks and months that my journal lay buried at the bottom of the closet waiting for another birthday to see the light of day? What did I start and complete? What truths did I learn?

Be’qum kafeqershign

Simot indatreshign

(If you love me when I’m alive,

Don’t forget me when I die.)

 

As I slowly made my way to the starting line of the annual Women’s Run, I was reminded of the opening lines of the Vagina Monologues. Gearing up to go were Christian women; there were Muslim women in hijab, there were women with disabilities, there were sex workers, there were models, there were street kids and naturally, there were our world-renowned women athletes. There were fashionistas who had gone the extra mile to re-stitch the standard t-shirt into spaghetti-strapped halter tops, and Nazareth School students with their distinctive squeals. There were teenagers with face-paint and trippy shurubas with florescent threads. There were mother and daughter teams, and tot-sized girls (and boys) holding tight onto their mothers’ hand. The excitement was electric.

One of my favorite places in Addis is the arrivals’ gate at the Bole Airport. I fortunately get plenty of reasons to visit it as I am often roped into picking up either an old professor’s student on a research trip or one of my many friends on a stopover, saving myself from the fate of a weirdos who hang out at airports for no reason at all. I try to get there early, telling myself that I don’t want to miss whoever it is I am supposed to meet but really to have more time to watch the human drama. If I am not too held up by the line of multitudes who apparently share my pastime and if my timing is good, I reach the gate just as the first arrivals are let out. With so much practice, I don’t even need to look at the screen to know where the flight originated. 

How many times do we fall in love in our life?  None? Once? Twice? Or as many times as possible? I wonder how it really works on us regarding falling in love and how we perceive it. I have my own way of understanding and entertaining it in my life but what interests me is to know how others think about love and the number of times a person would feel it. So I try to raise the issue while discussing with friends. As I supposed peoples’ outlook is as many – if not more, as the number of individuals I talk to.