‘Astemirachewalehu' muttered the Madam quietly, her eyes darting furtively between the girls and ourselves.

A man I recently met in a border town told me that growing up in Addis Ababa, he had only known of two or three ethnic groups and that he has only ‘discovered’ the existence of other ethnic groups during his slow descent through the southern part of the country. He seemed disconcerted with this new revelation and said he wished there was only one Ethiopian identity. I am afraid I was not able to second his opinion.

I have always been wanting to keep a journal and to share it, of course with a few secrets unrevealed (after all I’m still a girl). Since junior high, I don’t remember an Enqutatash (Ethiopian New Year) passing without starting to write a diary. Every night for the first few weeks, I religiously used to write my typical school days, the girlish gossips we had with friends, the hatred and love of our teachers (I won’t mention names here), and my teenage emotional turmoils. At the beginning, I could write pages every night which would gradually decline to a page then to barley few lines. That was of course before missing a day’s journal, for which I would excuse myself that I could make it up the following night. If I got tired the next day, I would skip a page, just like we did to copy notes from our bookish classmates while missing classes. The excitement of keeping my day-to-day activities could only get me through the month of Meskerem*, half way to Tiqimt** and gradually fades away in Hidar***. Back in the days, someone I don’t remember has told me that keeping a journal should be a daily routine. That’s why I would get frustrated when I missed few days and finally I would give up until the next New Year arrives.