A tale of two Fridays 1500km apart

A tale of two Fridays 1500km apart

Today I did my Friday run.  It was meant to be a 13k, preferable within the hour.  It neither was a 13k nor was it within the hour.  I failed in both.  I ended up stopping the timer at 17k some 1hr 26min later, tired as a rock.  It is those additional loops within the employer's compound that usually seem to be nothing that must have tricked me.  Those loops can take you upto 10min on one way.  And I know that is where the 2km additional distance per loop must have come from, adding the 4k to my bill.  And the starting loop is hilly!  Hilly I tell you.

Anyway, that is not the essence of today's story.  Though I was running that route through Kapenguria road to Mary Leakey school and Uni farm, I was not quite cognizant of much that was going on around me.  My mind had already wondered to last Friday, seven days ago…..  

On that day, last week, I woke up, rather was forced to wake up at around nine in the morning.  That 'forced' condition was necessary, because I would otherwise miss out of the breakfast bit on this BnB accommodation arrangement.  The prepaid BnB meant that a lost breakfast was surely lost, without any chance of compensation.  You either take it or miss out on it.  There is no middle ground.

There was however nothing much in the name of breakfast at that time of the morning.  All the juice brands were already all gone.  Empty vases stood on the buffet table at a place marked ‘Juices’.  I managed some coffee ‘with milk’, the ‘with milk’ part being necessary, otherwise everything is served without, unless you specify explicitly.  

I also managed an omelette with chili, that did not have any chilies anyway.  I also scooped some firfir.  Firfir being pieces of injera prepared in such a manner as scrambled eggs, tasting as sour as ever, but milder than the real injera roll.  I was however now getting used to injera.  There was nothing else on that purported breakfast buffet.  Maybe it was not much on this Friday, or I was just late for breakfast.  In fact, they started clearing the breakfast things while I was still seated, yet it was hardly nine-thirty.

We had on the previous day already setup a ten o’clock visit to Unity Park at the Addis Ababa city centre.  It was a holiday for the staff over here.  The rules of employment over here gives the staff an extended holiday on Friday or Monday, provided an official holiday fall on a Saturday or Sunday respectively.  So, Maulid holiday was on Saturday, October 8, and so was this Friday a holiday.

Sharon and Rachel were to pick the Kenyan team of Rose and I on this Friday.  I moved from my C48 hostel block room and walked four doors along the corridor towards C44.  I knocked the door as I passed by, beckoning Rose to move towards the parking yard where we were to meet the hosts.

I found Rachel in her car, a white Mazda, left hand driven, as per convention over here.  She was in distress, even as I opened the front door right side seat.

“Imagine Sharon not come and she switch phone off,” she greeted me, not even looking in my direction.

“Hello there yourself.  The day is not as hot,” I responded, ignoring her anguish.

“This girl Sharon!  I no longer her friend.  She let me down.  I not want hear her!”

She continued starring ahead through the windscreen.  She was completely mood less.

Soon Rose would join in and seat just behind me.  We were ready to go.

“Where is Sharon?  Do we wait for her?,” Rose asked.

I answered for Rachel who was not in any more mood to discuss the runaway companion, “Sharon did not make it, and she seems unreachable on phone.  We shall have to go without her.”

We left the hostel block admin office parking lot and drove out, keeping right as we headed toward the B-gate.

“Selamta,” the sentry greeted the car.

“Selam,” Rachel and I responded, almost in unison.  Rose kept quiet.  It was her first time traveling to Ethiopia.  She was still getting used to the language.

We soon joined the main roads and started moving around to unknown roads.  She just drove and drove and drove.  It took us about thirty minutes of driving before we came to a stop.

“We park car here.  We walk to park there,” Rachel instructed, pointing ahead, as we disembarked.

We walked some one hundred or so metres and were soon at Unity Park.  We could see the military personnel guarding the massive gate and generally all around the compound fence.  There was a side entrance that we had to pass through, with the big gate being the exit point.  We bought our tickets at that side entrance.  We had already been prepared for this, with Rachel having already informed us the previous day that we would be charged Birr 1,050 each since we were non-nationals.  I believe that Rachel was entitled to half the fees.  

Rachel collected the 21 red notes from me, and another 21 red ones from Rose, that I had to count for her.  Rachel added the 42 notes to her own money.  She gave the big bundle of notes to the ticket person.  We got a single ticket for three, which Rachel momentarily handed over to another staffer in exchange for temporary paper armbands.  Each of us stretched a hand and the band was affixed to the arm.  The red armband read, “Unity Park - Regular”.  The Ethiopian flag was printed along the length of the strip, so was the map of Africa in the image of a fist.

We then moved to the security clearance desk.  We were asked to remove our belts, shoes, all metallic items and then go through a metal detector.  The rest of the items removed and put on trays went through a luggage scanner and emerged through the other end of it.  This was similar to the motions you go through at an airport.  

While awaiting my items on the other side of the conveyor, I did get a callback, while the ladies had already been cleared.

“What be this?,” the guard asked, pointing at an item on the tray.

“Viewing lens, for looking at things from far,” I responded.

He consulted his colleagues in Amharic, while pointing at the monocular.  After a half a minute or so, I got my response, “This not allow, so we keep here, then you take when leave”

Our trio walked past the security clearance area and moved towards the imposing gate.  We met a couple of bride and groom, unmistakably in their wedding attire, also getting through the gate.  We received a map of the park, an A3 paper folded into two to create four pages of information.  The middle section of the paper had a big map of the park.  The front and back pages contained some assorted pictures of the various parts of the park.  

I also learnt from Rachel, who was now quite cheered up after the morning moods, that this compound was also the current Prime Minister’s residence.  She said that occasionally some visitors to the park are lucky enough to see Abiy.  Now I could connect the dots between the security check and the visit.

We were informed by the person handing over the map to ‘follow arrow and go round arrow’.  There was almost a circular path around the park that would take you from gate back to gate, if you followed it religiously.  Of course, you could change course and go around in any direction or even turn back to the gate and exit.  We decided to ‘follow arrow’.  The very first passage was through the ‘lion’s den’!  That den was a real lion’s den, with all the lion noises and all.... and finally, even a live lion lying on the grass patch across the glass window was visible.

We survived the black lion zoo and went through other sections, including traditional houses and the botanical settings of the indigenous plants garden.  At some point we went into the emperor’s throne house.  And the first person that you meet seated at the throne is.... you guessed it, the very emperor Haile Selassie II.  Seated in his royal majesty.  Hail HIM!  And we had no choice than to hail him.  We paid homage to H.I.M, HIM.  We have photos to show for it.

We would then move around the hall where lots of historical literature was posted on poster boards.  Another part of the corridor round the main hall showed the historical account of Ethiopia, from King Solomon to the Queen of Sheba, who not-surprise, not-surprise was one of King Solomon's wifys.  Yes!  That is how Ethiopia links to the big picture of creation, Eden, Adam and Eve.

We even had an occasion of visiting the basement of HIM's hall, to see a different type of history, as we looked through the cells and the dark history of Ethiopia.  The documents, videos and pictures displayed on those former holding cells at the basement level did not have any kind words for Derg, the military council, and Mengistu Haile Mariam, the president in 1977-1991.  If anything, he was convicted to serve a life sentence in Ethiopia despite being in exile in Zimbabwe.  They are just waiting for him to come back to Ethiopia to serve his sentence.

At another separate but nearby building with a big hall, the Banquet Hall.  At this hall we came face to face with Emperor Menelik II, another one of the great kings that has Ethiopian history written all over him.  And he was there.  Right there at the head of the big hall.  I saw him seated.  I took a photo with him, next to him.  I hailed him, but unfortunately this was not HIM.  And when we talk about a big hall, we are really talking big!  As big as half a football field.

After that visit we walked around the roads.  We then saw Sellasie's vintage car displayed right there, outside his throne house hall for all to see and admire, but not touch, since it was encased in a glass covering.  The tour was so far so good and we were already tired.  I had tracked my movements on the app and we had covered just over 5km since the time we got through that gate.  

We took a lunch break.  By then Sharon had already found her way into the park and even joined our party by the time we were paying homage to the two kings, sorry emperors.  The three ladies and I took seats at the small restaurant just next to the emperor’s palace, Menelik II’s palace.  The palace that we did not visit since extra Birrs were needed for the ‘extended’ tour to include a walk into the pace.  This extended tour was not in our ‘regular’ package.  The palace was just next to the emperor’s throne house.  

We sat at the traditional stools at one of the corners of the restaurant and ordered soft drinks and some Ethiopian lunch.  I qualify it as ‘Ethiopian lunch’ since I still do not understand why they even call it ‘lunch’.  It looked more of a snack to me.  They bring a big flat tray layered with a thin white big circular wafer that they call injera.  

Onto that soft wafer, the injera, they put on it some little portions of spices of all manner, then some little veggies on one of the corners of the injera and that is about it.  You then start tearing off the injera as you dip it into the spices and veggies.  Tearing through from the end, as you go towards the centre.  You literally eat the container base as you go towards completion at the centre.  At least we had some tibs, aka fried meat that is eaten from atop a charcoal-heated clay pot.

After the lunch, we had our coffees on those small cups.  The content is hardly 50ml.  We put onto the coffee some rue leaves (Ruta) to spice it up.  We let the bitters sink in for a moment before we took a sip.  We loved the flavoured coffee.  Rose hated the flavoured coffee.  It takes time to get into Ethiopian ways.  She was adjusting too slowly.  We contributed about 400 Birr per person and gave the collection of money for the lunch and tipping.  I was now realizing that giving tips was the way of life.  I even remember having tipped when using a ‘free’ washroom in this same place.  

Thereafter, we moved just next to the restaurant to an adjacent open stall where a prominent sign was hanging on a mid-post within the hut, “Make your own injera”

I pointed to that direction as we were handwashing in the washrooms, “Is that for real?”

“Oh my God, yes!,” Sharon responded, almost jumping up excitedly.

“Do you know how to make injera?”

“On my God, of course yes!  No Ethiopian girl not know making injera”

“Can you make injera now?  Here?”

“No, me not ready now.  I only make with teff that me prepare, not any.  Oh my God, no.”

That is when Rachel came to the rescue, “Me, I make injera even now.  Want to see?”

Of course, yes!

“Yes, sure,” I responded, as the four of us moved into the small hut.  

We sat on the low stools while Rachel talked to the lady in charge of the cooking pot, sorry, cooking pan.  Soon the metallic pan that is about half-metre in diameter became the centre of attention, as Rachel first started by cleaning the hot pan with some oil put on some cloth.  She let the oil-dried pan to heat up for a minute or so, before she poured the teff flour that had already been premixed in water to form a paste, onto the pan.  

She then poured the paste in a circular motion, starting from the centre progressively moving towards the edges of the big pan.  She was soon done, and it was now a matter of waiting for the cooking to take place.  I did not see much of how the cooking was taking place.  I just saw the white paste remain white, but it kind-a solidified into a big circular white soft wafer, the injera.  The injera was then scooped off the pan with a woven plate and set forth onto a big plate on our table, ready for our next action.

“Wow, I did not know that it can be done that easily,” Rose spoke for the first time in many minutes.  I believe the Ethiopian experience was still overwhelming.

So, we sat and started eating.  It is only Sharon who did not make any move towards the injera that had been laced with a thin layer of butter for the expected sweetness effect of a freshly baked injera.

“Hey, Shayy, join into the injera feast!,” I reminded her, a layer of injera in my mouth.

“Oh my God no!  Today be Friday, and me not take no milk on Fridays.”

I had come to know Sharon as the only true Christian in Ethiopia.  The only true Orthodox that I had met.  She takes no animal products on Wednesdays and Fridays, and fasts for more than half the year at various times during the 13-month Ethiopian calendar.  That girl is going straight to heaven when the trumpet sounds.  The rest of us need grace and are likely purgatory-first candidates.

We then moved around to the zoo within the park, the Unity zoo.  We saw the animals in captivity, including lions, cheetahs, zebras, antelopes (nyala, impala, kudu, eland, wildebeest, gemsbok), meerkat and ostriches.  We even walked through the aviary and saw the birds (greater flaming, Guinea fowl, crane, ibis, gull, moorhen, white-faced duck, weaver, francolin, egret, spoonbill, turaco, hornbill, starling, heron), that are living within the grounds and environs of that giant structure that stretches almost ten metres into the sky.  

After that we were just to pass by some traditional houses that depict various cultures (Tigray, Somali, Harari, Oromia) before we were already being reminded by the many staffers on the park that it was time to get out.  It was already past five.  The exit party included one or two couples with their wedding gowns.

Part 2

The day was far from over.  The four of us drove back to our residential place.  They dropped Rose and I at our hostels.  Rachel and Sharon decided to stick around by going to their office to do some work since we were soon having another event set for six.  I however knew the better of this timing when the girls decided that they would be having a ‘make up meet up’ before we go.

I did not even bother to call the girls before seven.  And when I used WhatsApp to call Rose at seven, she said a casual, “we are about through, give us another ten minutes.”

I gave them thirty and we finally congregated at Rachel’s white Mazda at seven-thirty.

We drove through the roads and ended up at a place that was very familiar.  I knew it even before we disembarked.  This was Yod Abyssinia Cultural Restaurant.  I had been there before, twice or even thrice.  It never disappoints.

The place was however not as full as I have seen it before, when you can hardly get a seat.  This time round the four of us identified a seating area at one end of the wall, almost facing the main stage.  There was already a performance on stage.  There were five instrumentalists.  Three harpist, a drummer and a flutist.  They were seated.  A soloist was standing in front of them, on the well-lit stage.  He sang.  They played.  Their music was of the Arabic inclination.  It was soft and went well with the atmosphere.  Occasionally some four ladies and four gentlemen, either singly or in groups would dance in front of the soloist.

We ordered drinks or rather, the hosts ordered the drinks and they were brought to the table.  There was a 700ml bottle of that sweet yellow drink, tej.  They set it on the table.  They also set some sodas on the table.  Some wine glasses were passed around, with none to me.  

A small conical flask of about 300ml volume was setup in front of my sitting position.

“Tej for president Obama,” Rachel announced.

“But... but... but...,” I tongue-tied about, not sure of what to say.

“Not worry, we also help you, not worry.”

Another two conicals were brought and set forth on the table.

It did not take long before another colleague, Mary, joined in, following almost momentarily by her colleague George.  The table of six was now fully loaded.  The drinks continued.  The music continued.  The crowds continued to get in, and get out, but mostly get in.  The place kept getting swollen.  The music started getting louder.  We soon went for a buffet dinner by just walking behind our seating area, picking plates and filling up.  

I did not see much of anything familiar, though there were many different small pots with many different things.  However, injera which is now a constant part of our menu, was there – brown, white and even a brown-white mixed version.  The rest were just veggies, spices, other stuff, other things, some more other food items, and finally.... some raw mincemeat.  I picked some injera, some veggies and was back to my seat.  George ordered some tibs to be brought to our table on that charcoal heated claypot.  Our dinner could not have been complete without coffee.

At some point the soloist at the stage tried to rendition the ‘jambo bwana’ song, making a complete mess out of it.  Rose and I, and even Rachel who was becoming Kenyanized, tried to join in and correct the soloist, but he would hear nothing of it.  Surely, who sings ‘Ethiopia nchi nzuri’ to a ‘Kenya nchi nzuri’ song?  Just talking about how the real lyrics should be, nothing else.

Then the dancers started taking break from the stage and started joining the revelers at their table locations for some jig.  Two or three such sessions of the dancers come up to our table to call us out of our seats for dances involving vigorous shoulder an upper body movement.  This did spice up the evening before we finally called it a night.  It was just a few minutes to midnight as we stood to leave.  Just when we thought we were going home....

Part 3

We got into two cars.  Rachel’s car had Sharon, Mary and I.  George’s car had Rose in it.  We drove and drove and drove.  Twenty minutes or so later and we were not getting anywhere back to the hostel blocks where I thought we should be getting to in such a timeframe.  What was going on here?  Where the hech are we going?

“We arrive, get out of car,” Rachel finally announced, as she started looking for some parking space.

George was just behind us, also looking for a parking space.  I do not know Addis, especially in this dead of the night.  I therefore did not know where we were.  I just followed the crowd.

We got into an elevator at the adjacent building, with an operator minding the elevator doors.  He closed them after we were in, pressed a button and were wheeled up to some floor, I guess the sixth.  The door opened to let in a gush of loud club music.  We had just entered a boom-twaf world, the door at the entrance reading ‘Midtown Ultra Lounge’.  We squeezed through a body-packed club floor as we looked out at where we could find a standing space.  Seating was already out of the question.  

We moved to the very extreme end of the room, just next to Buddha, who was seated in his bronze majesty, eyes gazing straight and down at us.  We looked back at Buddha, said nothing and took a table.  He looked straight at us, kept sitting in medication, and also said nothing.  

The six of us stood round the circular table in the semi-dark room.  We could just make out the height of the table.  Talking was out of the question with the volume of music that had engulfed the hall.  We just nodded along as we gestured.  Bottled water was served at the middle of the table, just before our troubles started...

The waiter soon brought to our table some small glasses on a rack.  Each small glass was about 10ml or maybe my gaze was starting to fade?

“We are doing shots,” someone struggled to shout on the table.  It was hardly audible.

We gestured in the matter of ‘What’?

George pointed at the glasses in the middle of the table and gestured in a manner of ‘take and drink’.

Everyone took a small glass, apart from Mary.  She waved a no.  She could have been useless saying the word ‘no’, with all the music going on.

Soon there was an happy birthday song going on in the hall as it got louder with a cake being brought to the next table.  The cake and candle flares took the attention of the room for a second and they DJ loudly wished some random name a happy birthday, some girl’s name.  

We did not even have time to admire the cake before the DJ put an end to the birthday event and continued the real hits.  People danced around their tables.  In fact, it is the standing and the dancing that kept us sober.  Any seating and being docile for even a minute could have reminded the legs that they were already being flooded with alcohol laden blood and for sure the legs would have already given way by now.

It was not long before George called for another gesture at the small glasses in the middle of our table.  That was not to be the last.  They just kept coming.  I just lost count and let what happens happen.  Who even came up with the deceit that taking a drink in one gulp is a good idea?  Get it from me, it is a bad idea ab initio.  The drink ‘shots’ the centre of your brain and you almost lose consciousness for a minute.  You stay drunk, only for them, that is George and group, to ‘shot’ you again.... and again.... and again....

It was at three when Mary called the three on the table ‘out of order’ to directed them to the lift.  By then we had each thrown a bunch of notes onto the middle of the table.  The amount, a thousand Birr per person, having been communicated through gestures since talking was not possible with all that music.  

Two of our members had already disappeared into thin air.  First it was Sharon who had slipped out quietly when ‘the drinks finally caught her’, hardly one-hour after our arrival, leaving the five of us to test our endurance.  Later on, even George, the shot-man had had enough and disappeared.  Only four people were left standing when the time came to do the counting past three.  Mary directed the three of us to the exit and to the lift area.  The lift operator was still there.  He opened the lift door, let us in, and closed the door.  He pushed a button and the vehicle moved down.

When we got to the parking yard, Rachel went straight to the back seat.

“I not drive in this state,” she declared resignedly.

“President, now you see why I no drink?,” Mary looked in my direction as she got onto the driver’s seat, while I opened the co-driver’s seat and took a seat.  Rose joined Rachel in the back.  The only reason I was still walking was because of the three hours of standing and dancing.  Otherwise, I should have collapsed by now.

We started driving around.  The roads were deserted.  In fact, we did not encounter even one single vehicle either going in our direction or opposite.  We drove around for about fifteen minutes then dropped Rachel at her place.  We lit her body full headlights as we waited for her to get in.  The lights were on her as she knocked the gate for over five-minutes to wake up the watchman.  Her gate was finally opened, and we bid her goodnight, more of good morning.

Mary directed the Mazda smoothly to the hostel blocks.  It was just past 3.30am when we got out of the car and headed to our hostel.  I affixed the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the external of the door, on the handle.  I was not letting the cleaners disturb my sleep, and when I talk about disturb, I mean disturb.  The cleaners ambush the room just before eight!  Who knocks a hostel door before eight?  Surely!!  

And the cleaners usually just knock once, and if there is no answer then they proceed and use their master key to open and get in.  I have been found in bed on several occasions, when I just realize there is someone in the room in the name of cleaning.  The sign would put a break to that disturbance.  Breakfast was not happening for on this Saturday morning, nor was the planned electric train ride arranged by Sharon going to take place.  This one I had just cancelled by SMS at this late night, thanks to the same Sharon for having given me an Ethiopian line to use while there.

Part 4

I was taking a bathroom break around ten on Saturday, when I saw a number of missed calls on WhatsApp, from my phone that was on silent.  They were all from Rose, and there were messages too – “You need to checkout urgently.  They say that the rooms are reserved for incoming guests”

I was meant to be going back to bed, not checking out!  Anyway, rules are rules, and so I hurriedly threw my clothes randomly into the two bags and was soon out of the room in less than five minutes.  I headed to the hostel reception where I found Rose waiting.  The receptionist was glad that I was there.

“Your room be booked for guest he arrive soon,” he said, relief all over his face.

My body was still tired and in need of sleep.

I still had another ten hours before the vehicle to pick me for the airport for the trip back was due.  I therefore still had plenty hours of nothing ahead.  A temporary room is all I needed to enable me take a rest, compile my reports and wait for the evening.  I did that in the new hostel room.  After many hours that went so fast, I finally walked to the restaurant to partake of the last injera before the airport transfer vehicle came for me at 2000hrs as scheduled.  

We left at 2015hours for the short 15-minutes drive to the Bole International airport.  The airport turned out to be busier on this than I had expected.  It took me almost two hours to get my boarding pass.  There was still more waiting minutes ahead before the boarding call came at 2245hrs for the 2315hrs flight back home.......

And now here I was back to the present, one week later, on this Friday, finishing the 17k run in the hot Nairobi sun.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Friday, Oct. 14, 2022

Running with Children, then… Missing Easter

Running with Children, then… Missing Easter

Scheming

It was exactly one week ago today, that the five of us finally visited the Children’s home.  This was after one year of many false starts on this mission.  It started as a ‘wild’ idea during one of those TF monthly teas at ‘sobriety’ corner of the bar.

“This tea is mwaaa!,” Nikki had commented.

“Why are you not saying anything about your favourite?,” Irina had asked.

We all laughed since we understood immediately what was being talked about.

“Ah, that,” Nikki joined in, “Si you just know.  No one touches those sausages.”

All laughed a second time.

“But they are like twenty!,” I wondered, laughingly.

It was then that I had brought in the topic of donating to some charity.  One year ago.  At that time we had discussed all manner of topics – we discussed dis and dat and some more.  We attempted to discuss football, which was showing on TV at that time.  We did not go far, since the gals would soon dismiss us with, “What is this obsession with guys and balls?”

So we left it at that.  

Soon we were discussing soap operas.  Their faces lit up.  All the gals were soon fully immersed in the discussion.  The two guys in the group of six become mere spectators.  How do you even follow a soap character for like six months and still follow the story!?  In football you follow only for 90-minutes and it is done – finished – no second guessing.  You exhale once – you are done with it.  But not for the gals…

“You saw how Alejandro fought with Juan because of Teresa yesterday?,” Irina asked the table.

“Woyi!  Ilikuwa drama,” Roxy confirmed, “Hata singekula supper saa ile kipindi inaendelea”.

“Na vile Teresa anapenda Juan!  Hata hapendi Alejandro.  Aki, Juan ni ka-cute,” Nikki reaffirmed.

“That is what true love is,” Irina said, “Siyo kama hawa African men,” she pointed in our general direction, but to no one in particular.

Talk is talk

We talked about the politics of that time.  About the recent elections and how it has created anxiety, with two elections and two swearing-ins.  We talked about handshakes, and at that point cheered to the power of handshakes.  We talked about clothes and dressing.

“Did you see what Brenda of Accounts was wearing during today’s Friday coffee?,” Roxy raised the issue.

“I did not notice anything ‘funny’!,” which was true.  It held tight with all major emphasis at the right places… but what was the big deal?  Isn’t that what dressing should be all about – draw some attention… all attention!

“Hapana, hiyo nguo ilitesa!,” Irina confirmed “Ma boy-child walikuwa wana umia!  I wish sitazaa dame – Ma dame ni shida tupu!”

I believe that this is the topic and would start the journey to this visit to the Children’s home one year later.  Since at this point of discussion we raised the issue of how we have so many clothes that we never wear.  They are just in the wardrobe or bags, gathering dust, but never used.  We keep waiting for “someday”, some “one day”, when these clothes shall come in handy.  This “someday, one day” never comes and years keep going.  I gave the group my piece of mind that if you have not touched any piece of cloth for a year, then you do not need it.  It is at this point that we agreed to collect all these clothes and donate them to charity.

Soon we would continue discussing this issue of donations, starting with the idea of clothes to more items like shoes, toys, bags…. then food… then money…. then community activity.  We kept adding in the ideas (on paper, sorry on Whatsapp).  It was all talk, and nothing towards practicality.  

Many Fridays later, and we would start firming up this issue by asking members to start bringing in the clothes to a central place for storage.  We started discussing the potential homes that could benefit.  We come up with a budget.  We called for contributions and donations.  It was going to happen.

Time flies

One year later, Saturday, April 13 would come and see our group of five get into a vehicle, cargo in boot, and head to Children’s Garden Home at Kawangware river, some 3km away from our work place.  We did not know what to expect.  We did not know how it would go.  We were doing this for the first time.  We were nervous, unsure, anxious… we even felt inadequate.

“Are you sure that they shall appreciate what we are donating?,” Nikki wondered as we turned into the compound of the home.

“Too late!  Here we are,” I instructed the driver on where to turn, “We have done our best and there is no room for second guessing.”

It is not that I was also that confident.  I had my doubts.  What we had carried with us seemed so little.  We had 10kg each of sugar, rice and beans.  We had with us 20 packets of maize flour.  We had a big carton full of clothes of all ages, plus toys and shoes.  Earlier on, the carton got torn in the process of squeezing in all the material, forcing us to tie it up with sisal string.  Our newest member, Prisca, had even surprised us all by joining us at the start of the journey with a box of biscuits.

I had already alerted the proprietor of the home of our visit on the previous day, and we found him waiting.

“I am Musa,” he stretched out his hand in my direction.  This was after the five of us and the driver, had alighted and formed a semi-circle just next to our car, waiting for ‘what next?’.

“This is the team that I told you about,” we exchanged greetings as I went ahead and introduced myself and the other five.

“Welcome to the Children’s Garden Home and School,” he told the group.

He took us through a tour of the facilities.  The institution houses children from infants to those in post-secondary school.  Their learning facilities have nursery, primary and secondary school classes.  They also have a play field, accommodation facilities and a new building under construction.  They rely on donations and volunteers to run their routines.  Our self-doubt on whether we would make an impact was soon gone.  We knew for sure that we were doing the right thing and our contribution would go a long way.

Watch this

We would soon be seated in their hall for a ‘surprise’ interlude of entertainment.  We watched the young ones undertake various talent show activities.  We heard their songs.  We saw them dance – and dancing they did.  We saw their acrobats.  We even heard a soloist, accompanied by a guitarist.  Both were quite good in what they did.  We saw pure, raw, untapped talent.  Marvelous.  Beautiful.  Inspiring.  

We would soon be introduced as the “important visitors” and asked to address the audience of mainly children.  As the team leader, I would soon be introducing the other four colleagues, since by then our driver had already left.  After each of the team members had said their bit in encouraging the youngsters.  It was my time to wrap it up.

“All of us have our talents.  You need to know it, and exploit it.  Let no one discourage you.  Do what you like and keep doing it.”

The hall was all quiet.  Attentive.

“What is ‘talent’ in Kiswahili?,” I broke the silence.

I passed the mic around….

“Kipaji,” a shrill voice bellowed in the mic.

“Talanta,” another voice said in the mic that was passing around.

“Uwezo,” someone else said.

“Ubunifu,” they kept coming.

“Kipawa,” someone said.

“Ujuzi!”

“What talent do you know of?,” the second question also resulted into some mic movement.  We got all manner of answers.

The obvious ones – sports, singing, playing instruments, acrobatics, drawing.

The ish ish ones – plaiting hair, washing

The where-did-these-come-from responses – banta (marbles), eating!

We felt very fulfilled that day as we left the home at about two, after a three hour stay.  We even got an official acknowledgement receipt for what we had donated.  That was a first.  

“What name do we write on the receipt?,” the proprietor had asked.

“TF group,” we responded almost in unison.

“T-what?”

“True Friends.”

Soon there would be a Whatsapp update on the photos and all the happenings of the day.  Soon there would be suggestion that we need to do this again soon.

Coffee is coffee

The next day would see me travel to our other work campus for a collaborative project with a similar department.  On Monday at eight o’clock I did the introductory meeting and then a break at ten thirty.  One thing that I have now learnt is never to say no to an offer of this….

“We now go coffee?,” Rachel said as we left the conference room with the intention of going back to our work site.

“Sure, let us do this.”

We were soon taking coffee in very small cups… and for a reason...  The coffee is so strong that a bigger cup would surely knock you out.  We sat at the coffee preparation area, where the coffee-girl prepared the coffee from roasted beans that we could see.  Brewed on a live fire just in front of us.  Brewed in traditional clay kettles before our very eyes.  Incense was spreading to our seating area.  Whenever the smoke went down, she would pour something onto the fire and the incense would immediately intensify once more.

On top of the dark black liquid in the small cup, was equally a small piece of leaf.

“What is this leaf?”

“That.. eh, that is ten-adam.  You people don’t have ten-adam?  Very common here in Ethiopia,” Rachel said.

The leaf had good aroma.  I liked it.

Later that day, we got to speak to the head gardener who promised to give us the botanical name of ten-adam.  He kept his promise, since hardly one day later, I got an email forwarded through my hosts to me...

“Tell the president that it is called Ruta chalepensis”

After lunch that day, I was not surprised when despite being full to the brim, I was invited for yet another coffee.  Saying no was out of the question.  I was once again seated at the same coffee place at their clubhouse.

“Buna ke ten-adam,” I told the coffee gal.

She laughed.  Impressed.  She told Rachel something in Amharic.  Rachel would laugh too.

“She says you know Amharic already.”

Twelve is Twelve

Every day at ten to eleven I would get the call for coffee.  I would obey the call for coffee.  You cannot say no to coffee.  It is the most serious sign of disrespect.  Another call would come in daily between three and four.  The routine continued until finally it was a Friday.  My last work day at Abyssinia after my one week project.

“Today at twelve evening we go out,” Rachel prepared me early in the morning, when I just got to the office.

She meant “saa kumi na mbili jioni”.  I understood.  Apart from coffee, you also don’t want to mess with the time.  And I would realize that applies to the calendar date too…..

“President, I was Nairobi last week.  Liked the office you gave me,” the Procurement guy told me during introductions early that Friday.  I had passed by with Rachel as part of information gathering for the project.

“Amese-ginalehu,” I struggled.

“You mean you can do Amharic?,” he wondered loudly, “The ladies are treating you good.”

He looked at Rachel accusingly.

He then gave me some lessons of his own.

“This is Ethiopian calendar,” he reached behind his desk and removed a big A3 size calendar that had one month on each page.  He opened the page written ‘April’ and moved his finger to the date written ‘19’.  

He read the Amharic wordings below that date, then gave his interpretation, “Today is Date 11.”

He then moved his finger to the top page where the year 2019 was written and below it he read and announced, “We are in year 2011”

He then gifted me the calendar, to complement my learning efforts.

“I feel bad working during a holiday,” I complained, “You people do not celebrate Easter?  It is Good Friday in Kenya!”

“Did I not give you the Ethiopian calendar?,” he asked, “Our Easter is next week Friday… And ours is serious.  Not like that joke of a Easter in Kenya!”

“It is true,” Rachel laughed at me, “Here Easter is serious holidays.  All people they celebrate Easter.”

On fire

That evening saw our team of two gents and three ladies head to a cultural centre just near the international airport.

“Welcome to Yod Abyssinia Traditional Restaurant,” the gateman said upon our arrival.

We got into a big hall.  With traditional sitting arrangement.  It was already full, with people seated at their different circular formations on the low back traditional seats.  We would have been misplaced without a reservation.  We would be directed to seat at our reserved corner.  

There was a band of four already on the stage playing instrumentals with a mix of both modern and traditional instruments.  The drums and flute were modern.  The 1-stringed and 8-stringed instruments were traditional.  Soon the stage would light up with different performances, singers and dancers.  It was a good display.  

We would then order.  Three of our team members were ‘on fasting’ ready for Easter.  They could not take meat.  Two of us ordered meat…

“The meat with fire below it,” I said.

All the four laughed out loud, “That they call tibs,” Rachel rescued me from the laughter.

“Ok, Tibs, well done,” I resigned.

“Tirē siga,” I thought I heard Mary say.  But that is what I heard.

The servings arrived.  A big tray lined with injera, firfir and assorted sauces in small dishes was laid before the three who were on Easter cleansing.  Some fish fillet was served their way to crown their non-meat day.

A small fired clay pot was laid before me, more like fried meat simmering on the top plate like structure.  Something that looked like minced meat was put before Mary.  A central tray separated our two meat servings.  On this central tray was laid brown injera and white injera.  Two small dishes contained some spices.  I later learned that the spices were red chili paste, green chili paste and flavoured curry powder.  

I was specifically warned to go easy on the green paste.  It burns.  I burnt.  I would soon feel something hit the middle of my brain when I mistakenly scooped enough green chili in a roll of injera and got it to my mouth.  Washing it down with the yellow drink did nothing.  The pain would soon subside - lesson learnt - take it ‘small’ on the green.

My eyes widened at my neighbour’s central plate.  Before long I was asked to taste.

“Taste some raw meat, very sweet.”

My eyes widened further, “Thanks, but no thank you.  Next time.”

“All answer is always ‘next time’,” Mary would complain.

“I promise.”

They offered us coffee after dinner.  We accepted the coffee, served with incense.  There was also a small basket of pop corn alongside the buna.

Ancestors

The mood remained jovial while the music become a familiar background.  We chatted within our table.  Even laughed at people of dare take firfir with a spoon.  A person I know was named.  I laughed at her.  How dare she?  You can only take that paste by scooping it with injera.  You cannot spoon it!  We also talked about how to take tej the right way.  Even some on the very table could not hold the conical tej flask correctly.  The men seemed to be seasoned in this tradition.  The gals held their flasks like cups!  Breaking tradition!!  Bad gals!!!

“You people drink without honouring ancestors?,” I asked after noticing a second bottle of tej, the honey-based drink, arrive and no one taking any step to spill some on the ground.

“Not tej,” Rachel said, “Other drinks we can give ancestors, but not tej.  Tej too common for ancestors.”

Then when we thought that we had seen it all….

“Wedding party!,” Sally exclaimed!  Excited and pointing behind me.

The music immediately changed as a soloist moved to stage and sang a seemingly familiar song.  Soon all of the people in the big room had joined in the singing and clapping.  The tune continued as we clapped in rhythm.  The wedding party would soon settle on their seats just behind our own circle.  The song ended once the party had settled down.  What an evening of tradition!

In 24-hours’ time I would be getting an offer for a final coffee at mid-night as the 737 was heading for its destination at JKIA.

“Yes,” I responded to the hostess, “Buna ke ten-adam”.


WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Apr. 20, 2019