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"If you want to be a writer you have to mix with
people and observe things." That was a small piece
of advice I had read somewhere during my school
days. I think I have taken that piece as a motto to
follow as much as possible.
The other day, I saw a young man whom I took to be a
member of the Diaspora that may have come from the
West to celebrate the Ethiopian Millennium. He
sported a gold earring on one of his ears that
sparked the prelude to this article. At first I
thought it did not concern me, nor did I think that
it touched me or surprised me a dime. In fact, I
felt like it was demeaning my pride of machismo.
Earrings are thought to be fashion for women. But
the earring brought home an old memory of my father
who had wanted to protect me from people who would
hunt a child with a full eyebrow and no scar on his
body. When I asked him why he had an earring he
would tell me that he was a hunter of big game in
the wild west of Wellega and Maji. He had to kill an
elephant, lion or buffalo to prove his manhood and
be able to marry a girl he wanted to make his
partner.
Although having a hole in a man's ear may be taken
as a primitive practice and taboo, I have over the
years modified my feelings of embarrassment by the
logic and sensitivity of civilisation to bear with
the hole on my left ear to the extent of forgetting
that I have one.
Have I ever been a hunter? I had once finished off a
wounded warthog more for self-defence than for sport
or for its tasty and lean meat. That was the first
and last booty of my hunting experience. But I never
felt deserving an earring for that.
I cannot, however, deny the fact that I am
passionately devoted to slay sheep and goats and
devour the raw meat of a fattened bull whenever the
opportunity avails itself. You may say opportunities
are a rarity these days under the circumstances
where some of us have started quenching our desires
by window shopping and preaching 'the grapes are
sour after all' anecdotes when talking about meat.
My father and his compatriots were full-bearded
typical country gentlemen who had visions to go to
the noble forests of Wellega and Maji to kill wild
beasts. They were ruddy to the animals but jovial
and respected hunters in the eyes of villagers even
at the expense of their mediocrity.
I am not sure if those noble forests can harbour
today hares and rabbits not to speak of wild game
like lions and buffalos. It looks like we have come
down to reflect the past only in symbols in lieu of
live animals. Our children are subjected to imagine
the lion as king of all wild beasts, strong and
glorious and a symbol of bravery and gallantry; the
king that is only a captive for life in the zoo at
Sidist Kilo.
The late Emperor traced his dynasty from the Lion of
Judah. Emperor Theodore had the lion as his symbol
of power. The Ethiopian tri-colour had until recent
times the lion as a logo. Tedros Kassahun (Teddy
Afro), the popular singer, rhymes the long distance
runner champion Kenninisa with 'Anbessa.'
I do not want to argue with him if the symbol of a
lion has anything to do with distance running or
flying for that matter for Ethiopian Airlines also
uses the lion as a logo. But I know too well that
the symbol of the lion has also something to do with
travelling be it by air or by road. Whenever I see a
picture of a lion stretching fully fledged as if to
jump and catch its prey I am baffled.
Anbessa
in the local vernacular means lion. Some parties
prefer not to translate the word; they leave it as
it is as if it is a name. Anbessa as a
drawing on a poster is little more than a name,
particularly when you see the jumping king of the
jungle on the side of a city bus not even painted to
scale.
Mired in muddy stains, the diminutive yellow lion
with a dark mane jumping through the air looked
pathetic to me when I saw it on the side of the bus
I was boarding. If the logo was meant to reflect
magnanimity or promote business, it has missed the
point.
In these times of hustle and bustle amidst heavy
traffic in the streets of Addis, the wide-open mouth
and sharp looking claws of the lions of the city
buses would not scare a fly, never mind a human
being or anything else.
Of course the passengers inside the bus are the
silent majority. They do not talk or read. Even if
they wanted to talk they are strangers in the bus
without newspapers worth reading. Some are taking
children to school, while others may be commuting to
their work places, perhaps wondering if they could
make it to their offices on time. Some women
travelling to market places whisper amongst
themselves what price hike may be waiting in the
shops to surprise them.
I had to queue outside for more than 10 minutes
before I could buy a one-way ticket and step into
the bus which was already full at the very starting
terminal. When we came to the next stop, the ticket
woman was selling tickets despite some people flying
into rage and using insulting language for being
charged when there was no space even to close the
doors. A fellow who had hardly squeezed himself into
the thick passengers somehow managed to find a word
and cursed the ticket woman. I had missed what made
the audience burst into hilarity. It must have been
an offensive phrase of blasphemy which came to his
lips for sure, that aroused the silent passengers.
I thought I heard someone wondering if Ethiopia
would move into the new Millennium carrying such
insidious fellows. That was perhaps too far-fetched
a paradigm to generalise and make such judgments. A
little wrinkled woman of about 50 was angered at the
pressure the passengers were imposing on the ticket
seller for the taxing job she was doing. Some people
sighed with a lip service. At every stop the ticket
seller opened her window to sell tickets wasting
much time in the process.
One fellow said he would not have travelled by bus
had it not been for the untimely drizzle he was
forced to doge. Another traveller from a distance
asked why the fellow did not invest his money on an
umbrella that is selling dirt cheap these days.
Another round of laughter waved and reverberated.
The focus of attention shifted from the ticket woman
to the silent majority when the first man retorted
that he had bought a new umbrella but it was stolen
by some intruders that make uncalled for comments.
The rest of the passengers opted to remain as silent
as ever, perhaps wanting the verbal exchanges to
develop into a physical confrontation. I had to step
down before such fantasies materialised. |
