Say You’re One Of Them (20 page)

Some days, there was no need to go to one or the other’s house to be together. No, you and Best Friend stood on your own balconies and screamed your kindergarten rhymes to each other across the street, over the brown birds sitting on the electric and phone wires. The wires were cluttered with dead kites, trapped like butterflies in giant cobwebs. Your mommy didn’t mind your loud recitations because she said you were only children. Your daddy was OK with it but didn’t want you to shout when he was taking his siesta, after which he would sometimes drive you around in his white car. Selam’s parents weren’t very OK with the shouts, but what could they do?

Some Saturdays, your mommy or Emaye Selam would walk both of you two streets down, behind the church, for your hair to be braided. Like twins, you always chose the same style. Some days, you went to her place and watched the Disney channel, and sometimes she came over to your place and you played Snakes and Ladders and ate
doro wot
and spaghetti.

One Sunday, after church, which Selam attended with your family because her parents traveled, Daddy drove you two to Hoteela Federalawi to eat. You read out all the billboards on the long, beautiful Haile Selassie Arada: Selam the ones on the right, you the ones on the left. In Hoteela Federalawi, Daddy picked a table outside, under a big canopy, and you sat down. You read to each other from the menu while he looked on proudly. You both ordered pizza, while Daddy got a big dish of
mahberawi
.

“Is hamburger pork?” Selam asked, and tossed a piece of mushroom into her mouth.

“Hey, who said so?” Daddy said.

“Hadiya,” she said.

“I told you not to talk to Hadiya!” you said, dropping your fork. “She’s not our friend.”

“I didn’t talk to her.”

“I won’t talk to you again.”

“I’m sorry.”

You stood up and moved your chair away from hers.

“Oh no,
ai,
” Daddy said, pushing your chair back toward Best Friend’s. “Come on,
ai,
ladies. Best friends don’t quarrel,
eshie?
”

“Yes, Daddy,” you said. “But she spoke to Hadiya. She promised me never to speak to Hadiya, Daddy.”

“I did not speak to her. She just came up to me and said I follow Christians and eat pork at Hoteela Federalawi, and ran away. I say I’m sorry. I am sorry, OK?” Tears came into her eyes. “I won’t talk to you again either!” Selam shouted at you. “And I won’t even hug you.”

“Oh no, Selam,” Daddy said, coming in between the two of you. “She’s kidding. She’ll talk with you, she’ll sit with you.” He turned to you: “Sweetheart, don’t be mean to Best Friend.”

Other people stared at you, and children celebrating someone’s birthday under a canopy giggled. Selam heaved with sobs. Daddy loosened his tie and held her and dabbed her tears with a handkerchief. Your waitress, a lady with a silver nose ring, came over and taunted you, saying that such sweet sisters should not be quarreling and embarrassing their dad in public, after church.

Daddy said to you, “You must make up with Selam or we go home now . . .
tolo!
”

“OK, Selam, I’m sorry,” you said. “I’ll speak to you. Best friends . . . hugzee, hugzee?”

She nodded. “OK, best friends . . . hugzee.”

You hugged. The waitress clapped and cheered and pushed your chairs back together.

“Well, my Selam, I want to say this before we continue eating,” Daddy said apologetically. “You’re always free to eat what you’re comfortable with,
aw?
”

“Yes. Already, my daddy said I could eat pork if I wanted.”

“Did he?” he asked, sounding relieved.

“Yes.”

“Because this evening I was going to ask your dad to talk to you. I’m going with him to Cinima Bahminya to watch Premiereship football.”

“I was just trying to tell Best Friend what Hadiya said.”

“That’s why I like your dad,” he said, and rubbed her head. “Open-minded . . . nice man.”

You sat down and began to eat, sipping fresh pomegranate juice with long red and white straws. You talked about the games you would play together when you got home and how much you looked forward to school the next day.

THEN
ONE
DAY
, after you and your family and Best Friend’s family had gone to watch the Jimma Bicycle Race in the next town, you didn’t wake up in your bed but in Mommy and Daddy’s bed. The flat was full of a burning smell. The streets were almost empty. Daddy said there was no school that day.

All morning, your parents didn’t leave your side. Their bedroom didn’t have windows that faced Selam’s flat. They sat with you and watched cartoons and later told you about their childhood and the
Yelijoch Gizay
TV show they watched long ago in Addis Ababa. Daddy, acting the part of Ababa Tesfaye, told you many children’s stories; Mommy played Tirufeet, assisting and fleshing out the stories.

Mommy allowed you to spend a lot of time in the bath and brought your clothes to their room. Daddy made you read all your books aloud for him and recited church prayers. They didn’t hurry to go to work; they didn’t hurry to go anywhere. The house help didn’t show up.

You yawned and jumped out of bed.

“I’m going to see Best Friend.”

“Come and sit down for a minute,” Mommy said, patting the space on the bed between her and Daddy. You went and sat down. She looked at Daddy, who was looking at the wall.

He cleared his throat and said, “Honey, we don’t want you to play with that girl anymore.”

“What girl?”

“That Muslim girl,” Mommy said, moving her huge body close to you.

“Best Friend?”

Silence.

You looked at Mommy, then Daddy. They couldn’t be serious, you thought, and waited for them to say it was a joke. “No big deal,” Daddy said, shrugging. “There were riots last night. Houses were burned in our neighborhood.”

“Selam’s flat?”

“No,” he said.

“Could I go talk with her . . . ?”

“We say
ai,
” Mommy said, looking you straight in the face.

“No? I just want to hug her. Please?”

“We understand how you feel,” Daddy said. “We really do. . . . At six you’re a bit too young to understand these things.”

“Listen up, sweetie,” she said, “you’re our only child . . . our only child.”

“But I really miss her.”

“Do you know her parents have also told her to keep away from you?” she said.

“They did? Emaye Selam? Abaye Selam said that? Who’ll play with me?”

“We’ll play with you,” Mommy said.

Daddy rubbed your back and translated what Mommy said: “
Kanchi gara mechawet iwedallehu.
”

“Who’ll play with Selam?”

“Hadiya,” he said.

“Hadiya?”

“Her brothers, then,” he said. “You don’t worry about that.”

“But I don’t want Hadiya to play with her. I don’t like her.”

You threw the remote control on the floor and ran to your room before they could hold you back. You opened the big window’s blinds and looked at Selam’s house. A part of her building was burned, but not Selam’s flat. The building was now red and black because of the fire. Some of the burned flats looked like empty black shells, the rock-hewn blocks as solid as ever. With the blinds and windows gone, you saw inner walls and parts of singed furniture.

But Selam’s flat was fine, and the blinds were closed. It looked lonely because of the fire. Looking around, you saw black smoke still rising from other houses. The sky was dirty. The donkeys and horses were gone, and a cluster of damaged buggies stood by the street corner like unwashed dishes in a sink. Even the birds were absent from the wires.

You wanted Selam to come out onto the balcony. You wanted to see her face. Your heart began to beat faster because you imagined her standing there behind the blinds, waiting for you. You imagined her sitting on her bed with her parents. You imagined her being told she would now have to pick a new best friend. You saw her playing with Hadiya. You saw them going to braid their hair and heard them giggling. Hearing them addressing each other as Best Friend, you balled your fists and wanted Selam to run onto the balcony.

“A part of our house has been burned too,” Daddy said, squatting behind you, holding your shoulders. “If you open the window, the smoke will come in. . . . It’s bad out there.”

“Your daddy’s Peugeot has been vandalized,” Mommy said, sitting on your bed.

“Where’s Selam?”

“They’re fine,
dehna nachew,
” she said, and Daddy pulled you away from the window back to your bed. “Your daddy and her daddy spoke this morning about you two. There’s tension between us and them.”

“Did you quarrel with Emaye Selam?”

“
Ai,
no, she’s a sweet woman,” she said.

Daddy was quiet, fidgeting with the broken remote and the batteries. On the wall of your room, you saw the world map your teacher, Etiye Mulu, had taught you to trace in school. Your eyes came to “Africa, Our Continent,” which Best Friend had penned on the map in her sweet handwriting, and you fought back tears.

Mommy hugged you.

“Daddy, did you quarrel with Abaye Selam?”

“Not ‘us’ as in
us,
” Daddy said.

“It’s not personal,” Mommy said. “You know they’re Muslims?”

“Yes.”

“Faith differences,” he said. “Just faith differences.”

“Faith?”

“It’s complex,” she said.

“It’s a difficult time,” he said, nodding.

“Are they bad people?”

“No, not really,” she said.

“OK,” you said, though you understood nothing. “Are we going to school tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow,
nega atihedjeem,
” Daddy said.

“Soon, baby, soon,” Mommy said.

That evening, lights came on in Selam’s flat. You rushed and opened your blinds and looked. Her blinds were also open, but nobody was there. You pinched yourself for not being there when the blinds parted. You waited there in silence, hoping for someone, a shadow, to walk by the window. Nothing.

For the next two days, when Mommy left the house, Daddy stayed with you. When Daddy left the house, Mommy stayed with you. Though the streets were filling up again, and the birds had returned to the wires, your house help didn’t return.

You dreamed bad dreams of Selam, even in your afternoon naps. In one dream she turned her face away from you and would not answer your greetings. When she looked at you, she wore a scowl, which burst her dimples. On her balcony, she recited the multiplication tables with Hadiya and taught her the beautiful handwriting and shared her Smiling Cow toffees with her. Hadiya’s English became better than yours. While Hadiya’s face became leaner and prettier and Selam liked her walk, you became ugly and twisted like the old coffee trees of Jimma. You felt so bad you sobbed, and Hadiya came to hug you. She told you that it wasn’t Selam’s fault, that her parents wanted her to avoid you because you weren’t one of them. You cried all the more because it was Hadiya who was hugging you, not Best Friend.

IN
THE
AFTERNOON
,
YOU
pretended to be reading in your room so that you could watch Selam’s flat from behind your blinds, in spite of the dreams. You were sure she would not come onto the balcony. But you kept vigil because you wanted to see if Hadiya would visit her.

But suddenly, Selam tiptoed onto the balcony. Against the burned-out flats, she looked like a ghost. Her face was pale against the afternoon sun and seemed to have deep wrinkles, like the top of
hambasha
bread. She looked skinny and even shorter in the few days you hadn’t seen her. Her
shama,
a gauzelike white material covering her from head to foot, fluttered in the wind. Would she run back if you appeared? If you disobeyed Mommy and Daddy and spoke to her, would she disobey her mommy and daddy and respond? Or would she report you to her parents, who might come to your parents? Would she snub you, like in the dreams? Afraid, you hid and poured your gaze on her like the sun on a cold day. Selam stared at your flat, but you didn’t move. She grabbed the balcony rail and looked down into the streets, this way, that way, and you tried to follow her gaze, in case she was expecting Hadiya.

At dinner Mommy and Daddy told you to cheer up. They told you not to nibble your food. They chatted excitedly, like Selam and Hadiya did in your dreams, and poured you more and more Coke.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Mommy said, “we’ll travel to Addis, to see our relatives.”

“When are we coming back?”

“We’ve not even left yet!” Daddy said. “What’s wrong with you these days? You broke the remote the other day. Get over it.”

“Darling, it’s OK,” she said, calming him down. Then she turned to you: “We’ll be back in a week. Bahminya is too tense now.
Kezeeh mewtat allebin—
”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Hey, what language is that?” she said, tapping on the
mesab,
our handmade, wicker hourglass-shaped table. “And it’s rude to interrupt when another person is speaking!”

You closed your mouth so they would not scold you. You started eating up, since they were now waiting for you. You cut a big piece of
injera
and poured the meat sauce and a clot of vegetables onto it. You rolled it and turned up one end of the flat spongy bread so the vegetables and sauce wouldn’t leak, and began to chew from the other end, hurriedly. You drank the Coke, drank water, and thanked them. You returned to your room, while they talked about how the government had kept the
complex thing
from the news, and how it had done the same thing when Muslim radicals suddenly slaughtered Christians in Jimma churches two years back.

The next afternoon you came onto the balcony. Selam also appeared, on her balcony. You looked at each other without words. You followed each other’s gaze, to the coffee fields, to the hills, to the sun. The sky was cloudy. The streets emitted a low buzz below, and two donkeys brayed in the distance. The winds came in from the hills, fresh and steady. The birds lined the wires, some facing you and others facing her, in silence, as if they were awaiting the beginning of a race.