The detective’s head was as big as a moon, his neck almost completely absent, eyes almost out of their sockets when his hands shook Amare into reality. Something about the larger purpose of death, or the purpose of all things, hung heavy in the air. Something else about the gun also whispered softly under his breath, the hairs of his mustache flickering rhythmically.
But Amare was not in the room, he was not present with the men in dark suits hovering over him like menacing shadows, not there mourning with the women, not there helping the boys or the girl. He was not there when the neighbors collapsed on themselves stricken with grief, when long-lost siblings came back and greeted him with tears. He was not there because the images ran quickly by him, and he instead caught a glimpse of his past self on a rainy day, wearing a gray sweater and washed-out jeans, hunched over the poisonous herb, snatching it with quick gestures and stuffing it inside a thin coral festal.
That is not me, he assured himself. It was a different boy, a different man, who did not understand the woes of his mother, who was tired of the neighborhood’s gossip surrounding their home, threatening their lives, who was angry at any man who had ever touched his mother’s big brown body, every woman who had betrayed her confidence, every stranger who found it necessary to intrude in their lives. That was a boy who was tired of living in such a small neighborhood, who couldn’t stand the cold, or the rain, or kiremt for that matter. That boy would go home, light candles, and brew some shai.
The pot was steaming, hot black tea and herbs mixed in a spewing lava, and he poured it in a cup slowly, and he thought, This is it, this will slow her down, this will tire her, exhaust her from being herself, even if just for a little while.
But the boy poured the tea and found his mother in a white dress and as a blue shadow, and the sorrow was too great, the guilt even greater, so the only thing he could do was barricade himself behind a thick shroud, fluctuating between a sharp indigo and the honey of wet eucalyptus leaves, and as he was readying himself to tell the truth, the whorl approached, porous gold and amorous red, quick, quiet, and efficient, and when it choked his throat it was not coarse or stinging; it did not awaken his entire body, nor did it stop his eyes from reversing, his tongue from folding onto itself, and though the detective and other men were screaming and trying to help him, he did not hear a thing, because the colors lulled him slowly to sleep, and there was only a blue shadow to keep him company.
A Night in Bela Sefer
by Sulaiman Addonia
Bela Sefer
I spotted the ad about a night job in Bela Sefer at an Internet café in Mercato:
Although I knew I qualified for all the criteria, the sexual element of the job kept me from sleeping well for days prior to calling the agency. The “earn up to $500” was persuasive. After all, I thought, this would be a one-off job. Take the money and leave.
But there was another reason that I repeated to myself on the way to the agency. I observed my city through the window of the bus, the city I had hoped to never have to leave even if buried inside me was a part of myself I was scared to show the light of day.
Looking for a young man with feminine traits. Perhaps then, in my Addis Ababa, I could be my full self. Even if for just one night.
Hayat stood outside her shack in Bela Sefer, waiting for the man she’d hired for the night. The idea had come to her in the forest of Bela Sefer, where she had buried her clitoris, the piece of flesh her family had removed when she was fifteen, because she had kissed her sweetheart, Negus. “Now, she will never ensnare another man,” said her aunt, her circumciser.
Hayat returned to the forest every night, to pay homage to the part of her that was gone, to try to find something else on her body that could give her pleasure. But no matter where she touched herself, how hard, long, and deep she explored her body, nothing stirred her. She feared her aunt was right, that all her past desires had turned into thorns with the passage of time. But if that was the case, why, as she held a pair of scissors and leaned between his thighs, did warm fluid escape her vagina without touching it?
I reached the agency in Mercato. For a moment, I stood with my back to the iron door, facing the street and the way back home to my parents. Back there, I continued to hide that thing inside me that I feared to let out publicly, just like how my father refrained from speaking about his political beliefs for fear of the secret police.
I turned and knocked. Frantically.
“Okay, okay, I can’t fly,” said a voice on the other side of the door.
“Good afternoon. Are you with the agency?” I said to a man wearing a dark-blue V-neck cashmere sweater and sarong.
He turned his head left and right, following the wail of a siren. When the sound faded, he sighed. “Yes, yes, I am.” He lowered his glasses from his forehead and examined me in silence. “You must be here for the night job.” I could see khat leaves stuck to the inside wall of his mouth.
I nodded.
“Let’s go to my office,” he said, looking over my shoulders again. He spat out the leaves, pulled me inside, and closed the door.
I saw three large boxes lined up against the wall in the hallway. For female pleasure, read the red stickers on the sides.
Next to the boxes, books were stacked from floor to ceiling. I paused to read some of the titles. There were books on poetry, capitalism, Marxism, and some on the ever-complicated relationship between Eritrea and Ethiopia, countries that like me stood torn, full of hate and love. One cover with a long title grabbed my attention — Intercourse, an Outdated Concept: Alternative Sex.
I leaned over and checked the author’s name. Hayat, it said. There was no surname.
“Come on now, let’s go upstairs.”
I followed him up the squeaky wooden stairway. He huffed as he threw himself into a leather chair behind a table. I glanced around his gray office. On one side of his desk, a bunch of khat leaves were scattered around a half-empty glass of tea. On the other side sat his telephone.
He opened a drawer and took out pen and paper. “You are Brhan, right?”
“Yes.”
“I remember your name,” he said. “We only had a few responses.”