Woubshet remembered when he left his birthplace, Harar, and came to Addis Ababa to work as an accountant at the post office, eventually leading to the bright days of Roha Café. He had no other dream than writing poetry, day and night. He wished to be remembered beyond his grave as a great poet and not just a mortal man.
“To be or not to be, that is the question...” He wanted to write just one verse like this, and travel on it forever. He dreamed all day of when his name would be known worldwide, when his books would be taught in schools, when his verses would be repeated by all kinds of people. He dreamed of being present, forever. But he couldn’t remember a single time he’d written a verse satisfying enough for himself or his friends.
He had sent poems to every competition he knew about. But he never heard back from any of them, not even a confirmation that they had received his poems. Yet he never gave up. He spent his days writing poems at the expense of his work and his social life.
He left his job at the post office to be with his brother in Dire Dawa, thinking he would have more time for his poetry. His brother was a contraband merchant. If he earned some today, he would lose some tomorrow. That was how he lived.
“And your job?” he asked Woubshet the moment he arrived.
“I quit.”
“You’ll trade places with me. I’m glad you came.”
“Contraband?”
“We’ll go to Artishek in the morning. Be ready.”
Woubshet was skeptical. “Abo! Don’t piss me off. I came to live here so I can write my poems.”
“You’re not a mashela tebaqi, singing to chase birds from the sorghum harvest. What does poetry do for you?”
But Woubshet had made up his mind. He lived at his brother’s place for two years and finished the first draft of his poetry collection. While in Dire Dawa, his brother opened a café called Roha in Addis Ababa. After his brother died in a train accident, Woubshet took full ownership of the café and then published his book. Roha became very popular soon after.
Woubshet opened the door of the restroom and walked out. “Ayie Moges, you keep acting like you don’t know me.”
“In the name of St. Mary, I swear, I do not know you!”
Woubshet walked out of the café and stood on the veranda, but Roha Café still wasn’t there. Where had the café hidden? It was beyond comprehension.
The owner of Sheger Café, Million, standing farther away, said mockingly: “Did you find your café?”
Woubshet moved past him, defiant and unresponsive. As he walked away from the two cafés, his heart filled with sadness and his spirit became burdened with inexplicable confusion.
He decided to look for people who knew him so that he could explain his situation. In the past ten years, he’d cut contact with most people from the literary world, but some still remembered him. Even if it was only because of his attempt to burn all his books. He might find a few people sympathetic to his circumstance.
He made his way to the booksellers behind Beherawi Theater. He had an especially strong relationship with the owner of Shawl, the used bookstore. Over fifty of his burned poetry books had been bought at Shawl. He found the owner, Bekalu, reshelving some books.
Woubshet gave Bekalu a warm greeting: “Bekalu the great, you’re all grown.”
Bekalu looked at Woubshet with wonder. “Good morning,” he said in a collected and respectful tone, the tone he used to speak to the elderly.
“Bekalu.”
“Yes?”
“Ere, listen to what happened to me.”
“What was it?” Bekalu said.
“Ende! Don’t tell me you don’t know me!”
Bekalu smiled. “I’m sorry, perhaps I have forgotten you?”
Woubshet tried to stay calm. He approached the counter. “Do you, maybe, have the book by Woubshet Mesfin, The Early Bird’s Decree?”
Bekalu paused for a moment. “I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of this author or book,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“In the name of the Angel Gabriel, I swear.”
“You do not know me?” Woubshet repeated.
Bekalu stared at the man standing across from him. “Did you come from the States?”
“You’ve never seen me?”
The young bookseller shook his head.
“You used to know me, Bekalu. Eshi. Do you also not know Roha Café?”
“Where is it?”
“Right near here, by Beherawi Theater, where you’ve had coffee many times.”
Bekalu shook his head.
Woubshet walked to three other booksellers that he was convinced would know him, murmuring to himself. The same thing happened — they didn’t know him. He couldn’t find anyone who knew him or his Roha Café. He remained certain that he was a man who had just yesterday lived in Addis Ababa, managing a café while trying to form poetic verses on white paper. It was as if his existence had been erased overnight. He dug into his pocket and searched for his ID. He looked at it. He pulled out a card that had a picture of the fearless Woubshet Mesfin from Harar. It was him.
He headed to Tele Bar behind the College of Commerce and took a chair by the veranda. This was where he had sat before he headed home last night. He had been a customer there for several years now. The waiter he knew approached him. He’d completely forgotten him as well. He ordered coffee. As the waiter returned with his coffee, Woubshet cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, brother, do you know where Roha Café is?” The waiter shook his head and walked away.
He left Tele Bar and rushed to Tewodros Square looking for Maru, the critic and lawyer. He walked up Churchill Avenue, staring at the area, buried deep in thought. He couldn’t think of any possible reason this could happen to him — he hadn’t changed a bit from yesterday. The only thing that happened was that he had been erased, both in the memory of others and in what he had dedicated his life to. But how can something physical, a café, just disappear? Where would one even say it could go? He had collected and burned his poetry collection to be forgotten as a poet, but not entirely as a human being.
He got to Maru’s office. Maru had been a customer of Roha since the day it first opened. The heartbreaking review he wrote about Woubshet’s book forced a wedge in their relationship. But while plenty had abandoned Roha, Maru still, from time to time, came and drank coffee in silence. He reached the office, which was near Lycée Guebre-Mariam.
He knocked on the door and walked in. The secretary asked him to wait. He was soon invited to go into Maru’s office. The man got up from his seat and greeted him, but not how he would greet a dear friend, only as one might greet a potential customer.
“Maru,” Woubshet said.
“Abet,” Maru responded with a smile in his rough voice.
“Please, tell me honestly.”
“What should I tell you?”
“Do you not know me?”
Maru stared at Woubshet’s face. He thought. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I think I might have forgotten you. Are you a writer?”
“Roha Café. The café by Beherawi Theater where you used to go to for years — do you remember it?”
“By Beherawi Theater? No, no! I do not remember a café with that name.”
“You don’t know me, either? What about a poetry collection you received, titled The Early Bird’s Decree?”
Maru shook his head. He pointed at the shelf behind Woubshet. “All the books I ever reviewed are there. Take a look. I don’t know your work. I’m sorry.”
Woubshet got up. He walked out of Maru’s office and went back to Beherawi Theater.