Roha Café was still not there.
He hadn’t eaten all day: no breakfast, no lunch.
What was the point of eating?
The poetry event was supposed start in three hours. He stood in front of Beherawi Theater and waited for the people who would have come to Roha Café for his event. The time flew by.
One hour left.
Thirty minutes.
He looked across the street to see where Roha Café used to be until last night. Patrons of Sheger and Arada came and went.
It was time.
Not a single person had come to Roha, and Roha Café was not even there.
He walked toward the stadium in despair, the chants of football fans engulfing the neighborhood. He headed to Abyot Square.
A young vendor carrying a stack of books ran up to him. “Almost sold out, almost sold out!” he cried, attempting to sell his product.
“Listen there, do you have a copy of The Early Bird’s Decree?”
The bookseller started laughing.
“Do you have the book of the great poet?” Woubshet asked. “The book of the poet Woubshet Mesfin—”
The laughter didn’t stop. “Hahahahahahahahaha!”
“The book of the poet Woubshet Mesfin,” he said again.
Woubshet covered his ears with his hands and hurried down the road to St. Urael’s Church. He wasn’t sure where he was headed, but he went past the church and down the slope, and only stopped when he got to the bridge.
He fixed his eyes on the river flowing under it, tired from the summer sun’s heat. Dusk was approaching.
Darkness slowly covered the narrow stream.
Translated by Hewan Semon
Under the Minibus Ceiling
by Bewketu Seyoum
Arat Kilo
“Going to Megenagna?” asked the weyala with half his body sticking out of the minibus. He was looking at the people huddled on the side of the road at Arat Kilo. For the weyala, there were two types of people: those who go to Megenagna and those who don’t go to Megenagna. Many people were crowded around the taxi stop. A few were actually waiting for taxis, but most, having nowhere to go, were pretending to wait for taxis rather than appearing to be doing nothing.
Tearing herself from the group, a young woman wearing sunglasses headed for the passenger door. Moving quickly, a student from Arat Kilo University who had been standing behind the young woman, admiring her, opened the door. She got in and looked at him sideways as he stepped in behind her and sat down. The weyala collected their fares.
A shoeless man wearing rags approached from the row of waiting people. “Sir,” he said, bending his neck toward his left shoulder, “I am headed to Megenagna... but I don’t have any money.” The weyala looked toward the driver.
“Let him in,” said the driver.
The ragged man got into the minibus and, avoiding the seats, squatted on top of the spare tire.
The young woman with sunglasses was seated in the front passenger seat and now saw that the guy next to her had turned to talk to her. She did not give him the opportunity; lowering her head, she began playing with her cell phone. Without meaning to, she called her aunt, who answered on the first ring. The young woman told her she had bought a new gabi and dreamed she was eating white injera all last night.
“You have a wonderful voice,” said the student as soon as she hung up.
“Thank you,” she replied, without turning to look at him.
The student tried to think of what to say next. He had to get her number by the time they reached Megenagna.
The weyala went to the back of the minibus to collect fares. The passengers there looked as though they’d been born attached to one another. Next to an older fat woman was a skinny man with his face hidden behind a newspaper who looked as if he could have been her left arm. Then there was an old man holding a cane under his right armpit with his young son tucked under his left one. The space was so tight that there was no place for the boy’s arm, so he was forced to stick it out the window.
The backseat of a minibus was intended to seat four people. But there were now five passengers lined up on it, plus the little boy. The weyala began collecting the fares. When he came to the old man he was handed a tattered five-birr bill. “Take my fare and give me the change,” said the old man.
“What about the kid?” asked the weyala.
“The kid? Why should I pay for the kid? He is only a child, isn’t he?” He looked toward his son as if to confirm his age. “I do not want my son to go through the same childhood I did. I feed him well enough that he looks older than he his; he isn’t ten until July 12.”
“Pops, we board the kid, not his age; what can I do about his age?” said the weyala.
The other passengers all laughed.
On the second-to-last seat, a drunk passenger breathed tej fumes as he slept. He was awoken by the laughter and looked around the minibus with squinted eyes. “What’s going on?” he sputtered. “The driver we had before was bald; this one has hair. What is that about? Either you moved me to another minibus when I was sleeping or the other driver has been fired! Who is going to explain this to me?” Without waiting for the explanation, he leaned into the headrest in front of him and began snoring again.
The student in the front seat regarded the young woman out of the corner of his eye. Sunglasses covered half of her face and he was eager to see her eyes. It was not difficult for him to guess where she was going, probably a date with her boyfriend.
“A lot of my friends tell me I sound like Angelina Jolie when I talk,” she said without turning to look at him.
The student remembered that he had commented on her voice a little while ago. “That’s right, but...” He was straining to recall who Angelina Jolie was. “But your voice is more original.”
Who is Angelina Jolie? He racked his brain: a journalist, an actress, a model? To avoid further discussion on the matter, he turned to the driver. “Doesn’t your radio work?” he asked.
The driver began fussing with the radio dials with his free hand.
“What do you like about Angelina Jolie?” asked the young woman.
What the student had feared was now happening. Pretending he had not heard, he studied the faded picture on the windshield. It was of a pair of wings, though it was unclear whether they belonged to an angel or an eagle.
“What do you like about her?” she repeated.
“I like the respect she has for her profession,” answered the student. Not wanting to give her the chance for a follow-up question, he added, “Your sunglasses are really nice.”
“Thank you. They were a present from my boyfriend.”
The student went quiet.
In the meantime, the old man with the cane sitting in the backseat had turned his attention to his son. With a voice loud enough for all to hear, he said: “If you don’t rank first this semester, you are not my son. How long are you going to come in second place?”
“Is he in school?” asked the fat lady. Without waiting for an answer, she went on: “There is nothing that can compare to an education; not being educated has many downfalls; among them...” She nodded suggestively at the man squatting next to the tire who was getting a free ride. In turn, the man in the tattered rags looked toward the drunk still sleeping against the headrest.
“Today’s teachers are good; they don’t beat the students,” said the old man. “In our time—”