“It’s her! She did it all!” Prone, Derib futilely tried wriggling out of the hands that held him.
People had come out of their rooms to see what was going on. They began to shout “Leba!” and started hitting him. When they finally stopped, his clothes were torn and his face was bleeding.
“Speak! Where is Meron — I mean Aregash? Where’s the rest of the money?” Helen yelled in his ears, surprising herself.
Derib spoke through his sobs: “She’s in room number five!”
Helen, Dawit, and other bystanders ran to the room. The place looked like someone had recently been there, but it was now deserted and no money was found inside. Some of the men went out through the building’s back employee entrance, spilling out into the Meri gulit market where countless women sold countless items in stalls separated by imaginary lines. Dawit and several of the others started searching for Aregash, but they got swamped in the constant stream of people as soon as they began.
Helen was talking to the police who had taken charge of the crime scene. Still, everyone wanted to lay a hand on Derib, who by this point was shirtless and crying like a child.
“Stop! He’s in police custody now! You cannot just hit him!” one of the police officers scolded.
“Let’s go to the station and you’ll file a report,” another officer said.
“And the money?” Helen was afraid their 30,000 would be taken in for investigation — permanently.
“You caught him red-handed and he’s admitting it’s your money. You can take it. What remains now is the other suspect,” the first officer said.
Helen offered grateful prayers for having recovered some of her money, and didn’t feel guilty for condemning Meron for her deception. She believed it would follow and haunt Meron wherever she went.
None of Your Business
by Solomon Hailemariam
French Legation
The heat was unbearable. The afternoon sun beat down on Tadesse, causing beads of sweat to drip into his eyes. He covered his face with one of his books, but it did little to cool him down. He looked small in his oversize hand-me-down uniform, walking along the left side of the road, as was customary for pedestrians. Through squinted eyes, he saw dozens of police officers marching down the path ahead of him, many of them carrying assault rifles and batons.
Tadesse’s entire primary school had heard about federal police whipping several students from a neighboring school. But they hadn’t been punished for offenses committed in class. They were whipped for attempting to join an antigovernment rally and allegations of inciting violence.
The episode had prompted his teacher to hand out a weekend homework assignment: Explain the differences between human and democratic rights in our constitution, and identify which specific articles guarantee these rights. If you have trouble, ask a grown-up.
“Are there any questions?” the teacher had asked.
Tadesse raised his hand.
“Yes, Tadesse?”
“Which grown-ups should we ask?”
“You can ask your parents, older siblings, or teachers. Anyone you think could help.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dargie,” Tadesse said. A few other students had groaned.
Tadesse now realized the police had closed off the road to traffic, presumably because someone important was arriving in town. He wondered who this person could be. He wanted to ask, but he was nervous — so many of them held rifles, and there weren’t other pedestrians in sight.
He approached an unarmed officer and said in a small voice, “Sir, can I ask you a question?”
The officer spun around, his eyes widening in surprise. “This area’s off limits. Get out of the street!”
Startled, Tadesse ran back down the asphalt road. He was shaking. He didn’t understand the officer’s hostility. He decided to take a safer route home. The dust on the unpaved road was thick and awful. He tried to ignore it, but it burned and stung his eyes. He could see that some of his friends were also marching home in a similar fashion, attempting to block the wind with their books. Hungry and tired, he dreaded the rest of the walk.
Tadesse had paused to rest when a massive military truck came speeding down the road, raising a cloud of dust that covered everyone in its wake. Tadesse coughed, covered his face, and quickly turned onto another paved road that led to his home. Putrid odors emanated from an open roadside sewer. He felt nauseous and thought he might vomit from the smell.
When he arrived home, he climbed onto the bed he shared with his two brothers. The coils of the mattress almost touched the ground, as if they were as exhausted as he was. Just as he closed his eyes, he heard his father’s angry voice.
“What are you doing? Getting in bed with your dusty uniform? I raised you better than this!”
Tadesse sprang up in fear but his father grabbed him by the collar of his shirt.
“I don’t have the money to buy a new bed.” His father’s breath smelled sour. The man didn’t earn much for the family as a carpenter, and what he did earn he spent on alcohol. “This one will be completely ruined if you track dirt and grime onto it. You better care for it, if you know what’s good for you.”
Tadesse’s mother, who was soothing his infant brother, hushed her husband. Tadesse wriggled free from his father’s grip and ran to his mother. He looked up at her and rubbed his belly. She frowned. Tadesse’s older brother had already eaten the meal she’d prepared that day. There was leftover injera bread, which she sold to people in the neighborhood, but no stew to go with it. She made Tadesse pepper flour and oil to supplement the injera, so that he could partially satisfy his hunger.
Tadesse ate then went out to the yard to study. He didn’t know what Mr. Dargie had meant by “democratic and human rights.” He thought about his encounter with the officer on the road. He was nervous to try asking another grown-up. Then he remembered Private Teshale, a friendly police officer who lived in the building next door and regularly bought injera bread from his mother. He didn’t think Teshale would shout at him like the other officer had.
Tadesse sat in the yard as the twilight grew deeper. When the sun had nearly set, he saw Teshale walking up the road toward the house.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said before Teshale could go inside, “can you explain to me which democratic and human rights are guaranteed by our constitution?”
Teshale paused, his hand resting on the doorknob. “I’m not a teacher. Ask someone else.”
Tadesse was frustrated, but he didn’t want to give up quite yet. If the police weren’t going to help him, he’d have to go elsewhere. He stood by the door, waiting for another of his mother’s customers to stop by for injera. Everyone who passed through the door ignored him — they were tired and hungry and had no time for questions. They only wanted bread. Tadesse was imagining the excuses he would have to tell Mr. Dargie on Monday when another customer approached the door. He tried one more time: “Excuse me, sir, I’m supposed to ask a grown-up for help with my homework, but no one will do it. Can you help me?”
The man smiled at him, which gave Tadesse a glimmer of hope. The man seemed to be interested, but after listening to Tadesse explain the assignment, he sighed and said, “Oh, my son, I wish I knew.” The man went inside without saying more.
Tadesse’s mother had overheard her son’s requests for help with his homework. She tied the birr she’d collected from her clients into a scarf and went outside to speak to him. “My son, don’t worry. I’ll go ask Mrs. Tewabech’s daughter Gelila to help you. She’s a smart girl.”