Falling Seven Times

The pitter-patter of the gentle rain falling on Alya’s tin roof roused her in the middle of the night. She got up slowly from her sleeping mat, taking care not to disturb the other members of her family who were sleeping soundly in spite of their woes. In the darkness, she touched the walls of her ramshackle dwelling to find an old plastic bucket sitting just outside her open front door. She wanted to light a candle but decided to conserve their dwindling supply of matches in case they obtained some food to cook. Although she could not see clearly, she rinsed the cracked plastic bucket in a puddle of water and placed it to catch rainwater flowing off her rusty roof. She thought to herself, “We may not have any food to eat tomorrow, but at least we’ll have fresh water to drink.” To keep their sleeping room warmer, she shut the door behind her even though it provided little security as its latch had worn out long ago. She returned to her sleeping place, but the noise made by the rain falling on the roof kept her awake. She wanted to doze because sleep was the only recourse to escape the desperate reality that she and her family faced. Her thoughts were dominated by how they would find food to get through the next day when the sun rose. Their poor neighbors living in the makeshift hovels next door were full of ideas of what she could do to earn the money she needed to buy food, but all their suggestions took time to realize. She did not have the luxury of time. Her family needed to eat now. She was worried deeply about how they would get through the day. It made her angry when her neighbors told her things that would take days to achieve, if ever. Her problem was more immediate. It was useless and insulting to talk to her about what could be done tomorrow or next week. Her present needs outweighed any satisfaction of her future needs. She knew she was in a deep hole, but who would reach down and give her the help she needed to dig her way out and stay out? Her life, and the lives of her infant daughter and the rest of her family, depended on her finding today a way to make some money. There were no jobs available which paid a livable wage. The whole country had been upset by the previous violent communist regime, which harshly ended the royal reign of a thousand years and fought a lengthy war against rebels from a remote northeastern province. Everyone was happy when the rebels prevailed and the bloody dictator was obliged to flee the country. But then they had to submit to the hegemonic rule of a minor ethnic group. Their country was becoming undone by ethnic conflicts and a high population growth rate. Fighting a nonsensical war with a neighboring country killed many soldiers and sapped the national treasury, leaving no money to undertake needed public works and social safety nets. There were certainly many more people searching for jobs than there were jobs. Even if one were lucky enough to find a job, it paid less than was needed to survive. For the vast majority of the population, times had become worse and this situation was eroding the social fabric of the country. Alya spoke to a neighbor lady who was in a similar situation and all she could say, “We must leave this country if we’re to survive. There’s nothing here for us. Are you coming with me?” Alya had no idea about what her neighbor friend was talking about, but she returned to her house to tell her elderly grandmother she was going out with a neighbor. They wore traditional habesha kemi robes which extended to their ankles. They wrapped their heads and shoulders with netelas made of two layers of white hand woven shemma cotton. They wanted everyone to think they were going to their orthodox church to pray, but in reality these were the only sets of going-out clothes they had. During their long walk across Addis Ababa. They passed by numerous food and arabica coffee stalls, which only served to accentuate their hunger pangs. In particular, they suffered when they smelled people scooping up heaps of a spicy variety of Ethiopian condiments with pieces of injera. A common saying in Ethiopia is, “If you have not eaten injera, you have not eaten.” They were afraid to admit that they had not eaten injera in days. The aroma of coffee reminded them that Ethiopia was the birthplace of arabica coffee and it remained an important export. It was also embedded for centuries in Ethiopian culture and no social gathering could be complete without having a traditional coffee ceremony. The smell of the coffee being poured into small porcelain cups by women holding antique clay pitchers (jabenas) and the burning of incense by the coffee makers was overwhelming. They wished they could be farmers with a large field of teff so they could have a plentiful supply of the grain needed to grind into the flour used to make injera. They pictured in their minds living in the mountains with well-watered fertile fields and patches of coffee trees to harvest. Their bodies were so agitated when they encountered food stalls that they held their noses. After several hours of traipsing through squalid neighborhoods, they reached their destination—a non-descript, run-down building from a forgotten era. Alya’s friend, Tigest, announced in a weak voice, “This is the place I was told about.” Alya reacted as if she were hurt by what she saw. “There’s nothing here. Are you sure this is the place?” With an anguished tone, Tigest uttered quietly, “This is the place I was told to go. There is no one here to ask anything.” Suddenly a young man dressed liked a farinjé (foreigner) appeared in front of them and said, “Are you here because you want to work abroad?”