- So my mother tells me – like in a scene taken right out of a Peter Russell comedy – that I am getting older and should be giving serious thought to the future and I am not doing that and am not serious about stuff till a point has been reached that it has become too difficult to tell whether I am joking or being real. It is safe to say that the entire family agrees on one thing: that I am a hopeless joker who needs some serious intervention if anything good is to become of him. So they want to hook me up with a certain “nice girl”. And how did I handle this situation? I told my mother “you have carried me in your womb for nine months; fed me, bathed me and put up with my temper tantrums from the time I refused to be breastfed to when I shunned my studies and was given to sleep; so uncool, that time you whipped my brother and I bare-assed with the cord of the iron for not having kept an eye on our little sister when she went outside the house in the rain and got soaked – you can see for yourself the fine stubborn girl she has turned out to be and should realize that there was nothing we could have done at that time to deter her; etc etc. this is just an abstract of your immense contribution to my being; but never, under any condition, will I let you pimp me! Cuz that is my job!” The thing is, it was me all along who has been goading my moms and pops about the girl and now that they finally offer to help, I refuse it! But they were adamant that I should call her, and I had to come up with a plan in order to get out of doing so. I told them to give me a year and if there be no change by then, then intervene on! Note to self: wow dude! You are supposed to be a biologist of the modern ages yet you still believe in spontaneous generation?! Time, they used to believe time was all that was needed for maggots to appear from rotting meat. No putting in seeds, no efforts, only time and bam! A girl friend! Answer to self: You would be glad to know that, spurred on by the time frame I have imposed upon I and I, I have been able to ask a friend if she was “wooable” only to disastrous results, heartbreak, the works, which have been chronicled in my e mails to the same people who are supposed to be reading this post, results which I will not be going into in detail in the interest of interest.
- The sister I was telling you about, obdurate she may be, she is a genius! I remember she was the one who schooled me on how to tie my shoes. Bad student that I am, I have been recently-for the last ten years or so-having trouble with my laces, making pit stops here and there to retie them. It was seriously affecting my social interactions: I would be walking with friends and suddenly I would stop and “please don’t wait for me; I would only tie you up; sorry I cannot go chick-hunting with you fellas what with my problematic shoelaces and all”. It was getting unbearable and after all those years, I turned to my guru. The answer was simple – hating myself for not having told her about it much sooner. Now they stay tied like a blissful marriage.
- I had to travel to Addis Abeba at night. The other passengers were rushing to take their places in the minibus while I, trying to be a gentleman, a gentleman who in his head was cursing the other people for their “sigibgibnet”, held back and watched them step all over each other. But when the dust finally cleared and I tried to find a spot in the minibus, a spot for which I have made a deposit, that spot was nowhere to be found. So I tell the guy who did the “reservation” that the thing was full and he answers me, a bit disappointed by my sluggishness, “bota yaz biyeh alneber?!” My mistake for thinking that seats were going to reserve themselves; same problem from a couple of paragraphs earlier. I was reminded of how many British passengers of the Titanic perished because instead of trying to save their lives, they were busy being courteous, letting the damned Americans scramble for the lifeboats. But people make wrong moves: some guy siyankelekilew left his place and got off to do some stuff and I pounced. When he got back to reclaim his spot, my neighbors and I greeted him with a look that said we did not know what the hell he was talking about. He had to resign himself to a kursi (or was it a jerry can?) for the duration of the five hundred something kilometers. Forgive me Lord! He got his revenge though! He was arguing that he had paid the fare while the redat did not seem to think so. The blood sucking opportunists! They demanded an extra 30 birr once we were in the car and all set to go. I have a sneaking suspicion – I don’t mean to question the integrity of the man from whom I stole a seat and condemned to a very uncomfortable night – that the man saved from 130 birr upwards, and he deserved it. The Lord works in mysterious ways!
Tilish is like “Oh no! Not the countdown again!?”