black or white?

It’s been a while—three years to be exact—since we last conducted a poll here at andthree. So today, we do another one.

On the blue corner, or shall I say the black corner, we have got the blackboard. Its opponent –the white board. I prefer the blackboard for the reasons listed below:

  • First the sentence: all whiteboards should be rounded up and shot.
  • That unassuming of boards which, fighting ignorance with its back against the wall, has raised us from wee little children into becoming really old children don’t get replaced by some shifty upstart buster
  • Trying to clean a whiteboard usually is an exercise in smudging it: wrong type of markers, no cleaner fluid etc. A blackboard stays graceful even when it is ashen.
  • A whiteboard is not for the claustrophobic. Blackboards have got acres of space to roam. There are anomalies though. Back when I was in Bahir Dar, they had this king size (or perhaps principal/dean size?) whiteboard made and they tried to literally marginalize the blackboard. I had the handyman to return the blackboard back to its centerpiece status. I gave the handyman asir bir leshai meTeCHa. I don’t know what he did with the asir bir. For me, the whiteboard has got as much irk factor as Etyopians calling other Etyopians Mr. and Ms. Even if I don’t got a PhD, please don’t call me Mr. Ekele. If you are hellbent on the need for an appellation, then by all means, use Tr., for teacher.
  • Traction. I hate the way a marker makes love to the whiteboard. The feeling that my hand gets while writing on a white board is the same one experienced by my teeth when they suddenly crush a piece of stone camouflaged as yemisir wet. The chalk on the other hand, has got game; a direct line is established between one’s hands and brains, sorry, brain.
  • The days that I’ve taught well are those days on which I am smeared elbow-high in chalk. Ain’t no shame in being caught white-handed.
  • Finally, contrary to popular belief, chalk does not cause cancer. Allergies maybe. Still, I can’t not vouch for allergies being the reason why our elementary school teacher used to handle chalk with gloves. Sidebar: Two students used to stand on either side of a third  student, holding him/her down by the arms, while the aforementioned teacher went to town on his/her bare ass with a whip. I wonder where she is at now; Guantanamo probably. Chalk can however be detrimental to health should it be mixed with other chemicals. See reaction below:

CaCO3+ CH3CH2OH and/or cathinone, etc Real bad shit!

The reaction is particularly sped up by news that a second round of pledges for the dam has commenced; becomes highly exergonic.

black power

Don’t let me bias you 😀 Polling stations are open.

Another thing that we need to be doing, GeTere,  can I induce you to do another wordle? Just to see whether our attentions have shifted or they have stuck.


the zahir

Ethiopia and Eritrea mentioned on the same song -you gotta love it!



Did I show the adaptability of O’Shea? Was I the super-sub that Solskjaer used to be? Well, I didn’t do too shabby. But credits are due to this particular kin of the groom who so ably guided us through the perilous waters of wedding ceremonials. Taking over our responsibilities on so many occasions, many observers concede he was the star performer amongst us. I stand bewildered when he would coax people into having another beer, the same people whom just a minute ago have alleged that hulum neger ale, beqa! But what did I expect? The line I approach them with is a simple min yiCHemer? said just for the sake of carrying out one’s duties; no persuasion, sweet-talk. He, on the other hand, has got a knack for socializing and for orchestrating social events.

Held against such high standards as set by him, small surprise when the bete zemed whom we were riding with in the return trip from the mels suggest, albeit in a playful tone, ager bet bihon mizewochun befilT malet neber! I can’t seem to stress this enough: I am just the temp, and a temp who loathes these occasions at that. Moreover, the other best man’s hatred of weddings has by now run from 80% to upward of a 100%.

On the same minibus, we learn that the best man who had called in sick has to be operated on. I would spend the night with him. Pethidine decides to start to wear off at around 3 AM and patient brings the ruckus. 4, 5 and 6 were him flipping me the bird and letting me in on his plans to tear skin off of his arm with his teeth and graft my mouth shut with it. He then modifies his earlier threat: the skin was going to be taken from my own arms. Kudos! Even in his drugged up state, his attention to detail was amazing. We should always keep an eye out for transplant rejection.

When dawn breaks, we try to see if music would somehow lessen the pain; boy was suffering:

I tell you, a thankless job all around 😦

It’s 20 to 5 on another day. The meeting is winding up. Vacate this place; board a mini bus after not a small amount of wait; once I am on board, there is bound to be another wait at a certain traffic jam (This is why I sometimes miss Bahir Dar. Granted, the bajajs are hard to come by at certain places and times. But once you are inside, it’s on! You hardly stop. There is only one traffic light in the city, after all. The joys of a one-traffic-light-city!) I will be going home; a home that, according to —may God rest her soul—Emama Yewodianesh, is situated in a neighborhood that used to be draped with trees and used to boast a significant number of hyenas that came out after dark. That was then. This neighborhood has now become one where the CSW’s (Commercial Sex Workers) come out after dark. All those houses that we used to refer to as ye’etiye ekelit bet, yegash ekele bet have morphed into rows of bars and pensions (or as so some signs would have it, penisions.) Every now and then, fights break out outside the nightclub next door. I am yet to chance upon one of the good fights (the one time I had the opportunity to observe, it was only drunken posturing and foul language; you would not have believed the mouth on that girl!) but I have heard next morning accounts. Peaceful nights are fast becoming a thing of the past. Talk about the Gordon generation.

Sure, we used to have beggars pass through back in the days. Now, they have set up shop on the sidewalks. There was this bunch near our house who used to pester me whenever I would pass them by. In their efforts to know the name of the person whom they were hustling for some birr, theyhad tried Johnnie and Binnie—real cool names. Those guys were supplanted by the girl with the baby and her friends before I had the chance to figure out what my response would be when they finally discovered what my real name was.

A country of hustlers, do-nothings, beggars, thieves, paper pushers, bureaucrats, lie-abeds, want-outs, screen gazers, coffee/tea cup huggers, sew mesay beshengos, mere passersby in this world in the strictest of senses, and, and, .…, more words and phrases to be added as they come to me, I wonder where we got the nerve to include so bold a verse as hizboch nen lesira besira yeqomin/yenorin? in our national anthem. It is such a farce. And don’t get me started on the myth perpetuated about fitsum Ethiopiawi Chewanet. I need to see other countries and make comparisons  to believe that shit. Perhaps one should get on an airplane to get the whole, better picture.

I guess it’s high time that we started to more strongly call ourselves on our own bullshit. And stop acting as if our ccLTD stood for extraterrestrial.

Anyway, I will be going home. The same street where I bear witness to the chicks changing colors, until my field of vision resembled a TV screen spread out over time:

And as per my new habit, home is going to be where I will spend the weekend. Not too distant are the weekends spent in the office at Bahir Dar, when suddenly in the thick of a Sunday afternoon, I would wish that I had a life. Once I had decided that I needed to get a life, a supermarket would spring into mind which, I was confident, would carry some life. But alas! The best supermarket in Bahir Dar was closed because, guess what, it was Sunday!

Oh life, where art thou?

I will be going home, where the street of fledgling debauchery is flanked by older and more infamous streets, Chechnya being one. So, assaulted as I am by sex-crazed winds blowing from all sides, amidst an experiment of dissipation, how did I manage to become a bastion of sexlessness? This was a question posed by a friend sometime ago. He went on to give the answer himself: you are the control.

Writing long meaningless blog posts is my way of disposing of all that unharnessed sexual energy 🙂 And you may have noticed it: I make sure to include at least one self-deprecatory remark in my posts. If you have hated this entry,  and then Bahir Dar  is just the thing for you; it is odious.

In conclusion,

To the convalescing fella –may you laugh and may it not hurt!

To the couple –may you work well as a unit! And please remember that I was the one –in a roundabout way—who suggested this song be included in the soundtrack to your wedding video:

I know I have been away for some time (as if anyone cares.) I promise from here on out, I am going to post more frequently –on ubuntu no less—in order to masakat the damn raey. Peace.


Uh uh uh, along with the track

Uh pardon me, uh, as I sign out

I am IMF, important muthafu..

I matter, what I write or do matters

(Repeat last line with ad libs until fade)

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