Notes from the Hyena's Belly

by Nega Mezlekia

  Ms. Yetaferu was an Orthodox Christian, like us. She believed in the sanctity of the Orthodox Christian Church, and in its superiority over all the other churches that had followed in its footsteps. But most of all, she believed in the saints and their ability to mediate or intervene on behalf of parishioners who found themselves at odds with Christ. If one needed any kind of help, she was convinced, one could always appeal directly to the saint—for rains, say, or a good harvest—and the saint would deliver, unbeknownst to Christ. After all, there were far too many saints for Christ to keep track of.

  Like us, she also worshipped the Adbar—the traditional sacred tree of the family. The huge tree rooted in our front yard was like no other tree in the compound: its roots needed frequent watering, and incense and ood needed to be burned under its huge trunk. She made sacrifices before the Adbar at the beginning of each month, and knew to make only small requests of the Adbar, for the sake of expediency.

  What annoyed Dad most was how she worshipped, with equal fervour, the spirits of her ancestors. The old woman burned incense and ood behind her door and invited the spirits to sneak in, camouflaged by the smoke. Her Wukabi, or personal spirits, required three days of uninterrupted blessing each month and endless festivities. So Dad tried to get rid of her by wedding her to a solo barroom entertainer and then chasing him out of town, with his new wife and his violin in tow. It didn’t work. What Dad failed to understand was that the woman was married already, to her Wukabi.

  Ms. Yetaferu never worked a day in her life—though, unlike Mustafa, it wasn’t because she was lazy or loathed work. Everyone knew that she was the first to get out of bed in the morning; that she was the one who prepared the household’s first of three coffee ceremonies each day, waking the neighbours and inviting them to join her; that she read each individual’s daily fortune from the dregs in the mugs, before sending them off to work; and that she never went to bed before the hyenas had reclaimed the town, descending in droves from the mountains like an army of ants tracking sugar grains. The reason Ms. Yetaferu never worked at all was because there was not a single day in the year that was not sacred to her.

  The Ethiopian calendar is divided into thirteen months, each thirty days long except the last, which is only five or six days (depending on whether it is a leap year). Every day of the month is assigned to a saint or two: day one is dedicated to St. Raguel and the Adbar, day two is St. Samuel’s, day three is St. Libanos’s, and so on. Of course, not all saints are created equal. Indeed, only a few of them are considered saintly enough to warrant an official holiday, preventing the farmer from tilling his land and the carpenter from felling a tree. No fisherman, for instance, can fish on the nineteenth day of any month, because it is St. Gabriel’s day; nor on the twenty-third day, as he has to pay his respects to St. George; nor on any one of the other nine days throughout the year assigned to the saintliest of saints. Other individuals have their own favoured saints throughout the year, further reducing the number of days they are allowed to work.

  Compounding Ms. Yetaferu’s scheduling problem was the fact that some of the saints’ days coincided with spirit days, forcing her to make a grave decision, choosing one over the other. She always placed her Wukabi ahead of any saint, though in some cases she was able to go to church in the morning and return home early enough to reconcile with her spirits. On such days she would close the door and windows of her room and use pieces of rag to plug any crevice that might let in light, to avoid detection by the saints while she communicated with her spirits.

  All told, Ms. Yetaferu’s holidays, each of which demanded prayers and sacrifices and prohibited doing any form of work, consisted of 263 saints’ days, 52 Sundays, 9 other Christian holidays, 13 Adbar days, 36 Wukabi days (some of which coincided with saint’s days) and 12 days to worship her ancestors’ spirits. Altogether in an average year there were 368 consecutive days on which she was not able to work. Alas, the calendar was three days too short for her to complete her prayers.

  THE LANGUAGE OF THE ANGELS

  BEING BORN and raised in Jijiga, a multicultural mixing bowl, I was insulated from Amharas’ mythical view of the world—until, at the age of nine, I went to the eastern highlands. There, while visiting my mother’s cousins, I discovered how deeply rooted the prejudices were.

  As a clergyman in Ethiopia’s oldest Christian denomination, the Orthodox Christian Church, my uncle Yeneta followed age-old traditions with staunch vehemence. He always wore a white outfit: a pair of white breeches, a loosely fitted white shirt that fell below his knees, a white turban, and a netela in which he invariably wrapped himself regardless of how hot or cold it was.

  Like so many priests before and after him, Yeneta rose before dawn every morning to begin his communion with God. The early morning prayer was carried out in the inner room of the church. Every detail—the scented air, the music, the decor—was made consistent with his holy prayers. Entrance to this room was forbidden to all unordained souls, except on special occasions when children were permitted to enter in order to receive a piece of bread and a sweet beverage, the “flesh and blood” of Jesus.

  Except for Sundays, or when he presided over funeral masses, Yeneta would return home at around ten in the morning. On his way home, many believers would bend before him in a clear demonstration of their humble stature. The priest would give them his blessings and permit them to kiss the crucifix that he proudly dangled from his right hand. In his other hand he carried, like so many priests before him, a chira—long strands of bound horsehair mounted on a decorated wooden handle—which he periodically shook over each shoulder to deter flies from defiling his clean and holy person.

  Yeneta’s influence and position in the community were never more apparent than during the season of Lent, as he gave divine commands and passed judgment on his humble parishioners. At the age of nine, I was persuaded to attend one such event, an early morning service, in the company of two distant cousins and Yeneta’s daughter-in-law. After the sermon, we were ushered into the confession room, which adjoined the burial tomb of a famous feudal lord who had lived nearby. The sparse, furnitureless room was dominated by a single portrait of Jesus, crucified. His dark complexion and Mediterranean features were more reminiscent of a youthful Yeneta than of the poor Jewish man they purported to represent. The wild plumes of exotic incense that rose from a pair of giant incense burners, the few chandeliers that held lit candles, and the small basin for baptism were the only items to relieve the eye of the walls’ baleful stare.

  The parishioners slowly filed into the room and assumed what I suspected were their usual positions around the perimeter—backs to the wall, shoulder touching shoulder, faces sober and inscrutable. I was pressed into a corner, from which I was able to observe what went on.

  Yeneta’s entrance was announced by two teen-aged deacons clad in colourful gowns who were dangling incense burners from their hands and reciting passages from the Holy Scriptures. Two more deacons, adults this time, slowly walked into the room followed by Yeneta. In a subdued tone, Yeneta uttered a few divine platitudes before making it known that confessions were to begin. A respectably dressed man by the door was the first to unburden himself of his guilt. He cleared his throat uncertainly, leaned towards Yeneta in a desperate attempt to maintain his privacy, and quietly announced: “I have bitten my tongue.”

  After generations of sins, the church and its parishioners had developed a unique dialect, forged out of common language, consisting of euphemisms that made the act of confession more endurable. To have bitten one’s tongue meant to have lied, deceived or perjured; to have got around the ladle meant to have indulged in food forbidden during the Lent season—animal products, though not fish.

  The next to confess was a woman who had “cried with one eye,” or lusted. The priest swiftly pronounced judgment: she was to pray five times at the altar of Jesus. A few confessions later, a young man, obviously struggling with his shy and reserved nature, admitted he had “fallen off the bed.”
Yeneta commanded him to pray seven times and light two candles at the foot of the dark, stylized Christ that hung from the wall.

  It occurred to me then that I too had sinned. Indeed, I had fallen off my bed just the other night, having been entangled in one of those perpetual nightmares in which I was being chased by a foe. I was desperately trying to outrun my assailant, but, as so often happens when one dreams, I was running on the spot, and the creature was quickly closing the gap. I made one final attempt at evasion, concentrated all of my energy upon a single escape, and darted out, only to knock myself out of my bed. I hadn’t thought anything of this until I witnessed the young man’s remorse. Moved by the gravity with which his confession was made, I cried out loudly before everyone, “I too have fallen off my bed.”

  The sobriety that hung like a pall over the room was immediately broken. I could hear muffled laughter lightening the air. Though his lips did not curve or betray the least emotion, Yeneta’s eyes were dancing. One person pinched my ear, another lightly slapped my head, and yet a third, my mild-mannered cousin, leaned over and whispered in my ear not to open my mouth again unless it was suicide that I was after. Later I learned that to have fallen off the bed meant to have indulged in sex—a forbidden act during the fasting period.

  * * *

  YENETA COULD, and did, inspire fear. One day, I encountered Yeneta’s eighty-year-old frame in the dimly lit sanctuary adjoining his bedroom, as he read from the holy book in a singsong rhythm. His long hair was bound inside a turban. His white beard fell to his chest.

  Yeneta’s Bible was perhaps the oldest one in all of Ethiopia. The cover was made of finely polished qwara wood, rubbed with bruised herbs and oils and wrapped in sheepskin. The pages themselves were made of sheepskin and beaten fine as bond paper, and were inscribed in an ancient liturgical language called Geez. The Bible was so heavy that it had taken two men to lay it on the table in Yeneta’s sanctuary, from which it would never be removed.

  “Yeneta,” I asked, “what is the language of the angels?”

  The venerable priest stopped his rhythmic reading of the Bible. His eyes flashed angrily, like wildfire. He rose to his full height, six feet three inches tall, and stared into my eyes for a full measure of eternity before shaking his head in disappointment and sitting down.

  “Indeed,” Yeneta said, “you make me wonder if you are Amhara or if you were found in the dump.”

  I found out that the Divine Author delivers in Amharic, and that the Devil speaks Oromo.

  * * *

  NOT ALL AMHARAS are created equal. In fact, there is no other ethnic group in the nation with such a pronouncedly prescriptive system of interaction. Aside from class distinctions, the two forbidden groups that a pure Amhara can never associate with, let alone marry, are the Budas and the Lalibelas.

  A Buda is someone known to possess the evil eye. Traditionally, Budas were involved in the blacksmith and pottery trades, living and working in the isolated, rundown quarters of the city. Nowadays, Budas live and work among the highest ranks of Amhara society, and are only persecuted if it is established that they are definitely responsible for the sickness or death of someone in the community. Budas are held responsible for those sudden afflictions that come upon people in public places. If, for instance, one experiences a piercing pain while laughing in public and such a pain persists for days, it is the work of a Buda. If someone who is handsome comes home sick after attending a public event, it is the result of the evil eye. These illnesses can often be cured by chanting special sacred words, but sometimes an expert must be called. The expert begins by trying to determine which one of the known Budas attended the social event. Then the patient is brought before the guilty Buda, who is made to spit upon the victim, thus releasing the patient from the awful effects of the evil eye.

  In those instances where the expert is unable to determine which Buda attended the social event, the forehead of the victim is stamped with a hot iron brand. The “signature” will show up on the face of the guilty Buda, thereby enabling the alert neighbours to spot him or her right away. A Buda with a noticeable facial scar would seldom venture out of doors.

  Budas also have a mysterious way of transforming themselves into hyenas, or of joining a pack by riding on the back of a hyena. Hyenas are the most common, notorious predators in Ethiopia. They break into barns and compounds and steal donkeys, horses, goats and sheep. Hyenas, although cowardly and sheepish individually, are so fierce in a pack that no one would dare to confront them. Buda experts are engaged in the villages in order to determine whether or not any known Budas are travelling among the hyenas so they can be held responsible for the lost property.

  The other group pure Amharas are forbidden to associate with are the Lalibelas. Lalibelas are people who, through a genetic inheritance that makes them prone to leprosy, are forced to beg out loud before sunrise at specific times of the year. A Lalibela may be a successful businessman or a renowned fortune-teller and financially well off, but because of a divine judgment must beg before dawn or become immediately afflicted with leprosy. If Lalibelas do not beg and howl before sunrise, their limbs fall off and their faces become deformed beyond recognition.

  This practice was maintained for generations, until the military junta assumed power in 1974 and declared that howling before daybreak while begging—a practice that disrupted the pace of the revolution—was illegal and punishable by summary execution. Many Lalibelas suddenly discovered, to their astonishment and delight, that nothing happened if they ceased to beg.

  MEMORIES OF MEMERAE’S SHED

  AS A CHILD OF the Amhara community, I was brought up according to time-honoured aristocratic moral codes. A child was expected to have unfaltering respect for his parents, elders and all authority figures, and to be strictly obedient without complaint. Children raised with decent values would never speak to their elders unless spoken to, would give way to an elder who was about to cross their path, would rise from their seats if an elder passed by, and would never put their hands in their pockets when answering an elder. Infraction of any of these unspoken rules would mark the child as undesirable. Such a child was considered unfit to be friends with the other children, and was marked for further disciplinary action by the school authorities. Persistent defiance and unruliness could even lead, in an extreme case, to disinheritance, since respect for elders was not only a measure of a child’s character, but a reflection upon the family as well. A well-behaved and respectful child, on the other hand, was rewarded. Word of the child’s good behaviour quickly spread to the parents and other notables in the community, serving as a priceless character reference.

  The corollary of this moral code was the commonly held belief that a spanking now and again would help a child to grow up “straight,” like a well-tended tree. If a child grew in a “crooked” manner, it was believed that no form of discipline could straighten him. It was the business of the entire community to see that each child grew like that well-tended tree. A child who swore in public, for example, would likely be spanked by a complete stranger, who would then thoroughly investigate that child’s family tree with a view to taking the matter up with the irresponsible parents.

  * * *

  MY MOTHER HAD peculiar beliefs about the ways in which the futures of her children were determined. She believed that a child had to enrol in school at the precise age of four years and four days to be successful as a student; that children needed to have their gums massaged with the ashes of werka wood in the early hours of the morning in order to grow a mouthful of well-structured teeth; and that a child needed to drink a glassful of a murky and bitter beverage made of kosso flowers every three months to purge and cleanse the bowels. I was registered in school at the precise age of four years and four days.

  I spent my first two years at a private school, reading, writing, and solving riddles composed in Amharic, the language of kings. The school was quite modest. Three of the walls were made of dried twigs, and the fourth was the wall of our te
acher’s home. I remember that the walls were unstable, and we were constantly reminded not to lean on them. If the water delivery man tied his donkey too close to the wall, the animal would nibble at the dried leaves, pulling the building askew with each branch it tugged at.

  The roof of our classroom was also made of dried twigs. We could see the sky through it. High above, the birds watched us from the heavens. Black kites flew overhead, to make sure that we did not carry brown paper bags. They knew that the butcher wrapped meat in brown paper. If they saw anyone walking outside with a brown parcel in hand, they snatched it away from him. We always covered our books and things in old newspaper. Thrushes, perched on the roof, sang for us. They also dropped on our heads. We always moved our stools out of the way when the birds were on the roof.

  The floor of our little classroom was as God created it, dirt. It was sprayed with water twice daily to keep the dust devils from rising up in the middle of a session. But the ants were allowed to roam free. They travelled in a very long column from one end of the room to the other. The ants always watched us as they went up and down, to make sure that we were paying attention to the teacher. If a student happened to fall asleep in the middle of a class, an ant would depart from the parade, climb the leg of the student, and pinch him on the thigh before resuming its march.

  Our teacher was called “Memerae” (My teacher) Beyene. Memerae did not have legs. Or, if he did, we never saw them, as he was always inside a sack. The sack was tied at his waist and covered everything below it. He dragged himself on the ground. Or better, he swung himself along. He would prop himself on two wooden supports, which he held in his hands, lift his body an inch above the ground and swing himself forward. Looking at him above the shoulders, as he came from a distance, it seemed as though he was riding a diminutive roller coaster.