Notes from the Hyena's Belly

by Nega Mezlekia

  Memerae Beyene was a monk. His faith and trust were placed in St. Michael. He himself travelled hundreds of kilometres from his hometown to serve the church of Jijiga. When he wasn’t teaching, or sick and bedridden, he was to be found in the confines of the church, reading the Bible aloud, drowning out the courtship songs of the starlings, and caring for the rich dead, who are better housed than the living poor. Memerae was an angry man. No one saw him smile, ever. Many believed that he had no teeth. He was a hateful man. He hated everyone and everything, including the Adbar. He wished that someone would cut down all the sacred trees in town. He even hated the Tsewa.

  The Tsewa is a group of twelve women who favour a common saint and make a pact to worship together on the saint’s chosen day. Each month they make sacrifices together, sharing the miracles—afflictions cured, lost items recovered, all as a result of the saint’s unmistakable interventions. The sacrifices consist of snacks and tella, a locally brewed beer. Each ceremony lasts one full afternoon, or until all of the tella has been consumed and the ladies are happily drunk. If one sees a respectable woman staggering in the street, it is a sure sign that she is coming from a Tsewa, and one must help her get home safely. Tsewa meetings rotate from one household to the next, so that each member incurs the expense only once per year.

  Memerae liked saints, but thought that one should only make sacrifices in church. Nobody agreed with him. Many people suspected he was secretly a Catholic, and that he might even eat pork! Mam warned me never to accept food from Memerae, but I didn’t have to worry because Memerae never invited anyone to share a meal with him.

  All we learned in school was Amharic. There were no mathematics, science or sports sessions. For as long as we remained in that dingy school, two long years, we poured our time into learning the intricacies of this ancient language whose alphabet contains 268 characters. Half of the front of the room was covered by a chart. Memerae would sit on a huge tortoise shell beside the chart, holding a long stick in his hand, and lead us through the rows. He would strike each letter with a learned confidence, and announce “Ha-Hu-He-…” and we would follow after. When we finished the chart, he would begin again.

  After a few weeks, we learned the sequence by heart, and no longer needed to watch the chart. Instead, we watched the birds through the roof while repeating after him: “Ha-Hu-He-…” But Memerae did not like this. Whenever he caught a student looking elsewhere, he commanded him to stand up and name a letter picked from the chart at random. The student would invariably fail to give the correct answer, and Memerae would invariably pinch the boy’s cheek very hard, making him cry.

  We were pinched so often that we soon began to carry small bottles of baby oil with us and rub it on our cheeks, to make it harder for Memerae to get a hold on our skin. But Memerae did not like that either, and started using the ruler.

  After a couple of months, I got so tired of the monotony that I would start to cry immediately after Mam woke me for school in the morning. I told her that all we learned was the alphabet, that I could already recite it from beginning to end without looking at the chart, and that I no longer needed to attend school. One day I rolled myself in the blanket and refused to answer her. She sat by my bedside and told me the story of how one grain at a time brings good fortune.

  * * *

  ONCE UPON A time there was a King in Shewa. He spent his days and nights listening to stories. Storytellers came from villages all over the countryside to tell tales to the King, but after a few years there were no stories left in the country that the King hadn’t already heard. He sent messengers to neighbouring kingdoms looking for new storytellers. After a few more years, he had heard all the stories in the land. Finally, in desperation, he decided that what he needed was a storyteller who could make him cry out, “Enough! no more! I am done with stories.” If such a person existed, the King swore to make him a prince and give him a great piece of land.

  Many came, hoping to become princes and wealthy landowners, and the King always listened to their stories eagerly, without saying a word. One day a poor farmer came to tell the King a story that would make him cry out in protest. The King smiled at the poor farmer and said: “Did you know that many famous storytellers have come here, without telling me enough, and here you are, in your simple innocence, expecting to be made the owner of land, and awarded the title of prince? I know already that you are wasting my time, but nevertheless you may try.”

  The farmer seated himself on a rug, at the foot of the King, and began his story.

  “Once there was a peasant in Axum who sowed wheat,” he said. “When the crop ripened, he mowed it, threshed it and stored it in a granary. It was the best harvest he’d ever had. But there was a small hole in his granary, barely large enough to pass a straw through—and that is the irony in this tale. When all the grain was stored and the farmer went home, delighted, an ant came and entered through the hole. He picked up a single grain, which he carried away to his anthill to eat.”

  “Aha!” said the King, becoming more interested in the story, as it was one he had not heard before.

  “The next day,” the poor farmer continued, “another ant came through the same hole and found a grain, which he also took away.”

  “Very well! Continue!” said the King, showing more interest.

  “And the day after that,” the farmer continued, “another ant came and carried away another grain.”

  “Aha!”

  “And the next day a different ant came, and he took one more grain.”

  “Yes, yes,” interrupted the King, with some signs of impatience, “I understand all that. Let us proceed with the main thrust of the story.”

  The farmer made himself quite comfortable on the rug, and continued with his narrative: “The following day, a different ant came, and took one more grain. And the day after that, another ant came, and took another grain.”

  “Let us cut short the details and get on with the story,” the King yelled, betraying his anger with the farmer.

  “The day after that, another ant came and…” the farmer continued.

  “Please! Please!” yelled the King.

  “But Your Highness,” said the farmer quietly, “there are so very many ants in this story.” The farmer once again made himself comfortable on the rug, and continued where he had left off: “And the day following that, another ant came, and took another grain. And the day after that…”

  “You should stop dallying,” the King screamed. “After all,” he noted with gravity, “the story is the thing.”

  “But this is the essence of the story,” the farmer replied. “And the next day another ant came and took away another grain. And the day following that…”

  “But,” the King interposed, “all this is mere detail, let us get on with the plot.”

  “Certainly,” the farmer said, and continued with his tale: “And the day after that another ant came, and took away another grain. And the day after that…”

  “Stop!” the King shrieked. “I want no more of this!”

  “Your Highness,” the farmer offered, “the story must be told in the right sequence; the granary, after all, is still full, and must be emptied. That is in the next story. And the next day…”

  “No! No! It must not be!” the King yelled.

  “And the next day another ant came and…”

  “Enough, enough, you may have the land and the title of prince!” the King screamed, rushing from the palace, fuming.

  And so, the poor farmer became the owner of a large expanse of land, and a respected prince.

  I wanted to be a prince, like the farmer, and so I stayed in school.

  * * *

  APPROXIMATELY THREE months after we started school, the routine changed. Memerae brought a new chart, on which the alphabet was completely scrambled, and it became our turn to lead him through the maze. He would pick a student from his list, and make him go over the chart out loud. Another would follow, and another, until we had all been o
ver the chart. Whenever we were close to memorizing the latest chart, a new one would appear.

  Once Memerae was completely satisfied that we could identify each of the characters, he taught us why certain of the letters repeated themselves. There were sixty-three such characters. For instance, there were six characters representing Ha, two for Se, four for …

  Because it was rude to associate a king with something so intimate as a kiss, the ki in king would be different than the ki in kiss. As the sun was a symbol of power and eternity, the su in sun would be different from the su in sugar, which was a perishable item. And, as power was something for the gods and kings, the po in power … We spent the rest of the year learning to identify celestial and imperial features, and to distinguish their spelling from that of everyday things. No individual would be accorded a learned status who lacked the ability to recognize such subtle differences.

  Before the first year was out I had come to like the school better, not so much for what it offered as for the entertainment that I discovered around it. The school was right across the street from the church, and I could slip into the church compound to watch the monks and deacons performing their heavenly duties. As parishioners came to the church at odd hours in order to make emergency requests, or offer sacrifices, I would hide behind the huge columns and listen as they pleaded with St. Michael.

  Once I heard an old woman tell St. Michael that she had just killed her neighbour’s cat, wrapping it in an old rag before dropping it into a dried-up well. She explained that the cat had been stealing beef from her kitchen, poaching the strips that she had hung to dry from the line. She had done all she could to keep the cat at bay, closing the doors and windows of her kitchen, but the animal always managed to find a way in. She asked for forgiveness, placing a box of candles at the door. I thought that the lady was quite mean, killing that cat, so as soon as she was out of sight I found the box of candles and threw them away. I knew that if St. Michael didn’t find those candles, he would soon come after her.

  Another time, I overheard two schoolgirls ask the good saint to help them pass their exam. They were much older than me and quite pretty. They promised to bring the saint incense and ood, if and when he kept his end of the bargain. That night, when Mam reminded me to study, I told her that I needn’t bother any more; all I needed was a few sticks of ood and a bag of incense for St. Michael. She told me that my books were much closer to me.

  My other pastime was haunting the cemetery behind the church. It was a large graveyard populated by a strange array of tombstones and some scattered shrubs. Most people gave the cemetery a wide berth, avoiding it altogether at high noon and after sunset, when the ghosts of the dead were known to rise. These ghosts would tease passersby, tossing a handful of dirt in their eyes or causing some other mischief.

  After having lunch I would hide behind one of the shrubs at the edge of the cemetery and watch the courageous people who dared to dart through the graveyard. There were only ever one or two of them during these ominous hours, and they scanned their surroundings nervously, carefully weighing a change in wind and quickening their pace at the slightest unexpected noise. It occurred to me that I could be of some help if I tossed a stone their way, without showing myself.

  The first stone, as it hit the ground, always had a hypnotic effect. The individuals would freeze in their tracks, scrutinizing their surroundings with the greatest care. Having seen no living soul in the area, and knowing that the wind had not changed its direction, they would resume their journey, picking up the pace even more, believing, perhaps, that their ears were playing tricks on them. As soon as they turned their backs, I would toss another stone. This time, they would not look up for proof, but would run as fast as their legs could carry them, fleeing from that cursed place. The women sometimes dropped what they were carrying, but I never once touched what was left behind.

  * * *

  WHEN I WAS growing up, our favourite game was to dare someone either to do something courageous in the cemetery at night, or else to chase a wild hyena. Once, when I was seven or eight, my friends and I dared a fat boy, who had just moved into the neighbourhood, to drive a nail into one of the graves. Four of us, including his younger brother, watched as he proved his manhood.

  It was a beautiful night. A quarter moon hung low in the sky, and the desert heat gave way under a gentle breeze. After dinner, as our parents congregated in the compounds, we snuck out of our rooms to meet at the rendezvous before heading to the cemetery. Once we arrived at the graveyard, the four of us watched and waited, while encouraging the fat boy to get a move on. When he was fifteen metres from us, he chose a grave. He searched for signs of a ghost and, finding none, sat himself down on the hard soil and began hammering the nail into the ground, stopping only to scan his surroundings from time to time. Satisfied that the huge nail was driven deep, he decided to run. But when he attempted to stand, a ghost grabbed him by the shirttail. We watched as he stumbled and fell. Just before fainting, he let out a savage cry.

  The rest of us ran home as fast as we could, sneaking back into our rooms without being detected. This boy would have spent his night in the graveyard in the grasp of that ghost had it not been for his younger brother, who told his mother about the incident.

  That night was quite memorable. His mother was hysterical—crying and pulling out her hair. The neighbours emerged from their compounds and crowded the streets. The hyenas wisely avoided their usual route, in order to escape blame for the crisis. Mam betrayed an anger that I had never before seen as she unceremoniously pulled me out of bed and ordered me to lead the way to the fallen fat boy. Outside, the rest of the boys stood cowering under the burning gazes of their mothers.

  The search team consisted of eight women, five men, four children, three dogs and a drunken bat. The men carried lanterns and clubs, and the women their senses. We did not have much difficulty in establishing the general area where the boy had disappeared, but the continuous calling of his name got no response. His mother became more and more desperate by the minute. My own mother was beginning to frighten me, promising me that if anything happened to the boy she would leave me here, to let the ghosts decide my fate. I began to cry.

  Fortunately for me, one of the men finally spotted the boy. He still lay on the ground where he had fallen, his eyes rolling out of their sockets, afraid that the moment he called out the ghost would strangle him. As the crowd descended on him, the lanterns cast eerie shadows over his terrified face. His mother crashed through the bushes and fell on her dear boy, shedding tears of jubilation. When she tried to lift him, she discovered that the tail of his shirt was nailed to the ground.

  That night, my mother beat me for the first time in my young life. For reasons I did not understand, she was crying as she whipped me, shedding more tears with each successive lash. I cried out, not only because of the pain she inflicted, but because of her condition. Mam was, to me, a symbol of sanctity and serenity. Seeing her in this distraught state pained me. I knew then that I had done something terrible and unforgivable. That day, I decided to change for the better. I decided that I would become more like my older sister Meselu and make my bed in the morning, come straight home from school, and no longer kill birds with my sling.

  But before the week was out I had my own challenge to answer: I had to prove how close I could get to a pack of wild hyenas without blinking my eyes. I had chased hyenas numerous times, and didn’t think the challenge was too big. That night, I snuck out of my room as usual and met my friends at our customary rendezvous. The final destination, this time, was a bridge at the outskirts of town. The bridge spanned a wide valley that was bone dry year-round, except for a brief period during the rainy season when it overflowed its embankments and caused major damage to the neighbouring areas. At the time, the valley was dry.

  The only building near the valley was the police station. The residential areas were much farther away. There was a tiny door at the remote end of the compound that was seldom used and
always unlocked, as no one would willingly walk into a police station. The last street lamp cast its glow a few feet from this door. From here, the bridge was a distant wilderness.

  At sunset the hyenas would congregate in this valley, under the bridge, refining strategies for the night, deciding which neighbourhood to attack and voting on who should mate the female in heat. They would settle all their personal differences before invading the town. Sometimes they’d bring their kill back to this place, and share the feast in peace. Over the years I had learned their routine, and so knew when to attack them and when to keep my distance. I knew, for instance, that it would be suicidal to confront a pair of hyenas having a private moment, or to approach a pack as it sat down to dinner. That night, hiding in one of the small pockets of the bridge, I regarded them carefully as they approached. They seemed to be at ease.

  My friends took their places some distance away. The hyenas soon began crossing the road in ones and twos. I waited until the last one had made its appearance before jumping out of my hiding place. I yelled a few brave words and tossed stones at the nearest one. This was when the confused hyena was supposed to run, so that I could chase after it until it passed from sight.

  But the hyena didn’t run away. I yelled more words, and hurled more stones, but it stood its ground defiantly, staring at me with demonic determination. Something told me I should just call it a night. I took a few tentative steps backwards, my eyes on the enemy, but the hyena made up for the difference by taking a few measured paces of its own. I called over my shoulder for my friends, but there was no response. When I looked back and saw the last of them breaking into the police compound, I decided, for better or worse, to run.