Notes from the Hyena's Belly

by Nega Mezlekia

  On Monday I went back to school. The school had changed a great deal, or maybe I had changed. Weeks passed and I did not see the persuader. Even if I failed to do my homework, I was not whipped. Instead, I would be sent out to collect rubbish from the compound, or sent to kneel down outside, with arms outstretched, a stone held in each hand. I didn’t mind either punishment. Mr. Alula had also changed. He didn’t talk to me much any more, and when I asked him questions he gave me the right answers.

  One day he was teaching us the significance of a flag to a nation. He spent half an hour explaining to us why the Ethiopian flag was so important that it was flown the world over, why our national anthem was so significant that even the Americans played it when the King visited, and why it was our privilege to rise early and hang the flag on its post.

  Each school day began the with students lining up in front of the flagstaff, singing the national anthem while the flag was slowly raised. At the end of each school day, we lined up again to watch as the flag was lowered, before being neatly folded and placed in the director’s office. Every government office in town had a flag post at the entrance; the flag was flown during work and put safely away at the end of the working day. When flags were raised or lowered in government buildings, the national anthem was played by a trumpeter; everyone on the street would stand still, dropping whatever they were doing, until the flag was in its place. Neglecting to pay your respects by standing still would mean being stopped immediately and reproved for your conduct. Only Somalis were known to be disrespectful of this tradition, and I thought that the moral of this day’s lesson was for the Somali students in the classroom.

  Mr. Alula ended his lecture by emphasizing that a flag was symbolic of the identity of a nation; that when it was flown on its mast it signified the independence of the nation; and that there were many African countries that did not have the freedom to fly a flag, as they had been colonized.

  I had never thought of that before. Soon, an idea presented itself to me, and I raised my hand to ask a question. Mr. Alula peered at me over his glasses. Clearly, he detested my rude interruption, but he nevertheless allowed me to speak.

  “Does that mean that when we lower the flag at the end of the day, we no longer have freedom?” I inquired.

  Mr. Alula’s hand remained suspended in air, his fleshy frame turned to hastily sculptured clay, and his glasses slid down his nose until they were propped up by his upper lip. When he finally recovered his composure, Mr. Alula gave me the answer: “Your mind thinks like the Devil’s. Get out of my class.”

  I didn’t mind being outside. It was the end of the rainy season. The air was breezy and refreshing; the sun was mild, having abandoned its scorching heat under the incessant rains; and the fields were covered with dark green grass. This wild grass appears out of nowhere every rainy season, growing to a height of about two feet before disappearing again into the dust. In the open country, the Somali women harvest the stem of this grass by carefully peeling off each layer of blade that holds it to the ground. They dry and dye the stems different colours and sell them at market. Other women use the colourful stalks to weave baskets of every shape and size, some to carry things, others to hang from the wall in decoration.

  The grass on campus was never harvested. The school director wouldn’t permit it. It was never trimmed either, but grew wild, providing a good hiding place for a kid who wanted to avoid class. I soon discovered an even better use for it. I admired the strength of the grass—it couldn’t be torn out with one’s bare hands. I figured that if I grabbed some stems in one hand, and another bunch from a foot or so away, and tied the tips together before hiding the contraption from sight, it would make a very good trap. I could then sit a safe distance away, and watch people stumble and fall as their feet got stuck in the trap.

  The boys who came crashing down always got up fast, full of rage and looking for a fight. When the girls fell down, they would laugh or cry. A girl who had fallen once was easy to identify. She walked slowly, raising each leg to her chest, as though she were marching in tune to some alien army beat.

  I was busy working on the grass, dashing from one end to another, when I heard someone calling my name. It was the school director, Mr. Taddesse.

  “What are you doing out of class?” he demanded, holding one of his arms around his chest and massaging his goatee with the other.

  “I was thrown out,” I replied.

  “Who is it this time?” he asked.

  I told him who it was and why.

  Mr. Taddesse chuckled and added: “You asked the wrong question. How would you like to come to my office and have a cup of tea with me?”

  Mr. Taddesse put his arm around my shoulder as we walked together.

  “Mr. Alula has not forgotten what happened to his cows,” he remarked, looking down at me and smiling.

  I did not say anything, because I had nothing to do with the cows.

  “How did you like that medicine your mother gave you?” he inquired, still smiling.

  I told him that I did not like it.

  “Maybe it worked,” he added.

  “I guess so,” I said, “because Mr. Alula did not whip me today.”

  Mr. Taddesse’s office was one of two big rooms that faced the main gate of the compound. The other room was for the rest of the staff. There was a short corridor separating the two rooms, decorated with huge photographs of the King, the deceased Queen, and the princes. Mr. Taddesse’s office was decorated with animal parts—the horns of mountain nyala, walia ibex and oryx covered all the walls, except for the space behind his chair. The faces of the animals were long lost; only a piece of the forehead between the horns remained. There was a hairy hide hung on the wall behind the director’s chair. The animal must be too cold without its fur, I said to myself. I remember looking at the walls and thinking that perhaps Mr. Taddesse could see only war in creatures around him.

  The director let me in first, suggesting that I take one of the two chairs across from his desk. He went to get us some tea. I adjusted the chair so that I could sit facing Mr. Taddesse. Before long he returned with a tray on which there were two glasses of tea, a bowlful of sugar and a teaspoon. He placed one of the teacups at my end of the table and took the other one himself. Mr. Taddesse then went on to sweeten his tea. He added two spoonfuls of sugar to his cup, stirred it, then passed the sugar bowl to me. I took the spoon out of the bowl and dumped the sugar in my tea until the fluid overflowed the glass. I always put an inch of sugar in my tea when Mam was not around.

  Mr. Taddesse was smiling at me as I was attending to my tea. His hands rested on the arms of his chair, his right hand massaging his goatee. He sipped the tea twice before breaking the silence.

  “Someone punctured the tire of my car while it was parked in my driveway,” he remarked. “You wouldn’t happen to know who might have done it?”

  “No,” I replied, bending over to sip my tea without lifting it from the table.

  “I am sure it was not you,” he added.

  I assured him it was not me. I liked Mr. Taddesse’s car, and would not do it any harm. Actually, it was a truck, a very tiny Land Rover, with a cargo area much smaller than the hood. It was an old truck, and Mr. Taddesse only used it on weekends. The truck never started on its own, so every weekend he looked for someone to push-start it for him.

  We, the neighbourhood kids, learned the routine. We’d gather outside his compound before he even looked for someone to lend him a hand. It wasn’t because we liked Mr. Taddesse, but because he gave us a ride around the block. When Mr. Taddesse was late for his drive, we’d knock at his door, to remind him that we were there to push-start his car.

  Dad did not have a car of his own. Once in a while, he would be driven somewhere in the government Land Rover. But he never allowed me to join him on a trip. When I wanted to ride in a car, I would walk five kilometres out of town to the checkpoint where trucks going to and coming from Ogaden were searched for contraband by the finance offic
ers. Only a few trucks went through the checkpoint on any given day, so I would wait for hours, watching for a trail of dirt to rise on the gravel road, a vivid indication of a speeding truck. I often succeeded in getting a ride back to town, but once in a while, the Somalis would refuse to take me with them. If they lost their contraband to the finance officers, and were unable to make a deal, they would become furious, abusive and hateful towards all Amharas.

  “You would not damage my car even if I whipped you?” asked Mr. Taddesse.

  “No,” I replied, draining the last of the tea down my throat and waiting for the sweet syrup to flow. When I looked up, I noticed that Mr. Taddesse was waiting for further assurances. “I would burn down your barn,” I told him, to make him feel better.

  Mr. Taddesse shot off his seat, fuming and promising me many bad things. I didn’t understand why he was so angry; his barn was old, and its straw roof hung down over the fence, becoming a nuisance to passersby.

  “If you even think of getting close to that barn, I will shoot you,” Mr. Taddesse barked, his nose drawn close to my own.

  I knew that the director owned a gun, a very big gun. Once every few weekends, he would go out of town, hunting, and return with a gazelle or oryx in the back of his truck. The whole neighbourhood would gather in his compound to glimpse the kill. The animals that Mr. Taddesse shot were always caught while performing some odd act: some were killed grinning, some were sticking out their tongues at the director, others were staring at him rudely. The oryx he killed were much bigger than me, so I knew he could easily kill me.

  “You know that you have a very serious problem?” the director noted.

  “Yes,” I acknowledged, “it is Mr. Alula.” Then an idea presented itself to me: “Why don’t you shoot Mr. Alula?” I asked.

  Mr. Taddesse sat back in his chair, relaxed. Massaging his goatee with his fingers, he replied: “Because he did not burn down my barn.” I thought it was because Mr. Alula was far too big for him to fit into the back of his truck.

  I stuck my finger into my glass and cleared the few remaining grains of sugar from the bottom. Mam did not allow me to do that. She thought it was savage. But Mr. Taddesse did not mind.

  When I finally finished my tea, I looked up at the director, grinning. He smiled at me and handed me a piece of paper to wipe my fingers with.

  “Is your father back in town yet?” he asked.

  “Yes, he came back two days ago.”

  “Tell him that I will come to see him tonight, after dinner,” he commanded, walking me to the door.

  The family was out in the open air when Mr. Taddesse arrived, chatting and drinking arake with the neighbours. Mam got him a chair and he joined the group. Shortly after I retired to bed, Mam came to have a word with me. She sat at the foot of my bed while she talked.

  “You told Mr. Taddesse today that you would burn down his barn,” she said, without any sign of anger.

  “Yes, but I am not going to do that any more, because he will shoot me,” I replied. I did not tell her that I was working on a different scheme, one that would let me avenge myself without getting shot, in case he decided to beat me up.

  “You know,” Mam struggled, “life is not a boxing ring. One has to learn to accept defeat every once in a while without putting up a fight. No one is strong enough to live on their own. Everyone, including the rich and famous, needs to be part of a community. You are far too young to understand this now, but someday you will grow up and remember my words.”

  Mam went on to tell me a story about why it is important for everyone to be part of a community.

  * * *

  ONCE UPON A time, a leopard and a fox decided to hunt together. They went to a village called Kuni, where they found some animals grazing. The fox, being smarter, quickly tripped and captured a cow. The leopard captured a goat. The fox and the leopard drove their catch home and put them in their separate barns.

  The leopard wasn’t happy that the fox had the larger animal, so that night, while the fox was in bed, the leopard snuck into the fox’s barn to steal the cow. But he found that the cow had given birth to a beautiful calf and decided to steal the calf instead.

  Early the next morning the leopard woke the fox to show him the miracle. “Look how lucky I am, Mr. Fox,” the leopard said. “My goat gave birth to a calf.”

  “Impossible!” replied Mr. Fox. “Only cows give birth to calves. Goats can only give birth to kids. The calf must be mine.”

  “But you can see for yourself that the calf is with the goat,” argued Mr. Leopard.

  “Yes,” Mr. Fox replied, “but it could also be with an elephant. Nevertheless, only cows give birth to calves.”

  The fox and the leopard argued this way for many, many hours. Finally, they decided to look for a judge. The first one they found was Mrs. Gazelle.

  “Mrs. Gazelle, please be a judge for us,” Mr. Fox requested.

  Mrs. Gazelle looked at Mr. Fox with suspicion: “Yes, what is it?” she inquired.

  Mr. Fox told his story and Mr. Leopard told his.

  Mrs. Gazelle weighed her decision very carefully. She was more afraid of Mr. Leopard than of Mr. Fox. Mrs. Gazelle stood a safe distance away from Mr. Fox as she gave her decision.

  “Years ago,” she began, “cows gave birth to calves, camels to camels, lions to kits, and goats to kids. But the times have changed. Nothing stays the same. Now, goats are permitted to have calves, as God is my witness!”

  Mr. Fox didn’t agree with the judgment, so the three of them went looking for another judge. After finding Mr. Hyena, Mr. Fox and Mr. Leopard told their stories. Mr. Hyena was also afraid of Mr. Leopard and put on his most learned look as he gave his decision.

  “As everybody knows, no ordinary goat can have calves. But goats owned by a leopard can, as God is my witness!”

  Still, Mr. Fox was unsatisfied with the judgment. The four of them, Mr. Fox, Mr. Leopard, Mrs. Gazelle and Mr. Hyena, went looking for another judge. They found Miss Klipspringer. Miss Klipspringer heard the story of Mr. Fox and Mr. Leopard with an anxious look. She also was afraid of Mr. Leopard, and decided that the calf belonged to him.

  “Well, Mr. Fox.” said Mr. Leopard, “it seems that there are no more judges in this land, so the calf is mine.”

  “No,” replied Mr. Fox. “There is Mr. Tota.”

  Tota was a very small monkey with a very long tail. He had a human face, and was very intelligent. Tota was not afraid of Mr. Leopard, because he could jump higher and faster.

  Mr. Fox, Mr. Leopard, Mrs. Gazelle, Mr. Hyena and Miss Klipspringer went to see Mr. Tota. When Mr. Tota saw the five of them coming, he climbed a tall tree and began nibbling a leaf.

  “Please be our judge,” Mr. Fox said. He then told his story, and Mr. Leopard told his. Mr. Tota listened to them both with a far-off look in his eyes. When they had finished, Tota slowly turned to the tree trunk and started massaging it. The animals stared at Mr. Tota with puzzlement.

  Mr. Leopard broke the silence: “So what do you think, Mr. Tota?”

  “Wait a moment, can’t you see that I am busy?” Mr. Tota replied with an irritated look on his face.

  “What is it you are doing?” Mr. Leopard asked.

  “I am milking the tree,” Mr. Tota replied. “I have eaten my lunch and now I must drink some milk.”

  “What a stupid animal,” Mr. Leopard said. “No milk can come from a tree. Everybody knows that.”

  “If a calf can come from a goat, then certainly milk can come from a tree,” Mr. Tota replied.

  Mr. Leopard was embarrassed. His face blushed. He broke into a nervous smile and said: “Yes! Yes! I can see the milk coming!”

  The other animals knew that no milk could come from a tree. They also discovered that Mr. Leopard could be defeated if they were brave.

  “God knows that only a cow can have a calf!” they shouted together.

  Mr. Leopard looked at them all with shame. He could defeat them each, one by one, but could not defeat them
all together. Also, he could not live alone in the jungle.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Fox, the calf is yours,” Mr. Leopard conceded, his eyes staring at the ground.

  And that is why, Mam concluded, even brave and strong creatures need to do what the community says, because no one is strong enough to live by himself.

  * * *

  ON FRIDAY, when I got home from school, I could see that Mam had bought a goat as big as a dwarf bull. If it was a holiday and we were expecting a lot of visitors, she might purchase a sturdy bull to share with two or three neighbours, but we had never bought such a mammoth goat before.

  “How come you bought such an ugly goat?” I asked Mam.

  “Well, you know,” she demurred, “it’s a special occasion.”

  “So, why didn’t you buy a bull instead?”

  “A bull wouldn’t do.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “You’ll know soon enough,” was her cryptic answer.

  I gave the goat a dish of water and went out to play. Soon, I had completely forgotten about it.

  When I got out of bed the next morning, the two soldiers were back in our living room, smiling at me and each offering me a hand to shake. But I knew better and darted under the huge living-room table and out the front door, evading my two enemies and running for my life. They caught up with me before I could leave the compound. As I cried, they comforted me, telling me that they were here to celebrate a feast.

  “Can’t you tell by the size of the goat?” one of them wondered out loud.

  I calmed down, believing that perhaps one of the saints’ days demanded a mammoth goat feast.

  Usually Dad slaughtered the goat and I gave him a hand. He would hold the goat upside down, with his foot on the animal’s head, while I steadied its four legs. Dad would say a few words of prayer, then slit the animal’s throat. The goat would then be hung upside down from its hind legs, while Dad opened its belly, dumping the contents into the dog’s bucket. I would help him skin it, then rush inside with various parts before the eagles got word that we were celebrating.