Sassy Sasit
Draft
Mezemir
As if I didn’t spend months without a significant task at hand, now I am getting busy either because class has resumed after the war or my own projects are demanding my attention. I scanned the staff lounge and sat at an unfamiliar spot to the right. Sipping bottled water, I started to check my smartphone for something new. Social media was showing me what it had for the day when two lecturers neared me.
“Shall we sit there or do you need some talk?” inquired the dark skinned one. He was pointing at another table. “As you like” I responded, and they joined me. With his colleague, who is rather quiet, they sat with me and my friend opened a chapter in the history of Sassy Sasit.
But before that Sassy Sasit chapter opened, a few small talk issues emerged. I know that they would emerge time and again as they are either jewels that embellish our talk or distractions to deter the flow of our chat. It was me who raised this first distraction as the other guy who sat with us studied with one of our country boys who had quit his studies at a tender age and remained a mentally affected person. This guy told us how they spent studying at university. I recounted how that bright-minded guy was a genius. Heaven knows what happened to his result at college. Their lunch comes. We would talk about my eating style, one meal a day and so on and so forth.
Now the chapter of Sassy Sasit opens. This is what he opens whenever he meets me. If he meets me for a millennia, he would each time repeat it. Would either of us get bored! Never! We would recount each childhood event anew. Isn’t it memory that constantly shapes humanity’s consciousness?
For you my esteemed reader I know I should build a ship of imagination. A ship that takes you from your seat now to Debre Birhan. That is not Sassy Sasit yet. You are left with 27 kilometres by air. If you choose by road, let me guide you through. You drive past the hills of Keyit, Gudoberet, and reach Tarmaber. At Tarmaber, you turn towards the west. Yes, you don’t go through the tunnel or above the tunnel to Menz. You dive deep into Tegulet proper. The gravel road takes you to Seladingay and then to Sassy Sasit. It is 90 Kiloemetres from Debre Birhan. It could take you three hours. Who is so lucky like me to live in my area, Debre Birhan being Tegulet too.
The talk mentioned Wofa Legesse, a man who according to different people has different stories. This guy lived near his place, past Sassy Sasit and a 10 to 15 kilometer distance. I always say Legesse was a real father of the community. He did an unforgettable feat of transporting with his four vehicles the students’ provisions free of charge. Who among the community played such a role – none. Wofa is mainy remembered for his arbitration using a spirit that the church later used to tarnish his name. That seems to be why his name is now not remembered.
This guy never stops at one issue. He mentioned Yeshareg, a woman who was friendly to anyone. He remembers her deeds and words. Remembering as it happened just yesterday. Even the guy sitting with us was enjoying and smiling at the anecdotes.
Two men from that small but beautiful village as we are, we teach at the university. “Killings were commonplace. I saw live killings. A man carried a gun when he was chased by stick-carrying brothers. He was cornered and decided to kill them. I saw when he shot them there. He then went away. Who can touch him, ma’an! I was in grade 7,” he narrated as he took morsel after morsel.
“And the Kidame gebeya,” he continues. Images of dead people I saw as a kid were circulating in my head as he said that. As a little boy who lived next to the police station and administrative compound, I saw many brutalities with my naked eyes. A kid who heard when a kindly neighbor commits suicide by shooting himself, a kid who almost every night hears people being flogged and hit to give information helpful to the new EPRDF government or to tell about the gun they might or might not hid. All this is done because of local informants. As a kid who was befriended by the soldiers who camped next to our home, I have many memories. “The Kidame gebeya,” he continues to tell me about the Sunday market, “Sasit hosted something like a holiday every week man!” “He is telling me all what he said last time. When would this guy go and I finish my writing project?” Don’t expect me to say that. I like the memories even if they are related a thousand times.
I’m glad this guy is not speaking about my love and marriage preferences or indifferences. Today he seems calm and cheerful. Reminiscing his days, the days we were little country boys. He mentions which one of our friends died, graduated, dropped out, got rich and so on. He is still particularly mad at the boys who talked about the World cup of 1998. Since he came from a little village further south, he didn’t know about football or didn’t watch the first ever television set for our town bought for the World Cup itself. How those “city boys” drove him mad by mentioning Ronaldo or Dunga! The two teachers went away for the day and I resumed writing. I scribble to publish something. Yes it was my memoir.
ምንም አስተያየቶች የሉም:
አስተያየት ይለጥፉ