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.
