boasted considerable space, servants and a large yard, but all the
architectural flair of a prison. By Ethiopian standards it was
luxurious, and Webele’s pride was evident.
“Come in, let me treat you to an Ethiopian coffee ceremony,” the
man said with inflated pomp. They walked into his living room,
painted green and decorated all over with Christian icons—crosses,
traditional cartoony paintings of Jesus, a ceramic Mary. Webele
formally introduced his wife, a shy woman with eyes so enormous
they looked like small eggs. She shook Roy’s hand and bowed
demurely.
They sat down on low chairs as she poured the thick, black brew
into tiny cups. Frankincense burned in a clay pot next to her while
hypnotic Ethiopian music wafted in from another room as they
sipped the fine, syrupy beverage.
His children burst in, running and laughing, disrupting the
ambience with phony name-brand fashions honoring American pop
singers and sports heroes. They seemed rather young to be his
children.
“My little droppings!” Webele announced impishly, “Children,
this is Mr. Roy. I believe that means ‘king’ in the French language.
Roy is the King of Los Angeles.”
Roy laughed stupidly. “No, no. I’m not,” he protested, “I’m of the
merchant class.”
Webele looked at him nobly in the eye. “Every man is a king!” he
proclaimed, “Some rule over countries and armies. Some rule over
only their families. Some rule over only themselves. But make no
mistake, every man is a king! Ha ha!”
“Yes. Unless he can’t even rule himself,” Roy said, intending to
make a joke, not to reveal so much.
Webele’s eyes betrayed a brief flash of sadness. But he quickly
rejoined, “Well, in that case he must find a big fat queen to do it for
him!”
They both laughed. His wife brought her hand modestly to her
mouth.
“And if he can’t find one?” Roy asked, playing along.
“Then he must leave the kingdom and come back when he is
ready to rule.”
The oldest son, waiting impatiently for his father’s attention,
interrupted with something in Amharic that Roy could not
understand.
ABYSSINIA
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