tour around the capital. The high elevation of the city left Roy
breathless as they walked. “You must not walk so fast,” Webele said.
“Anyway, there is little to see in Addis. It is a city of moments rather
than momentousness.”
Webele stopped often to say hello to friends. The traditional
Ethiopian greetings were long and comical, and Roy’s heart leapt to
remember his father greeting friends who had come to visit his little
coffee shop on Fairfax Avenue. As if reading Roy’s mind he suggested
they go have a cup of espresso and a pastry. So numerous were the
coffeeshops in Addis that few suffered long for want of caffeine. They
sat down in a small place called Gihonand drank cup after cup of
potent espresso. At some point a man charged in speaking loudly and
was quickly ushered out by the proprietor.
“What, was he crazy?”
“No, no,” answered Webele, “He was just an Oromo throwing
around age-old curses.”
“The Galla?” Roy asked.
“Yes, the same. They are one of the minority groups that seem to
think they are being treated unfairly by the Amhara. This is not just
our problem. It is the distinguishing feature of the African tragedy.
Age-old territorial disputes. But I don’t have to lecture you about
that. You read the papers.”
“We don’t get much information about Ethiopia in the U.S. In
fact we get little world news. Hardly anything from Africa.”
“Ah, well. It’s just as good. Tribal disputes in Africa are not news.
They are olds! Ha ha! It must be nice to live in a new country like
America where people have forgotten most of their differences. We,
on the other hand, remain slaves to history.”
“I don’t know,” Roy said, “America is more tribal than anywhere
else I’ve seen. In America, there aren’t two or ten or a hundred tribes.
There are a quarter of a billion tribes with one member each.”
Webele put his hand on Roy’s and laughed, “I’m sure it’s not that
bad.”
Perhaps not. But here Roy had watched Webele wander around
town greeting friends with genuine enthusiasm and care, treating
each friendship like a delicate flower. The same way he had with the
old men the previous night, chewing chat and talking coffee and
philosophy. To some extent, wasn’t this how people all over the world
passed their lives? He himself had his little tribe at Undergrounds,
but was it the company, or was it the place? Would they remain in
ABYSSINIA
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