Oliver Benjamin
Webele, staying with precedent, did not agree. “For what?” he
protested, “Glory? No. Burton stole innumerable valuables from
Ethiopia and Rimbaud trafficked in guns and slaves. They were not
heroes, they were mercenaries. No better than pirates.”
“Who is not a mercenary?” Abora said. “Why am I making Qat
tea? Why are you looking for the original coffee?”
Roy thought for a second. “It seems to be the next line in my
poem,” he said.
This stumped Abora. “Which poem?” he said. “One you are
writing?”
“The one I’m living,” He cast his eyes down. How unbelievably
idiotic that sounded.
Abora winked at him, “I have never read a poem in which what is
desired is truly granted. If great poetry is what you are after, better
never to find it. Ah! There is my friend.” Abora pointed to a thin old
man dressed in black, hunched over a plant by the side of his little
church.
The men greeted each other as if they hadn’t seen one another for
ages. But it could have been a year or it could have been a week. The
man smiled to reveal blue gums and a striking lack of teeth. He
welcomed them into the church compound and led them to his small
house.
It was a tiny, clay room, bare but for a sleeping-mat on the floor
and a series of locked wooden chests. A single dim, flickering bulb
illuminated the walls like an old wax candle. They lowered
themselves carefully onto the floor and the three native Ethiopians
set about discussing the matter in Amharic. Roy understood very
little, but enjoyed watching the old man pondering, mulling and
divulging; he could rearrange his features like furniture and it
seemed as if he had an infinite supply of masks, selecting and shifting
them like vaudeville performer, never to pause too long on one
identity.
“He says he knows where to find this coffee,” Abora announced.
“It is not too far from here.”
“Wow,” said Roy, “When can we go?”
Another animated, shapeshifting discussion ensued, until finally
Webele explained, “We cannot go there. He says we must not try this
coffee. For to drink it would be to surely die.” The dabtara nodded his
head gravely at this, then threw up his hands and smiled.
“Can he take us there now?” Roy said impatiently.
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