Oliver Benjamin
course. Some of it unpleasant.”
“Why is that?” Roy said.
“They don’t see too many white people out on the roads here,” he
said. “You may be something of a spectacle.”
Roy hummed a bit and looked at his hands. “But I’m black. My
parents were born here.”
“Oh?” the dabtara gasped, raising his hands to his mouth. “I’m
terribly sorry. With your accent I assumed you were white. You see, I
am quite blind.”
“So you are,” Roy said, peering into his glassy irises.
“Mengistu did this to me. Around the same time that he killed my
Emperor, I was beaten and left to die. Yet in some ways I actually see
better now. For instance, though I obviously can not see your skin, I
feel as if I can see quite clearly into your heart.”
“And what do you see?” Roy asked.
“A great deal of blood,” the dabtara replied.
This elicited great laughter from Webele, who said, “And what is
it you see in my bottom?”
“A terrible and profound blackness,” said the dabtara. Webele
laughed even louder.
Roy and Abora laughed as well. A shy smile appeared in the
corners of the dabtara’s mouth.
Shaking his hand, Roy thanked the man for his advice.
“Good luck with your travels,” the dabtara said.
“Eat beans,” Roy replied.
Roy went to the counter to pay and was presented with an
outrageous bill. The “original” coffee did not come cheap. Roy
considered it par for the course, or at the very least some kind of
strange and portentous lesson.
As they approached the door the kid in the purple shirt glared at
him scornfully.
“Go home,” the teenager said again. Roy reached over and patted
him on the head.
“I’m trying,” he replied, and strode back out into the glare.
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