“We all are,” Colin said. “Blacks don’t have a monopoly on
alienation.”
“Only, we Rastas know the answer—our home is in Africa, and so
is our God. Ethiopia and its last king, Haile Selassie I.”
“God? Actually God?” Colin said, surprised. Like most people, his
knowledge of the Rasta creed was confined only to its hymns and
sacraments.
“Ras Tafari was Selassie’s name before he was coronated. So
Rastafarian,” Niles explained, “We all hope to be together with him
some day.”
“Only, he died in 1974,” Roy interjected, “There was a military
coup. Mengistu, his successor smothered him with a pillow.”
Niles shook his head, “But you can’t kill God. They never found
the body,” Niles pointed to the ceiling, “Just like Jesus Christ, he
went up to heaven.”
Roy checked his tongue. He had no business bursting the
believer’s bubble.
Though there had been a longstanding controversy in Ethiopia
over the location of Selassie’s remains, the mystery was solved in
1992. After Mengistu was overthrown and sent into exile, Selassie’s
body was discovered in a perverse, shameful location.
“You got any Rasta sympathies, brother?” Niles asked him.
“In a way. See, I’m an Ethiopian Jew. A real one.” He smiled.
Colin laughed and slapped the deliveryman’s broad back. “Hey,
you aren’t all wrong,” he said, “SomeJews are black.”
ABYSSINIA
36
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