Oliver Benjamin
as well do something useful with his energy. Tentatively, he took off
his Nikes and joined the man in the field for two hours of tiring
labor—hauling sacks of chat, a leafy plant chewed all over Ethiopia,
onto trucks destined for the far reaches of the country. It was a
superb workout. When they finished, the man invited Martin to
sample some of the narcotic trees they had been harvesting. The two
men sat down in the shade and stuffed the sturdy leaves into their
mouths. The acrid, bitter taste caused Martin’s stomach to clench.
“You eat this?” he said, incredulously. The old man laughed,
revealing a tongue bright green with particulate sputum. He
demonstrated the correct way to chew chat, told him that it was not
food, nor a beverage, but a gift from God. Soon, the old man assured
him, he would see why chat was called the “flower of paradise.”
Hours later, Martin shuffled dreamily into his English class full
of eager students. How wonderful they all were! He was convinced
that it had been he that had learned a valuable lesson that day. They
were laughing, and he found himself caught up in the hysteria. What
was so funny, he asked them, tears rolling down his face. Finally, one
stood up and answered in English:
“Mister Martin, he like Ethiopia so much, he want to be poor!”
The students laughed and pointed at his dirty feet.
After the class, Martin returned to the field to reclaim his shoes
and saw the old man running around the fields as fast as he could,
bright white athletic sneakers pumping up and down on the dirt
track. “Thank you for the gift,” the old man said as he sped past but
did not stop. “Look at me!” he shouted to a group of women in the
field, “I’m an American! Look at me!”
But the shoes were far too big for the tiny Ethiopian, and he soon
tripped, tumbling in a cloud of dust and flailing limbs. The women
shrieked, laughing at the pratfall, but when he didn’t get up Martin
raced over. His forehead lay still against heavy stone, eyes open and
unseeing.
Martin and the women loaded the old man’s body into an oxcart.
His shod feet hung out over the edge. As the vehicle bounced down
the dirt road his feet flopped pathetically with each bump like two
maimed birds.
Later that evening, one of his grandsons came to visit Martin. He
had wrapped the shoes in paper and placed them gently on the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” Martin apologized. The young man just shook his
head kindly.
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