On the way to Abubeker’s house, we stop at a grain warehouse to buy his family a gunnysack of teff, the crop from which injera is made. A sixty-dollar sack will provide Abubeker’s family of six enough food for three months. Kyle hops out and negotiates the sale with Atkelt as translator, as camels and droves of local men circle around to oversee the process. Four men heave the sack into the back of the vehicle, and the van lowers by two inches with a thud. Our van’s tires bump to his house as seven-year-old Abubeker navigates us to his nameless street.
His four older siblings, two brothers and two sisters, are waiting at the front gate of their shared compound, ready to welcome us with kisses on both cheeks. They lead the way through the dusty courtyard to their two-room home, cramped between several homes identical in size. Abubeker is the youngest in his family by quite a bit; his brothers and sisters seem to be teenagers at least.
Atkelt speaks with the two older brothers, then explains. “They could have chosen to leave home to make their way on their own by now, but they’ve chosen to stay back for their mother’s sake.” Their dad is nowhere to be found. Having birthed her first when she was fifteen, Abubeker’s mother, Tigist, is remarkably young for having a twenty-year-old. She’s younger than I, in fact.
Tigist and I smile at each other as Atkelt prods Abubeker to introduce us. I’m at a loss for words. I shake her hand, then hug her. I marvel at how she wakes up daily wondering whether her five children will eat, and I fret over whether my kids log enough reading time.
The family killed the fatted calf, so to speak, to celebrate our arrival. We sit on covered cushions and faded blankets on the dirt floor in one of their rooms, and a daughter walks around to each of us, pours a pitcher of water over our hands with a bucket below to catch the overflow. It’s a ritual I did a thousand times in Kosovo, some twenty-six hundred miles north of here. Another daughter brings out a large round platter and places it in the center, piled high with chicken, various purees of yellow and orange, chili-red sauces, and a sunburst of rolled injera around the edge.
“Abu, show your guests how we show respect for elders in Ethiopia,” Atkelt suggests. Abubeker pulls off a piece of injera, dips it in the red sauce, walks over to the other side to feed his mother. He kisses her on the cheek, and his siblings applaud.
We’re invited to feast on more injera, made by Tigist and her daughters, and it is infinitely better than the hostel restaurant’s. After lunch, we’re served more coffee and more popcorn. I’m stuffed.
Kyle nudges Reed and Finn, and they pull out gifts from Australia. Abubeker has never before seen Play-Doh or Matchbox cars, and he’s never had crayons or a coloring book of his own. His eyes sparkle with magic and he shouts with glee, happier than Christmas morning. He giggles with delight at the squishy feel of Play-Doh, and the whole family oohs over its Technicolor shade of green.
Afterward, Reed and Finn run outside with Abubeker to play soccer. Tigist shows the rest of us her home, including the communal kitchen across the courtyard, a cavernous hut about twenty feet away that is shared by the other nearby households. A fire pit sits in the center of the stick-built room, and a few bowls, a pot, and some spoons are stacked in shadowy corners. Everything is tidy and ready for the kitchen’s next user. I spot a hole in the ground in one of the corners, with a small, twig-made stool fastened over the opening.
“What’s that?” I ask.
Atkelt translates my question and Tigist blushes, then squats on the stool to pantomime its purpose. She lifts up her skirt to just below her knees, and I understand. This is a birthing stool. Incense burns at the bottom of the hole following a birth, she says, to purify the air and to waft a welcoming scent as new life is brought into the world. The new mother would remain on the stool the rest of the day, clean her body and get a few hours’ rest before the work of mothering begins. I stand speechless, in awe.
A few minutes later, and it’s time to leave. Tigist and I hug, and I whisper in her ear, “I will pray for you.” I don’t know what else to say. I’m exhausted and elated.
Kyle lifts up Abubeker and the five of us hug him; we tell him we love him and his family, and to obey his big brothers and sisters, to keep loving on his mother. We thank his siblings for the food and the afternoon, and for letting us be a tiny part of their family life, their community.
We drive back to the hotel, an hour away, and sleep soundly before waking early the next morning for another arduous, eight-hour drive back to Addis Ababa. We remember to bring plenty of water. The kids drift in and out of sleep. Kyle and Atkelt chat politics, science, movies. I scroll my phone and find an audiobook on Abraham Lincoln I never finished. I plug in my earbuds, slip on my eye mask, and stretch out over our pile of bags. He runs for senator against Stephen Douglas as I watch camels scroll past my window.
Tonight in Addis Ababa, before we wake for an early flight to Johannesburg, I don’t mind sharing a bed with two other people in the freezing hotel.
12
ZIMBABWE
There’s a bridge over Victoria Falls that connects Zambia to Zimbabwe, the two countries that share a border with the largest curtain of free-fall water in the world. The bridge’s original purpose was to attract tourists—to transport them across the bridge via train, specifically—but it’s now home to a 111-meter bungee jump. Tourists come visit from around the world to zip line by the falls, or take a sundowner (hiring a boat and skipper to cruise the Zambezi River at sunset), or white-water raft the rapids. I don’t think all this is what David Livingstone originally imagined back in 1855 when he named Victoria Falls after the reigning British monarch.
The only real purpose behind the town of Victoria Falls is to serve as the gateway to the famous natural landmark, and as such, it is the epitome of a tourist town. Clive, our guesthouse host, picks us up at an airport so small, there are no Jetways, gates, or even baggage carousels. It’s a large one-room house with a counter for checking in and a pub while you wait. It feels like a café with an adjoining parking lot for airplanes.
“Welcome to Zimbabwe!” Clive says cheerfully as we climb into his SUV. He wears khaki shorts and a khaki button-down short-sleeved shirt, khaki socks, and khaki hiking boots. “Here—have some champagne.” He passes back two stemmed glasses and offers the kids grape juice. Outdoor a capella singers in native garb welcome tourists at the parking lot exit. It’s hard to believe we were in Abubeker’s village two days ago.