Thursday, November 02, 2006
Journey
"So you seek my blessings then?" The old man asked, toying with the chewing stick from one side of his mouth corner to the other. He carefully adjusted his weight on his cane - an oil marinated rattan that has become as indispensable as his limbs. His aging body could no longer stand straight, a manifestation of years of hard labour.
"Only if it was your will." was the son's reply.
He then approached his father, bowed and kissed both of the old man's knees and remained still.
A cultural precept that sons and daughters, seeking their father's blessings, routinely follow. The recipient must remain bowed or knelt until the ritual is over.
The old man gently took off his immaculate broad brimmed straw hat and placed it on the floor. An excellent shield for his cataractous eyes from the piercing morning sunlight.
"Well, my son, God bless your heart..." so he begun his benediction. His aged vocal could only produce a coarse and faint voice that was barely audible. He cleared his throat while gently massaging the furrowed neck as if to straighten the crackling voice.
" For he surely blessed me with you.. isn't that right, son?"
"Right."
"May your journey end without tribulations. .."
"Amen .." The son softly accepts the blessing so graciously bestowed upon him.
"Let Him, the Lord, bestow on you the endurance through the difficulties and the comprehension through times of disarray and confusion."
"Amen."
"Let Him send you kidush Mikael, the sentinel (St. Michael) so he can swaddle you with his wings and deliver you from evil."
"Amen."
"May you be granted the the same courage, strength and wisdom that God gave Kidush Gabriel, the mighty one who trampled the devil, so that you can triumph over life."
"Amen."
"May He grant you the wisdom in abundance so that you can discern and judge in just."
"Amen"
The door suddenly opened and his wife emerged holding a cup of siwa. She carefully placed the drink on the nearest table and quickly tiptoed her way out.
"May your life be just! "
"Amen"
"Prosperous!"
"Amen"
"Resplendent!"
"Amen."
"Majestic!"
"Amen."
The old man reached for his horse tail beaded fly whisk and craftily chased the pasting fruit-flies that were hovering over his siwa.
"Make us proud, son. "
He reached for the drink.
"Let the town rejoice with your success. "
He gently swirled the siwa to mix the top watery part with the thick layer of sludgy residue.
"Let them recite the woldemicheal name for years and years to come."
The sharp test of the drink was tingling but it did the trick. His voice got better.
This new wife lacked the natural endowment of brewing siwa. Oh how he missed his late wife!
"But your mother would have been so heart-broken if she was alive...". He said.
"But then again you wouldn't have decided to leave if she was alive, would you now?" It was more a statement than a question.
"I wish I could say to you 'don't go'..." a note of sadness was clearly detected in his tone. "But we both know that wouldn't change a thing."
The old man tapped the son on the shoulder.
"Get off your knees, son. Go have a sit." He ordered.
The son bowed and retreated. He fetched for nearest chair and brought it closer where the old man was sitting. An import from Ethiopia, the three-legged berchuma (stool) is an easeful work of art.
"Now listen, son..." The old man was saying, firmly grasping his son by the arm. "Rumour has it that the Italians are recruiting young Eritrean to go and fight the English."
"Askaris?"
"Yes Askaris, and if this rumour turns out to be true, you know what you do?"
"Yes father. Come run back home." The son lied.
"That's right! This is not our war."
"I fought the Ethiopian back in the days against my will." Here we go again ...the son thought.
"Those Selatos.." The enraged old man cried out. He stood up, supporting one side with his hand the other with the rattan, so begun his jaunty pace across the room.
"They paid me just a fraction of what they were paying their Selato brothers. And for what? I left my brothers for vultures."
"And The Ethiopians? Those animals cut the left arm and the right leg of every captives and let them go in the wilderness."
The old man stood by the window and gazed outside.
"Look at aya Gemil. " The old man said, silently watching a one-legged old man hopping across the street.
"They didn't take his pride though." the old man whispered as he was returning to his sit.
"No! This is not our war, son" he reaffirmed, reaching for his sour drink.
"It's a kiln. "
"Where they will round up all the young people and roast them like barley."
to be continued.....
"Only if it was your will." was the son's reply.
He then approached his father, bowed and kissed both of the old man's knees and remained still.
A cultural precept that sons and daughters, seeking their father's blessings, routinely follow. The recipient must remain bowed or knelt until the ritual is over.
The old man gently took off his immaculate broad brimmed straw hat and placed it on the floor. An excellent shield for his cataractous eyes from the piercing morning sunlight.
"Well, my son, God bless your heart..." so he begun his benediction. His aged vocal could only produce a coarse and faint voice that was barely audible. He cleared his throat while gently massaging the furrowed neck as if to straighten the crackling voice.
" For he surely blessed me with you.. isn't that right, son?"
"Right."
"May your journey end without tribulations. .."
"Amen .." The son softly accepts the blessing so graciously bestowed upon him.
"Let Him, the Lord, bestow on you the endurance through the difficulties and the comprehension through times of disarray and confusion."
"Amen."
"Let Him send you kidush Mikael, the sentinel (St. Michael) so he can swaddle you with his wings and deliver you from evil."
"Amen."
"May you be granted the the same courage, strength and wisdom that God gave Kidush Gabriel, the mighty one who trampled the devil, so that you can triumph over life."
"Amen."
"May He grant you the wisdom in abundance so that you can discern and judge in just."
"Amen"
The door suddenly opened and his wife emerged holding a cup of siwa. She carefully placed the drink on the nearest table and quickly tiptoed her way out.
"May your life be just! "
"Amen"
"Prosperous!"
"Amen"
"Resplendent!"
"Amen."
"Majestic!"
"Amen."
The old man reached for his horse tail beaded fly whisk and craftily chased the pasting fruit-flies that were hovering over his siwa.
"Make us proud, son. "
He reached for the drink.
"Let the town rejoice with your success. "
He gently swirled the siwa to mix the top watery part with the thick layer of sludgy residue.
"Let them recite the woldemicheal name for years and years to come."
The sharp test of the drink was tingling but it did the trick. His voice got better.
This new wife lacked the natural endowment of brewing siwa. Oh how he missed his late wife!
"But your mother would have been so heart-broken if she was alive...". He said.
"But then again you wouldn't have decided to leave if she was alive, would you now?" It was more a statement than a question.
"I wish I could say to you 'don't go'..." a note of sadness was clearly detected in his tone. "But we both know that wouldn't change a thing."
The old man tapped the son on the shoulder.
"Get off your knees, son. Go have a sit." He ordered.
The son bowed and retreated. He fetched for nearest chair and brought it closer where the old man was sitting. An import from Ethiopia, the three-legged berchuma (stool) is an easeful work of art.
"Now listen, son..." The old man was saying, firmly grasping his son by the arm. "Rumour has it that the Italians are recruiting young Eritrean to go and fight the English."
"Askaris?"
"Yes Askaris, and if this rumour turns out to be true, you know what you do?"
"Yes father. Come run back home." The son lied.
"That's right! This is not our war."
"I fought the Ethiopian back in the days against my will." Here we go again ...the son thought.
"Those Selatos.." The enraged old man cried out. He stood up, supporting one side with his hand the other with the rattan, so begun his jaunty pace across the room.
"They paid me just a fraction of what they were paying their Selato brothers. And for what? I left my brothers for vultures."
"And The Ethiopians? Those animals cut the left arm and the right leg of every captives and let them go in the wilderness."
The old man stood by the window and gazed outside.
"Look at aya Gemil. " The old man said, silently watching a one-legged old man hopping across the street.
"They didn't take his pride though." the old man whispered as he was returning to his sit.
"No! This is not our war, son" he reaffirmed, reaching for his sour drink.
"It's a kiln. "
"Where they will round up all the young people and roast them like barley."
to be continued.....
