Enanu, or Enana as we often call her, is my grandmother and lives on Mesfin Harar Road. We are not blood relatives, but she was like a sister to my maternal grandmother, Seble Meshesha. She is a no-nonsense woman who demands attention and expects obedience. My family often implored her to move to Shiromeda, the north part of the city, so she could be closer to us, but she refused to abandon the house she grew old in. It would take me a half-hour taxi ride to get to her house. I usually bought Wahid’s sugarcane when I went to visit her. “Wahid knows how to stock good-quality sugarcane. Please get my treats from him,” she would say to me. Once or twice, I got her sugarcane sticks from another vendor, and I think she noticed.

I stuffed some coins into my pocket and left the house. There were many wild doves picking at the scattered grain on the not-so-busy tarmac road. When a car approached, they flew away then settled back on the road. Next to the doves on the roadside, Wahid was talking to Maldia, the injera supplier. I shouted across the road and asked him to give me sugarcane for a quarter. He bid the woman farewell and started cutting the sugarcane.

“Are you going to visit Enanu?” Wahid asked me as I drew nearer.

“Yes.”

“She likes her cane with the joint, doesn’t she? It’s hard to split it at the joint. How can you cut a piece with two joints?”

“Just do it the way she likes it.”

“Are you thinking of the saying, ‘Don’t let a dying old woman curse you’?” he said, laughing.

“Who cares about old tales?”

“Just saying… Here you go. Do you have a bag?”

“I will get one from Temam’s shop.”

I handed Wahid the quarter and took the three pieces of sugarcane.

I arrived at Enanu’s house at 3pm. As I knocked on her gate, I realized I was hot, so I took off my jacket and slung it over my shoulders. As soon as I stepped through the gate, I saw Enana sitting on the steps by the front porch.

“You’re here, my reliable one! My noble lord!”

She held my face in her hands and kissed me on my forehead, both cheeks, and my mouth.

“How sweet!” she exclaimed, touching her lips.

Her face was cold. The trees in the garden kept the compound shaded and cool. She usually trimmed her fingernails when she sat out here. This was also where she chew and suck on her sugarcane.

“Give me my sugarcane.”

When I gave her the bag, she emptied its contents and three pieces rolled out. She looked at each of them and picked one. She wiped it with her scarf and started peeling it with her big teeth.

The garden was surrounded by tall, mature trees. It was built by an Italian man during the Maichew war. In front of the trees there was a flower bed and a few banana plants.

“Come, sit next to me… Why are you still standing?”

Within a minute, she had finished peeling the sugarcane and started chewing it. When the syrup began dribbling from the corners of her mouth, she wiped it with her palm and scarf. Then she looked at me and said, “You look just like your grandmother.”

She always told me this. She never seemed to tire of it, but I did.

“Children usually look like one of their parents. Why go beyond that and inherit a grandmother’s looks? She used to be so sensitive… your grandmother. She called out in alarm for St. George of Dima, even over the most minor things. May He forgive me… I know he is a saint with a stead… but how can he get here so fast… I think God deliberately made both you and your mother look like her, so that I’m reminded of her. I’m no fool… why would He think I would ever forget her? Why else would He make you resemble your grandmother, except to make me always miss her? It’s wonderous…

“If you pay attention, everything is full of wonder. The dried grass over there is a wonder. The birds build their tiny shelters with it. The sickle that mowed the dried grass is a wonder. There are endless wonders. The man who mowed the grass, Zegeye, is a good storyteller. His life story is a wonder. If you ask why? Well, although he is a man and I a woman, we had very similar life experiences. You see, my life can never be mine alone. If your experience is only yours, and your mother’s and grandmother’s only theirs, how did we get here? How many ants have fed on my fingernails I cut this morning? I am no farmer, but I managed to feed them… right? Heeeheeeheee.”

I wanted to tell her I couldn’t care less about her rambles, but I didn’t want to upset her.

“Are you listening to me?”

Staring at the ground, I nodded my head in agreement. She caressed my hair with her sticky fingers.

“What lustrous hair… As I said, my Alazar… If one pays attention, everything is wondrous. Your grandmother, Seble, had a story that should be told and retold. God, in His wisdom, writes our stories in His book, and we live them accordingly. Seble’s story sounds like a legendary tale…

“Your great-grandfather on your mother’s side was Fitawrary Meshesha, baron of Gojam. Seble was born and raised in a hamlet, Dima. When she came of age, her father took a long time to choose the right husband for her. In the meantime, she fell in love with a deacon, Bizabih, who was teaching her to read. In those days, lineage mattered…

“When her father heard about this, he confined Seble in a room and swore to kill the poor fellow. Bizabih fled to the province of Shoa to save his life. But Seble somehow managed to escape and went looking for her lover. As fate would have it, she found that he had been mortally wounded by bandits and was being looked after by a farmer in a rural village. He died in her arms. She always cried when she told this story, and whoever happened to be listening cried with her.

“Where is that girl? What time is it? She should be giving me my medicine now.” Enanu was protesting about the maid. “Bring it to me.” She commanded and I obeyed and watched her swallow the tablets.

“Where was I… Yes, after Bezabih’s death, she never wanted to go back home. She buried him in a church in the village and came to Addis Ababa with merchants. I first met her sheltering in St. George of Arada with the homeless. I took one look at her and could tell she had a nobler upbringing. I was a single woman trying to make ends meet at the time, but I took her home anyway.

“Once she felt settled, I taught her my trade. We started selling dried leaves for fuel, sugarcane for treats, and calabashes. I used to be good at decorating calabashes. My hands were covered in scars from cuts while engraving designs on them. It brought us good income.

“Our vendor’s slot was near St. George’s Church compound. Seble was not strong enough to carry the dried leaves… and she was more of a country bumpkin than I was. But she was beautiful… I mean, stunning, like the daughter of that neighbor of ours. What’s his name… Alemayehu Haddis. Yes, she was as stunning as his daughter, Inqopa. We had sugarcane all year round, and we also sold seasonal vegetables such as pumpkins, cabbage, and onions. Our customers called Seble the Sugarcane Girl. They deliberately went to buy from her. Do you know what can’t be hidden from admiring eyes? Beauty and a mountain range.

You may flee to Mojo or hide at Arada

It’s hard to disguise beauty, or an amba.

“What was that song the minstrels sang… ‘There is a reason.’? There was indeed a reason for her to clear a stock that would have taken me two days, in a couple of hours. I sometimes didn’t bother to go to the market with her, since she was doing a good job, and I stayed at home to do household chores.

“An Armenian man named Sarkis often saw your grandmother at the market when he went to pray at St. George’s Church, and he started buying whatever stock she had. One day, he saw her coming to the market, slinging her heavy stock on her back. He seemed upset and started saying things we couldn’t understand. Soon after we laid out the items to sell, he brought a donkey and offered it to Seble. What is the meaning of this? I thought. His interpreter explained that it was a gift. ‘He thinks she is beautiful and doesn’t want her to hurt her back with all that load.’ Seble wouldn’t even look up. Keeping her gaze down, she refused to accept the donkey. Myself and the other vendors told her it was rude not to accept his gift and persuaded her to accept it. ‘It’s not like he is giving you a donkey in return for something else.’ The market ladies liked my humor. They all laughed. The interpreter told Sarkis what I said, and he also laughed. He had beautiful teeth. We later found out that he was no player; he was actually a dedicated Christian who often went to church. He was also a successful businessman who imported arms and was well acquainted with the nobility…

“After that day, when we met on the road, he would dismount from his mule and walk with us to our house. Then what… wouldn’t it be natural to ask him in? Seble was reserved; she wouldn’t do it. So I asked him in. From then on, he became a regular visitor. One day, in his broken Amharic, he said, ‘So?’ What do you mean ‘So?’ I asked him. ‘I’m in love with Seble and want to marry her.’ The foreigner asked for your grandmother’s hand, the traditional way, with elders sent to my house. I said to her, ‘Listen, Seble, Bezabih is in heaven. You don’t have any kin here. You should accept Sarkis’ marriage proposal or say ‘no.’ It is not fair to keep the Armenian migrant waiting.’ When Seble still hesitated, I teased her, ‘Did that lay priest put magic on you?’ People from Gojam are rumored to be masters of love potions.

“That evening she said, ‘Enanye, he is too pale.’

“What? What am I, servant of Queen Zewditu, to do with this fool, a Gojam bumpkin? Don’t you know that if I scrub you now and relieve you of your chores for a couple of days, you will end up almost as pale as he is? What matters is to listen to your heart.

“Do you know what your grandfather, Sarkis, looked like? He was tall, had a slender face with prominent chin, not more prominent than mine, mind you. He had dark soft hair… easily messed up by wind. When he came to see us, he would ask for coffee and sit under the banana trees over there. The wind usually tousled his hair. He heard me say, ‘I wish my hair was like his,’ and he laughed. This house was not made of stones then… the Italians were not here yet.

“Young Alazar, are you listening to me? Bad luck, that’s what it was. Not long after, while we were busy planning the wedding, the Italians came. We decided to stall the wedding to see what was happening. Then we were defeated at Maichew. There was no radio or newspaper then. It was all by word of mouth. One day, Sarkis came with a friend of his and told us they had prepared to flee south with us. We were not kin yet. How could we go with them? When we hesitated, Sarkis knelt by Seble and begged, ‘Say yes, please… What would I do if you die?’ While we were still hesitating, the emperor came back to Addis Ababa, defeated. I couldn’t believe it. Soon after, Sarkis came with mules all packed up and said, ‘I’m here to take you.’ ‘Where?’ I asked. ‘To Harar or Dire Dawa… I have relatives there,’ he said. I never liked Harar because it was Tefari’s province. Things started to go wrong here when Ras Tefari became emperor. He is responsible for this invasion. When foreigners glorified his name, that slight man thought he had their respect. Well, they showed him what they think of him now… but his downfall is affecting us. Then we heard he had gone abroad to seek their support. What to do…

“Sarkis said, ‘If the Italians get here, they won’t spare anyone, not even women.’ ‘I would rather die than flee,’ I said. What didn’t occur to me was that this was only my view. Seble might have had a different idea. Sarkis finally said, ‘OK, let me at least rescue Seble.’ It still didn’t occur to me that Seble might think otherwise. So I said, ‘Take the apple of my eye?’ Then I reconsidered… For fear of risking her life, we agreed to go to Mojo first. After a while, we heard that Addis Ababa had been taken. I cried bitterly, as if mourning a lost soul.

“After a little while, the Armenian said we needed to move to a country called Djibouti. I said no; we can’t run forever. A nation cannot be abandoned just because it is invaded. It is what should be most revered, after God. What should happen is to retaliate with force for force and words for words. To my surprise, Seble agreed to go. I didn’t expect that. Out of spite, I said, ‘Why, Seble, have you already forgotten Bezabih?’ Those were the only harsh words I ever spoke to her in our entire friendship. I made her cry. I swear by St. George, my heart quivered for her. I wish I had never uttered those words. What I didn’t know was that she had started something serious with Sarkis.

“Where would I go without Seble? What would I say if something happened to her? So we all headed toward Harar. After several days’ journey, we reached Dire Dawa. As soon as we arrived, Sarkis fell ill with malaria. My dear brother… no matter how much we prayed, he never recovered. As per God’s will, he died in Seble’s arms. We buried him there and returned to Mojo when she was six months pregnant. She was so distraught that she looked ashen. Then she gave birth to a tiny baby, your mother. She named her Rosa. ‘What kind of name is that?’ I asked. I was told it meant ጥጌሬዳ, which means ‘rose’. It was true; she looked like a rose, a thorn-free rose, just like her mother. Sarkis had already asked her to name the baby Rosa if it was a girl, and Alazar if it was a boy. So you see, you were named by your grandfather.

“Around that time, a miracle happened in the town of Mojo. On one of the days during the rainy season, honey rained from the heavens. The children noticed it first and shouted, ‘It’s raining honey!’ I dipped my finger into the container we had collected rainwater in and tasted it. It tasted like sugar. I couldn’t believe it. I knew what sugar tasted like; Sarkis had brought some for us. I went out into the drizzling rain, put my hand out, and licked my palm. Sugar. Even after the rain stopped, the children ran around drinking from the drains and licking the soil. They were drunk with sugar. Babies born around that time were named Honey and Sugar. You see, Sarkis did not only claim our Seble’s heart, but he also took our right to name the baby according to that rare history. Most of those who tasted that heaven-sent broth became resistance fighters, and nearly all of them have since passed away.