First Writing to a New Center

Abstract

First Writing to a New Center Linda Yohannes (bio) As soon as they felt the hard bang of rubber tires colliding with tarmac, after nine hours of flight from Addis Ababa to Rome, Mahder and the other Ethiopian passengers, as the Ethiopians almost always do, applauded the pilot. Mahder got up from her seat and gathered her reading materials: Chinua Achebe's essays, Sol Stein's book on writing, and articles by African writers debating African literature in American and British media. Mahder applauded not just the landing but also the successful completion of a trip that was messy at first. Addis Ababa airport was overcrowded. It was projected that millions of passengers would be passing through the city, and when the goal materialized, then followed the afterthought to expand the airport. Mahder had stood for hours in a swarm of passengers with many who were on the same delayed flight as hers when she looked up at the information screen outside the boarding gate and, to her amusement, saw her flight to Rome marked 'Departed.' The airport in Rome was massive. Full of people, but orderly. Mahder focused on finding her way around. There was a button for everything, a scanner for every document, lines that sorted everyone. When it was her turn at the immigration counter, the officer, who wore a uniform that looked too military for the paperwork he was doing, looked through her red Ethiopian passport and asked, "What is the purpose of your visit in Italia?" The word polizia was embroidered on the chest and sleeve of his uniform. "I'm here for a two-week writers' workshop," Mahder said, standing tall to speak through the glass cut out. [End Page 95] The polizia stared at her passport and seemed to consider it for some time before he said, "So you are a writer?" "Yes." "Do you have an invitation letter?" Even though she had already secured a visa, it was as if she was applying again. "No. I submitted that at the embassy." She'd also submitted her marriage certificate, her son Senai's birth certificate, bank statements showing a year's history, education certificates. "But I am not the embassy. You should have brought a copy," he said. He seemed annoyed and Mahder felt like she had to come up with something to appease him. "Are you carrying any money?" "Yes." "How much?" "About eight hundred euros." "Let me see it." Mahder took out her wallet and held it wide open. There was the eight hundred Euros in one compartment and some Ethiopian Birr in another. She exited the airport and took a taxi to the hotel. As the taxi wound through impressive highways and well-built tunnels, her thoughts turned to the short story she sent in weeks ago to be workshopped. She knew that in story writing, details are engaging, but not any or every detail, and she wondered if she had the right details. 1998. Freweyni was washing her long mahogany hair outside her house, her head suspended between her legs towards a plastic basin, Melkamu, her boyfriend, pouring water for her, when Mimi's mother who lived in the one-room, windowless mud house on the other side of the compound said with a shrill voice, "In the name of the Trinity!" Freweyni quickly wrung her hair into a twist and sat up. Melkamu tossed the jug into the pail. Inside Mimi's mother's house, it was dark and the floor sunken, but it was extremely tidy and every piece of their belongings were in order. Mimi's mother was holding her head with her hands. "What is it?" Melkamu urged. She pointed to the small radio sitting in the middle of the sagging bed covered with a blanket she knitted herself. "They're saying we're at war!" [End Page 96] "… the rebellious Sha'bia government yesterday defied international and continental laws to enter and capture territories in the northernmost parts of our sovereign Ethiopia, in Badme, Zalambesa, Tsorona, and Bure. While Ethiopia will continue to look for peaceful means of addressing this aggression, it will also respond militarily to teach the rebellious government in Asmara...