A poignant journey through the bustling streets of Addis Ababa, where two teenagers navigate the delicate balance between ancestral traditions and their own modern dreams. This beautifully illustrated tale captures the essence of hope, friendship, and the search for identity in a rapidly changing city.
The air in the Arada district was thick with the scent of roasting coffee and the low-frequency hum of the city’s blue-and-white taxis. At the back of the Grade 11 classroom, Dawit was barely listening to the teacher's lecture on history. Instead, he was focused on the rhythm of the ceiling fan, which creaked like an old man’s knees with every rotation. He spent the hour sketching a portrait of his father’s old Lada taxi in the margins of his notebook, wondering if it would ever pass its next inspection. Most of the kids in his row were just waiting for the lunch bell so they could sprint to the kiosks for kolo or a greasy sambusa. When the bell finally signaled the end of the shift, the courtyard became a sea of beige uniforms. Dawit caught up with Selam near the school gate, her braids slightly frayed from a long morning of exams. “Are you going to the café today?” he asked, adjusting the strap of his worn backpack. Selam shook her head, her eyes tired. “I have to help my aunt with the coffee ceremony for the neighbors. She’s been complaining about her back again.” “Bring the books with you,” Dawit suggested. “I can help you with the chemistry problems while you roast the beans.” “My aunt doesn’t think ‘formulas’ belong in a living room, Dawit. She thinks they’re a distraction from the conversation.” She sighed, looking toward the bustling street where a street vendor was shouting the price of avocados. “Maybe tomorrow. If I don't fall asleep standing up.” They walked together toward the neighborhood of Megenagna. The afternoon sun turned the dusty sidewalks into a hazy gold. They passed the corner shop where the owner, a man everyone called 'Gashe,' was arguing with a delivery driver over a crate of bottled water. “Do you ever feel like we’re just stuck in the middle of a bridge?” Dawit asked suddenly. “What bridge?” “Between what our parents want and whatever is actually happening out there. Like we’re just waiting for the 'real' Addis to start for us.” Selam stopped in front of her compound's corrugated metal gate, the blue paint peeling in long strips. She looked at him, her expression softening for just a second. “Every day,” she said quietly. “But the bridge has a good view of the mountains, at least.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a small handful of dabo kolo, and dropped it into his hand. “Eat. You look like you’re fading away. See you tomorrow.” Dawit watched the gate click shut, the heavy latch making a sharp, metallic sound. He walked the rest of the way home alone, the dry wind kicking up dust around his shoes, wondering if he’d ever be the one driving out of the city or if he was just another character in a story that never quite gets to the ending.
