lunch with a friend

Maaza greets me on the street. Selamno! We exchange our three cheek kisses. She is still on the same corner another year later; selling her "bekolo" (corn).  She invites me over for coffee that very day but my day is full. “Another time”, I tell her. She nods, smiling. The next day, I see her again in the morning with little Binium in tow. I grab him up and kiss him and tell her in my limited Amharic, "later today okay?" She nods and we part ways.

Later in the day, Pastor Tesfaye takes me to her home.  After some walking, he pushes open a tin door along the side of the road. Stepping in off the streets into the small clusters of homes is like entering a new world. Life slows from the busy traffic of cars and people to the intimate moments of daily living. There are spices drying out in the sun, clothes hanging on the line, a smoking “enjera house” in which the daily supply of enjera (traditional bread) is prepared. A women is bent over a washbasin with soapy water and clothes. Children play about. Narrow pathways lead to the small homes made of sticks and mud.

We follow a narrow path past a couple of low doorways until we reach Maaza's doorway. Tesfaye calls out and Maaza answers. She pulls back the curtain and says, “Gibu!” (Come in!) We step into the dimly lit room which is her home and carefully over glowing coals burning in a small cook stove. She pats the bed for us to sit down. We sit for a moment and I tell Tesfaye that I can stay here alone and he can go back to his office; back to his work. After he's sure that I'm sure, he leaves and she leaves with him and I am sitting alone on the edge of her bed with the jebena of coffee steaming on the coals at my feet. She is gone for enough time for me to wonder- I wonder lots of things. I wonder where she is and how long I will sit here alone in her home. I wonder if the coffee is going to boil over and if it does should I remove it from the coals? I look around her home and wonder what it's like to live here. In this dark room with my son? My son with HIV.

I take this opportunity to take pictures; capturing the experience (flash makes everything looks bright but in reality, it's very dim). The walls of dirt are covered with traditional posters- a woman pouring coffee, a child and mother, Jesus Christ himself holding open a Greek Bible. On the shelf there is a tv showing Ethiopian dancing, photos frames with her sons and other family members. One lightbulb hanging in the center of the room and a small corrugated plastic skylight over her bed offer dim lighting.

She returns after a while with two glass bottled sodas, Mirinda and Pepsi, and a bag with bread and bananas. She places them in a plastic basket and hands it to me and commands “Bee!” which means “eat!”. She hands me a soda but I don't have an opener and so she disappears again. After she comes back and opens my soda, she props her bed pillows behind me and picks up my legs and muddy shoes up onto her bed. I am now in an extremely awkward position, reclining on her bed, while she takes a low seat by the fire. As her guest, I will myself to stay in this position only until the unequal status it suggests forces me to sit up. Instead, I lean on the pillows in appreciation.

She breaks the bananas apart and puts one in my hand, “Bee!”. I will eat a banana (my least favorite of foods) only for such a wonderful person as her, for such a grand moment as this! I give one to her and parrot her command to me, “Bee!” She smiles and takes and peels and eats. We eat bananas together in silence. I pull out all of the Amharic I know to make as much conversation as I can as we sit together eating bananas. We don't get very far with conversation but that's okay. She removes the coffee from the coals and pours me some. I balance a bottle of Mirinda, a cup of coffee, a banana and some bread on my lap. So many gifts. She replaces the coffee pot now with a pot full of prepared potatoes and berbere and other spices. She stirs this food and it looks like this is not just coffee but a lunch date as well.

I've been here for about 30 minutes when all of the boys arrive. My son, Dawit, who is having the time of his life here in his hometown, along with 5 other boys. They have just been playing soccer and now have found me. They all tumble into the room and she welcomes them warmly. Some on the floor, some on the trunk by the door, two leaning in the doorway and three on the bed. All pressed up together in each other's space. Now begins the joking and laughter of youth who retell stories of today's game and of movies they have seen. All the while 5 year old Binium laughs and somersaults on the bed behind us soaking up the attention of all this company.

We sit here together waiting for the potatoes to cook. This expanse of time, friendship, laughter and generosity is all gift and I am thankful. One of the boys comes around with a pitcher and basin for us to wash our eating hand. Soon the potatoes are done and spooned onto the enjera on a platter and then put onto a boys lap. We all laugh when the platter burns his thighs and Maaza shoves a towel under there. All together we partake of this platter and pass around the Pepsi and Mirinda. Sharing everything, each one considering the other. 

After each one is beckoned to eat more than they have room for, the pitcher is passed again to clean the eating hand again and it's soon time to go. With hugs and cheek kisses, I offer my thanks and appreciation for everything. It is so much more than I expected. It always is.