Basha (Pasha) Ashebir in America

Ten years ago today, with an august title,my govenrment had sent me to America.

After a short sojurn in Washingtonstrolling along a boulevardtaking the scene in with an Ethiopian eyethe black and the white, ambler, passer byto quench a pang of thirstI stepped into a roadside inn.But ere I could even repair to a seatRushed forth the proprietorAll hot and beligerent.

"Is he mad, or drunk? What's the matter with him?Just touch me! And let me bash your forehead."Having heard, in Amharic, my mutterthe waiter stepped in as the concilliator.

Bowing respectfully, just like we do back homehe asked with deference what it was I desired.

When I said I stepped in to get a beverageand was about to sit"My appologies sir, I regret to tell youthere is not a drop here, don't waste your breath in vain."He said and bowed to me, holding back a snicker.And when I said, "Not even water?" he broke out in laughter.

Applause came from the patrons"Bravo!" he was told, "Bravo! Bravo!" Amazed, I looked at him in utter wonderment,picked up my cane and left.Standing outside, absently ponderingI saw through the glass assorted pastriesjust like the ones sold by the uptown Greeks.I reminisced, "Oh, uptown Addis,can one, like a person, one's country miss?"You can say I was salivating, though sated, not hungrygot closer to the glass and started staring.

Having reckoned all that I would buyI was about to re-enterwhen I turned and noticed, the proprietorgawking at me, and approaching."How much, good fellow, for a piece of pastry?" I asked.

He couldn't utter a word, overcome by temperand his bloodshot eyes looked at me with a glare."The world knows I'm patient,But my patience has run out.Get away, scram, flee!before I break your jaw,and gouge your bulging eyesNot satisfied with having entered my store,are you now before it, to loiter?You will kill my business.If they see you here, my customers will not return.Business is business, don't you understand?Be gone, don't stand here, or my business is done."

As soon as he said this, his anger boiled overand under his blows my cheeks and jaw started to quiver.

He kept slugging me, over and over. . .till I was drenched in blood and my teeth left in shatters. . .I thrashed him with my cane.Before he had enough, security was summoned.

We went to the police station.He was released.Ashebir Kelkai, though, was left in jail to suffer.

Nary a soul would heed, whether pedigree I proclaimed,bellowed a battle cry, ranted, or growled.

The colors of my flag, that adorned my lapelwere admired for beauty, but awe nor fear did they inspire.

That I, the son of Moja, the pure Menzieshould be arrested as a nigger, a coon,I failed to persuade anyonewas a mistake, a false accusation.

Desperate, I approachedand said to 'the nigger,' wistfully,"Listen brother, don't you feel sorry for me,That I should suffer, in vain, from other peoples' quarrel?

"I know that, since time immemorial, that whites and niggershave begrudged, despised, and fought one another.On whose side should I, the habasha, choose to be?Here, feel my hair, I am no shogolle.Behold my face, I am not as dark as you.I am light skinned, look. Ok, let's say tan.Anyone who'd say I'm nappy haired must be insane.

"My lineage comes from Shemin direct descent from David and Adam.You've surely heard of the Queen of Sheba.Her son was named Menilik the First. . .His half brother, Zage, was born of a maid. . .his false claim to the throne aborted.

"You Negros are the sons of Ham,and whites the sons of Yafet."As, thus, my history lesson I started I was...