The Trouble

A very calm and respectful old man wrapped up in his shawl and beard. ‘Do you need money, father?’ my friend asks. ‘Yes , I need money. I’m a beggar,’ he replies, after careful consideration. ‘How much money do you need?’ ‘How much can you afford to give?’ ‘I asked you first. How much do you need?’ The old man thinks for a little while. ‘I need five birr,’ he says at last, ‘I’m on my way to buy bread.’ Five one birr notes are counted out. I go to offer some as well. ‘No,’ he says, his hand on my arm, ‘thankyou, but I don’t take money from foreigners. Not from foreigners, or breast-feeding women. I don’t want to give them my trouble.’ He smiles kindly and shakes my hand. I start to introduce myself. ‘Thankyou, no,’ he stops me again. ‘I don’t want to know your name.’ I ask why not. ‘I have trouble,’ he says, as if talking about rheumatism or gout. ‘The trouble has followed me for a long time. I’m worried that if I know your name, I might remember it at a bad time, and then the trouble will transfer to you. I care about you. I don’t want to give you trouble. So please, don’t tell me your name.’

Mean Girls

On my way up to the bar, I am stopped by a couple of revealing girls. One is pretty in a mean sort of way, and the other is fat in a mean sort of way. The mean fat one seizes my hands, while the mean pretty one reaches out and removes the glasses from my face. She puts them on, and gives me a look which might be cute if it wasn’t so mean. I smile and try to take them back, but she holds them out of reach. ‘St George beer,’ she demands. It is less a flirtation than a mugging. I pretend not to understand. ‘Are you lonely?’ she asks. ‘No,’ I say, and manage to prise my glasses from her. Then I shoulder my way past and go upstairs to dance with my friends.

The mean fat one soon tracks me down. I am busy doing something groovy with my feet when she appears in front of me and manfully grabs my wrists. Her fingers have a fearsome strength, but my arms are sweaty so I slip away. I turn my back and continue dancing. She quickly moves in front of me again, as if I have misunderstood. She does ten seconds of aggressive grinding and then seizes the back of my neck. ‘Drink,’ she says. ‘I don’t speak Amharic,’ I say in Amharic. ‘Drink,’ she says again, with more force. ‘Sorry, I don’t understand what you’re saying.’ She seems genuinely offended and retreats to a bar-stool, glaring with undisguised scorn at my moves. I find it quite hard to enjoy myself now. I manage to dance to half another song before the mean pretty one reappears, having finished simulating sex with most of the other men in the room. She seems to regard me as a professional challenge. I make my dancing as complicated as possible so she can’t get a step in. Only by moving furiously can my flailing limbs keep the mean girls at bay, but I know this tactic won’t hold up forever. The next track is a slow number.

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