“Hello, Desta. Welcome to our home. I’m Negash. Eli has told us so much about you.”
I went in for a triple kiss and embrace. The more kisses, the more respect you were showing an elder, and I wanted to express my deepest regard to his parents.
“It’s so nice to meet you. Thank you for inviting me to dinner.” I handed over the bottle of Chivas Regal and box of chocolates Saba had recommended I bring with me.
Negash held up the box and smiled. “This is very nice of you, Desta.” After saying my name, her expression changed, and suddenly she was beaming at me. “I could not believe when Eli told me his American friend had a Habesha name.”
She chuckled at my shy nod as we walked into the house. The living room was well lit, with a huge black leather sectional couch, where an older man in jeans and a starched button-down shirt was sitting and watching a soccer match. He looked like Elias, but seemed a lot older than his mom.
When he saw me, he stood up to shake my hand. “Welcome to our home. I am Fikru Bekele.”
I gripped his forearm and bumped his shoulders in greeting. “Thank you. I’m grateful for your invitation, Mr. Bekele.”
He waved off my formality, extending his hand to the couch, offering me a seat. “Just Fikru, please.”
In that moment, it struck me that in Ethiopia, a person’s surname was their father’s first name. The Western way was similar, but it seemed like a much more profound connection to share the name your father answers to on a daily basis.
Fikru glanced over at Elias, who was looking at us from the door. “My son never brings any friends home. We were surprised when he told us we’d have a visitor.” His father’s face turned rueful as he sat back down. “I embarrass my son sometimes when I talk too much.”
Elias pushed up from the door and gave his father a concerned look. “Aba.”
The man waved him off with a friendly gesture and went back to what was happening on the screen. I’d been to a few Ethiopian homes already and knew that the TV being on while there were visitors was pretty common, so I took a seat on the couch, and soon Elias brought out a tray with drinks. His mom came out after a moment too, and we all started to get to know each other.
“Desta, tell me about you parents. Eli said you lived here as a baby.”
I nodded. “Yes, we left around the time I turned three. My parents lived here the first year they got married, then returned right after I was born a couple of years later.”
Negash grinned, obviously delighted at my family’s connection to her country. “They must have liked it here.”
I nodded as I put down the glass of cold Ambo and Coke that Elias had handed me. I tried to ignore the flutter happening in my chest caused by Elias’s gesture of getting me my preferred drink, and focused my attention on his mother. “Yes, my dad especially. He always called Ethiopia the homeland of his heart.”
“Sounds like he was a man with a good soul,” she said regretfully. Elias must have told them about his death.
“He was.”
After that the conversation turned to the meal and the soccer match. A moment later the cook—having house help was also a common thing in Ethiopia—started bringing out dishes and we moved to the table. Soon we were all digging into the meal, which was delicious. “This is really good. Thank you again.” I said as I pinched of a mouthful of injera and sautéed Swiss chard off my plate.
Negash beamed at me and put more food on my plate. I thanked her and turned to Elias, who looked tense, and had been quieter than usual. “Where’s your sister tonight?”
Before he had a chance to answer, his dad spoke up in a dejected tone. “My children are always finding reasons to escape this house.”
Elias gave his dad a worried look but didn’t react to his comment. “They’ve been looking for a house. Tonight they’re meeting with one of her husband’s cousins, who’s building some homes right down the street. They’ll still be very close.” That last part seemed a lot more for his dad’s benefit than mine.
Elias’s dad seemed genuinely upset by this. “Why does she need to leave?” Everyone tensed as he got more agitated, but no one said anything, and he kept talking. “When are you leaving, Eli? Are you escaping soon too?”
His tone wasn’t even angry, but it seemed like it was the needle that broke the camel’s back for Elias. His mom said something in Amharic, which I assumed was aimed at his dad. Whatever it was it seemed to mollify the man, but after a moment Elias stood up and excused himself. The tension in the room was so heavy I could almost see it. I soon did the same with a barely audible “excuse me” and followed Elias outside.
I found him standing in a dark corner of the yard with his hands in his pockets, looking up at the starry sky. “Hey.”
He turned when he heard me, but didn’t say anything. I stood next to him in silence, and after a moment he spoke. “I knew this would happen. I haven’t told him yet, but I think he suspects
