For the last couple of years, I have always felt that something was missing for me. Some kind of disconnect between my soul and the city I have lived in for many years. I am talking about Addis Ababa, the city where I have spent more of my adult life than even my hustling-bustling, fast-paced, MC Oluomo and Sego-disturbing, Malaika and Atawewe-praising Lagos Island. When I say Lagos Island, I mean Ita Faji, Agarawu, Adeniji Adele, Okepopo, Oluwole, Patey and other eje oju (red-eyed) areas. My soul lives in those places, and In shaa Allah, that is the soil that will accept my body when my Creator calls me. So yes, this disconnect is real… and I think I may have found what is missing, here, in what people refer to as the Italy of Africa.
They are not wrong. The Italians did not just leave Eritrea; they made sure they left signs. Signs that remind you that names like Giovanni and Luigi were once yelled on these streets. From the narrow streets to the architecture of the buildings and cathedrals, to the pasta houses and bumping into people who speak bits and pieces of Italian, the remnants of Rome remain. I will not romanticise it too much, though. The Italians came here as colonisers, and Eritreans paid a price for those beautiful buildings that a visitor like me does not see on a Sunday walk.
Addis Ababa has undergone a lot of transformation since I first set foot there in 2009. It now looks like an extension of Chongqing, the 8D city in China. It is so modern and beautiful that it is almost unrecognisable. And it is not just Addis Ababa, by the way, the same goes for every major city, from Bahir Dar to Gondar and beyond. The government has done a fantastic job, and I only wish other governments in Africa were as intentional. However, I do not get the same “wow” feeling that newcomers get when they visit Addis. Yes, the city is now very clean and beautiful… but in my opinion, it is at the expense of its soul. I really cannot explain what I feel, or say exactly what the missing piece is, but I knew for sure that whenever I found it, I would recognise it and embrace it.
And find it I did, in Asmara. And I am embracing it like my peace depends on it.
Here in Asmara, I am taken back in time to what made me fall in love with Addis Ababa many sunrises ago. From the moment my flight landed from Lagos, 17 years ago, the soul of that city and my soul were in unison. I felt an inner peace, and I would sometimes hold conversations with the city as if we understood each other. Indeed, we did. It is the reason I have spent all these years there, moved from GIZ to the AUC, found a wife, and had two beautiful children.
Asmara is also a beautiful city. I took a walk on Sunday and my soul immediately came alive. I see my people. The same people I saw many years ago. The same physical features, mannerisms and smiles. I see people who remind me of the zeitgeist of those years: the feel, the weather, and the near silence of men, women and children walking up and down the streets. Only the smiles on their faces and their gestures show that people are connected through conversations held in near silence. I see young lovers sipping coffee, giggling and promising each other heaven and earth. Like, where do they expect the rest of us to live? On that Sunday, I took the silence for calm. I did not yet understand how much it was carrying.
It did not take long for most people to figure me out. I occasionally dropped bits and pieces of my Addis Ababa lingo, Amharic, into casual conversation, and they became even more fascinated by me. The younger people, that is. The older generation grew up as Ethiopians and only took on a new nationality after 1991, so they speak Amharic too. This was the mental gymnastics I had to grapple with. I see people who look exactly like Ethiopians to me, grinning from ear to ear like smileys, telling me they hope to visit Ethiopia someday and talk to Ethiopians. One lady even asked me, “What are Ethiopians like?” My mind was doing more flips than Simone Biles. Madam, you look exactly like one of them.
You are all my people. I see you, but I don’t hear you.
And I have to be honest with myself about why. That lady was not joking. She asked because she has never had the chance to find out. Between 1998 and 2000, Ethiopia and Eritrea fought a war over their border. After the war, that border stayed shut for almost twenty years. In 2018, it opened. Families crossed over, people hugged and cried at the crossing points, and mothers saw children they had not seen in decades. Then, within months, it closed again. So a whole generation on both sides has grown up a short distance apart, drinking the same buna, eating the same injera, wearing the same faces, and never meeting each other.
That is the silence I walked into on Sunday. It is not only calm. It is the sound of conversations that two peoples never got to have. When I say I don’t hear my people, I do not only mean that I don’t speak Tigrinya. I mean that brothers and sisters have stopped hearing each other, and nobody asked the young ones if that is what they wanted.
I am not here to decide who is right and who is wrong. That is for historians and politicians, and I am neither. I am just an ‘omo igboro’ who loves both sides of that border, standing in the middle with Amharic in one pocket and fresh Tigrinya in the other. My only wish is simple: that the next young lady who asks what Ethiopians are like gets to go and see for herself.
One thing that is visibly different in lifestyle is the cycling culture. This place feels more like Amsterdam than the Italy Asmara is often associated with. If there was ever a time I felt bad about not knowing how to ride a bike, it is now. Eritreans cycle everywhere. The city has almost as many bicycles as cars, and every man, woman, boy and girl can be seen going from place to place on a bike. Eritreans, like Ethiopians, are also very orderly. Not once did I see anyone jaywalk or rush to do anything. The Nigerian in me had to be tamed to recognise and conform to order.
I have been learning the language as well. Those who know me can attest to how fast I learn languages. One big head even accused me of being a mix of FBI, CIA, KGB and Chinese agent because of how quickly I pick them up. It has been four days, and I can already handle basic communication. My knowledge of Amharic has made it quite easy, as some of the words are very similar. Before I leave on Saturday, I will have learnt enough to convince a bank manager to grant me a loan. But jokes aside, every new Tigrinya word feels like turning up the volume. Little by little, I am starting to hear my people.
At least now I know the city that completes me. It is not the dunes of the desert in Swakopmund, nor the calm of the ocean in Walvis Bay. It is not the poetry of the elders in the Maghreb. I now know where to go when emptiness sets in and I need to connect with myself, in addition to standing and bowing in salat.
I know where to be. It is right here in Asmara, where I see my people, and where, word by word, I am learning to hear them.