The Journey Home

The boy is named Tariktu. His name means "history."

We finally pull out of the parking lot of the Black Lion on "abesha." Abesha or "Ethiopian time" has its peculiarities. For instance, "zero" is sunrise and "one" is one hour after sunrise. It makes perfect sense in a world that moves as slowly and whimsically as Ethiopia. Our first stop on the way out of town is Tesfa's house to pick up three young children: Josef , Yeab Sera, and Taritku. We pull into a small alley and stop in front of a gate at the entrance of her modest home. Tesfa gets out of the bus. There is a small reunion with her son and her two adopted children. Smiles and affection are exchanged. Her nineteen–year-old son appears relieved when given the small box of medicine. Tesfa says goodbye to her son and the two younger children get on the bus with her. Instantly, it is clear to all of us that both of these children are special. Yeab Sera, whose name means "God's work," reveals that the struggles of her short
life thus far are easily defeated by a smile that is mesmerizing. We are sure that we will never forget her. Her brother Josef's gentle face and warm smile immediately put us all at ease. Everyone settles in for the trip. The children have not seen their mother in a week.

Tariktu is small for his age. He looks more like a five-year-old than a full seven. A small ponytail hangs from the back of his head as he stares out his window. He is stone-faced and silent. I wish I could say that his silence belied his fear and uncertainty – but his thoughts and emotions remain a mystery, concealed by a stoic countenance.

The drive out to the village of Mojo is about an hour and a half. The smell of diesel and exhaust pours in through an open window sometimes overwhelming us. The children are in a playful mood. They skillfully demonstrate variations of the iskista, a popular rhythmic dance in Ethiopia. Their agile bodies adeptly perform the complex movements of each dance. We pass a famous prison on the left. Just as I snap a picture, Tesfa tells us to put our cameras away. This is a country where soldiers are painfully camera shy and all government buildings appear to be "off-limits" to photography. Perhaps invisibility lends to longevity.

Tariktu is still looking out the window. What is he thinking about? He hasn't seen his mother in a week. Does he miss his home? Does he miss living with his brother and sister who now live so far away in Addis Ababa? Tesfa tells us Tariktu's mother has seven children with three husbands. We respond with bulging eyes and gasps. She quells our shock and naïve appraisals by saying, "If you don't have a husband, you don't eat." It takes a village to raise these children. After all, space is limited in a two-room mud hut.