Teodros Kiros - Hunting Agame

Hunting Agame

9 February, 2010 | Teodros Kiros (Ph.D)

When I was about 12 years old in the

beautiful city of Asmara where I spent

the

first nineteen years of my life, I used

to take long trips on the dangerously

twisted roads of Massawa on hand-

built, four-wheel carts. They simply ran

downhill propelled by the wind and the

slope, and the driver's only function

was

guiding the wheel and maneuvering the

brakes. The carts were usually used

transport vegetables and sacks of grain. When the carts were filled to the brim,
and there was no space for the driver, the driver would stand on the top of the
sacks holding on to a long rope attached to the front wheels, which is how he
would brake.

Every Sunday my friends and I would plan a trip on those carts toward Massawa.
We looked forward to those eventful trips that we performed with great
enthusiasm. For my friends the trip was unambiguously joyous, but to me it was
always a blend of pain and joy. The event was joyous because I was young and
reckless, painful because I would be forced to do things that I did not want to do
only because I wanted to fit in. For me, it was a choice between being alone and
having friends, and at that age I thought that it was better to have friends.

After dangerously long rides on the carts we would stop at strategic corners from
being hit by fast cars. It is during these stops that the group would sit on the
curves facing the deep ravines. I dreaded these moments, these inevitable
moments of mischief. I had no way of avoiding them, unless I were to condemn
myself to utter loneliness, which I occasionally dreamily preferred to the company
of bad friends. But so rare were these dreams of my heart actualized. I was
condemned to immerse myself in the culture of the group. No one in that group
ever sensed my unhappiness, my dilemma, and the ambiguities of friendship.

First we would all stand up in unison to engage in the hunting of "Agames". We
would shout from the top of our voices to scare the long lines of the laborers
carrying huge baskets on their heads filled with figs. They had been picking all
night long. Typically, they would have to travel on bare feet through many
kilometers of desolate ravines, through meandering paths, and numerous twists
and turns, half a mile deep to collect their figs. They gathered the figs from dusk
to dawn. It is on the Agame’s way back toward the city that we would locate
them deep inside those paths. From the very top of the mountain we would aim
rocks at them and scream our heads out.

Every time we hit one of them, laughter would ensue, and we would say, "we just
hit one of them." These were my friends' games, over which I pained, and about
which I was voiceless. The Agame's collecting would be followed by lifting the
heavy baskets on their heads, and walking back the long way to Asmara where
they would sell them for nickels. They would sit on poverty drenched city corners
collecting nickels from customers of limited means. As soon as they are
downloaded from the head, the figs are immediately displayed on the streets. The
figs take many colors. Some are deep green with a watery luscious look. Others
are yellow with reddish spots and barely noticeable thorns. Others are green,
yellow and red with penetrating thorns that the customer must avoid. A few are
dark red and ripe looking they make you feel like gulping them whole. Crowds of
people wait for their arrival, fresh from the wild. Customers come to purchase
them and form long lines. Some dip their hands in the baskets and choose the figs
they like, and prefer to be served while standing. Others, the hurried kind, quickly
purchase un peeled figs and take them home. On exceptional days, some
customers would buy the whole basket of figs, and dis burden the seller of
anguish, gushing rain and scorching heat. But those days are very rare.

The sellers would often cover themselves with cotton scarves to protect their
bodies from the scorching heat and would work the whole day hoping to sell a
basket full of figs before they spoil. At the end of the night, the remains are sold
for pennies. What is left is the seller's dinner. For days the Agames live exclusively
on figs, without other supplements. Eating one a day is a rare treat. To make
matters worse our mischief would follow them whenever we would see one in the
city. We rudely point at him or her. We’d call out loudly and clearly with an
offensive name. We’d giggle and laugh at an angry reaction. The Agames walk
with their notorious canes attached to a beer can with which they pluck the thorny
figs. The long cane with the can hooks the figs. The cane, however, is also used
to heckle boys who dare to challenge a harassed seller who is busily making a
living. Boys are boys though. Some are worse than others.

So it happened one day. A sharp-eyed boy sits a few feet away from the vendor’s
domain. While busily attending to a customer, the boy who had been waiting for
the right moment, moves with a startling speed and seizes money that was piled
on the floor. By the time that the poor Agame had noticed the criminal, he
disappeared in the labyrinth of the crowd, and with an equally stunning speed,
the Agame pursued the boy. He ran with such ferocious determination, sweating
profusely that all those who witnessed the scene could not help but show their
reaction. Some people looked genuinely sorry for the laborer, for they had
guessed what might have happened others were so furious that they wanted to
join him and run with him a few drivers on their fancy cars were irritated over
the fact that they had to stop afraid that if they did not they would hit the
runners, some went quickly back to business.

The Agame ran until he couldn’t move anymore. Shortly before he collapsed, he
heckled the frightened boy with the cane. Both of them drop to the ground like
a bomb, and breath heavily. The idlers around have never seen anything like it
before.

A bystander said, "Look at that old Agame. I swear to God that rogue is at least
seventy. But you can never tell with his kind. Mind you all that they eat is figs. Ha!
All that energy." Another says, "You may be right. Who knows how old he is. He
himself does not know." They walk away. In the meantime, the Agame lifted the
boy by his arms. With what little energy he had, he shook the boy’s head, and
searched his pockets, where he finds his money. He recovered every penny and
threatened to beat him up. He did not. Meanwhile, a witness has run to the police
station, and reported the event.

A tall, cruel looking policeman, who had a reputation for being an Agame hater,
arrives at the scene. He indicts the Agame with a mere look, a glance. He
concludes that he is guilty, and that no matter what the boy has done, an Agame
is absolutely disqualified fromlaying his hands on a boy.

He savages the Agame, who insists that he be addressed by his name, and that it is
the boy who is guilty.

"In a normal country" said Tadesse (that is his name), “I would have a proper
name, and I would not be indicted for being in the right". The policeman would
not hear a word of it. Instead, he pulls him by the arm close to his huge body and
slaps him so hard that he falls on that very ground that a while ago absorbed his
tired body. He smashes his face with his big feet several times. He lifts up and
stomps on the ground again. By this time Tadesse begins to bleed, and he is
dragged like a slaughter bull from the ground into an old police car.

I was there when it happened. I saw the tons of people congregating in a crowded
area nervously chatting. I got closer to the scene. I saw that right in the middle of
the street an ageless man was being dragged on his feet, like a wounded bull,
silently resisting the push and pull, without a word, in spite of the dramatic
showdown, by a huge policeman twice the size of the victim. I witnessed the
victim resist him, and the policeman slapped his face, kicked at his knees, pulled
his arms, tore his shirt, pulled his pants down as if he were about to quarter him.
Twice the victim stood up to defend himself, but was beaten down by a stick
severely. He took two deep breaths, and was finally, violently shoved into the car.
His head bumped hard against the roof. Many years have passed since I have
witnessed that event, and every time I remember it, I am taken back to my day of
birth, the way I have been told it happened. I am forced to ask questions. Born to
comfort, waited on, nursed and lulled to sleep. I am reminded that I must confront
my comfort.

Tadesse was born in a tin shack one cold winter morning. His mother had labored
the night before from dusk to dawn.

She had bled profusely, her husband had pronounced her dead, having witnessed
the blood that came out of her, and the fact that the midwifes had cried bitterly
while working with her. The neighbors congregated around her, and prayed
through the night. Some slept around her. Others went home but remained awake.
The local priests led the prayers. Beggars outside, who had been cared for by her
stood in the bitter cold night chanting and recounting her deeds. Many spoke about
her free Sunday breakfasts, her free reading and writing classes, her bible study
group, and her numerous free classes for the needy.

An admirer, having cried bitterly said, ‘If any body should live, it is you Madame.
The many useless ones live, so that the exceptional few can die. It is not fair.’

I imagine. The cattle are asleep in the barn at the far end of the laboring woman’s
single room. Squirrels cautiously watch the scene from darkened tree trunks. The
hyenas in the deep dark are waiting to devour cattle. The nocturnal beasts are
howling and crying. The night is becoming steadily dark. The candle lights in the
tin shacks are fading. The laboring woman is screaming. Every scream is causing
tears to drop like light rain. The priests chant and pray. Children run and hide
inside their mothers’ skirts.

For many years to come those who witnessed her toil thanked God for listening to
their prayers, and keeping her alive. Tedasse's parents too, celebrated his birth in
their own way, far differently from the way my own birthday was celebrated. A
cow was slaughtered on the day of his birth, followed by a sheep a week later.
Visitors danced for two weeks non-stop. He, like other children in the world, did
not choose to be born, but his birth was a momentous event. Still, he had no
choice in the matter.

Here he is as a grown up, a detested Agame, without rights, to be scolded and
chased like a wild animal.

I imagine him with the baskets on his head, walking up and down those ragged
ravines, those thorny bushes, fighting the dense growth filled with deep green,
ripe red and watery yellow figs, preparing themselves to be gently and safely
picked by the magical cane. I imagine him resting after a full day’s labor,
contemplating his return, which would take a night-long walk, and would go
directly to the city, without sleep and without food, so that he could sell his figs
when they are young and fresh, because they wither and die so quickly. There he
sits in those filthy corners chasing flies from the hard-earned figs lined on
intricately woven, labor-intensive baskets made by women in the countryside.
I imagine him in prison, after his beating, carrying flasks of water tied to his
bowls, struggling to run at the officer's command, weighed down by the flasks,
trying and repeatedly failing to recover from a violent fall on the ground. He is
whipped, whipped again and again, for no reason other than his identity, which
provokes the officer to beat him violently. The officer reminds him again and again
that he has committed a sin for beating a rich man’s boy. The officer screams,
and says, "Agame, do you understand?

You are not a human being. You rogue. You dirty scum. You filthy house of
fleas."

He orders another officer to hand him a bag, filled with white powder. He opens
the bag, empties the contents on his gloved hand. He spreads it on Tadesse’s
body. It is DDT.

As if he knows what he is doing, he adds, ‘We give that to animals like you here.’

He laughs, as he continues to spread the DDT, and the other officers join him in
the spectacle of laughter. They laugh their hearts out, as they see Tadesse
feathering away the powder that has invaded his underfed body, and the officer
piles more powder on his face. Tadesse gives up fighting. When the powder
intruding into his eyes, he cannot control the pain. He screams like a wild animal.
The officers cannot control their laughter anymore.

They collectively shout, "Listen to that animal’s shout. He sounds like a hyena."

Tadesse finally collapses on the ground, to the officer's delight. The same officer,
who violently shoved him to the police car, after the fight with the boy, drags
Tadesse’s body on the floor towards the prison cell. The cell is exactly the size of
a large dog’s house. There is nothing in it, except for a toilet right next to a filthy
mat on which his body rests. The mat is so thin that it must feel like a rock when
his abused body sleeps on it. It must hurt him even more, which is why he is so
uncomfortable walking even after a whole night’s rest. His daily food consists of
water and oatmeal for breakfast. Injera (sorghum), lentil stews for dinner. There is
no lunch. These foods are eaten throughout the year. On Christmas and Easter, he
is treated to lamb and chicken dishes. He showers once a month.

I was told, years later, after I became a people's lawyer and thought of working
on his case that he died from TB exactly five years after he entered prison. The
prisoners remembered him as tall, thin like a feather, with bulging big round eyes,
and old but sinewy body. He died at the age of seventy-five. Needless to say, I
was heart broken. Ever since I witnessed that fight and the manner in which he
was treated, I had wanted to study law, and a year after I began practicing, I had
resolved to become a poor people’s lawyer. In vain I resolved to help Tadesse, but
it was not meant to be.

I still remember him. I cannot take him out of my mind. I've wondered many
times, how could I redeem this noble fellow, whose birth was as precious as
everybody else, but who died so quietly. I thought of indicting the policeman for
the death of a fellow. Long after Tadesse’s death, I saw him in my dreams, and I
began talking to myself. I imagined myself talking to a Judge and telling him that I
was about to do something extraordinary.

I am going to defend a dead man, an exceptional man, who would be alive at this
very second breezing, playing with his grandchildren, who up to this day cannot
mention his name without a stream of tears. His name was Tadesse. He was
seventy-five years old at the time of his death. If he did not divulge his age,
nobody could have guessed. Tall, thin, with full and lanky hair, soft-spoken,
mild-mannered, he walked around quietly.

I spoke to some of his best friends. No one had anything but high praises for the
quiet man. He was the most hardworking man they had ever known. He is known
to have begun working at the age of five, as a local mail boy, who delivered
newspapers from house to house. He was the youngest employee in town. Cute,
fast and full of smiles, he delivered those newspapers, heavier than his body,
tirelessly and consistently. The neighbors compared him to their five year olds,
who could barely carry themselves from bed in the morning, who reported sick
most of the time, to this energetic child who never failed to deliver their
newspapers.

I kept telling the judge everything I knew. I knew the man's life like my own. He
performed that task until the age of twenty. He fell seriously ill, contracting polio,
and was bed ridden and supported by his three children, who did much better than
he. Two of them were car mechanics, and one was an engineer. His polio
stabilized, although it left him with a limping leg.

Soon he decided to employ himself as a fig picker. That was all that his condition
could allow him to do. The limping was barely noticeable, against an otherwise
beautiful human body. Self-employment had always been his ideal, and for that,
picking figs was a very becoming occupation.

So his life in his new employment began. It stretched over thirty-five years. He
picked figs for over thirty years every singled day, rain or shine, winter or spring.
Even in the winter, late in age, he continued to wear his Khaki shorts,
self-ironed, never wrinkled, and fought figs and people with them. He never
complained to anybody about the doom and gloom of the job. He would simply
suspend his sharp cane into mid-air, with a measured speed, trap the targeted
fig, and place it with a perfect move right into a large basket, to join its sister figs.
He would take two deep breaths after each successful catch. And then start all
over again.

By employing himself this way, this man raised three kids, two mechanics and an
engineer and became a grandfather of four. He made himself comfortable.
Throughout these years he held himself with dignity, respected his job. I could
not contain myself in the presence of my imagined judge. I would not rest until
I had made my case.

Can you imagine how indignant he must have felt, to be chased and scolded by a
boy. No wonder that he beat the boy. As if that is not enough, he had to be
savaged by a prejudiced policeman for doing the right thing. Your magistrate, our
police system must be so corrupt to mistake justice for injustice, and imprison and
torture one of the most just men I have ever own. I demand that we try the officer
who arrested and tortured Tadesse. I saw some of his closest friends howling
over his unjust death.

Many years have passed. Every time I sit by myself, Tadesse's image pervades my
soul. Each of us is born and celebrated- in so many different ways, and yet long
after that celebration- some of us are born in order to suffer.