Every day in Africa I see the face of someone I know. A kid I went to junior high school with. Someone from my neighborhood. A girl that I used to have a crush on in elementary school. An old football coach.
I don’t know if these strangers really resemble these people or if I’m just really starting to miss home.
Two days ago, I ventured out of the apartment complex that contains my Airbnb. My unit is fairly nice, but it is located inside of a tenement building in what appears to be a ghetto. I mean I’m not from Ethiopia, but I see all of the familiar signs of the hood; men hanging out in front of my building all day, families squatting on the floor right under mine, and the smell of burning trash coming from the building next door. All of this makes my place look like the scene from Coming to America where Semi takes some of Hakeem’s “pocket money” and totally flips their rundown apartment and makes it a state-of-the-art bachelor’s pad—well, minus the jacuzzi. Anyway, I wanted to explore so I left my building in search of something.
I kept my eyes ever forward. I kept my nose open too. There was a battle of aromas between the sweet bread in the bakery and the raw sewage on the side of the street. Storefronts had whole racks of beef in the window. Then as I walked, I heard a truly inviting sound. A keyboard accompanying a man who sang loudly, joyfully, and in Amharic. There was a church right over the small trash heap and through the gate. I followed the cross exultingly until I was sitting in a green plastic chair before the altar.
The man finished singing. He had no choir and no other instruments backing him up besides the young afroed keyboardist. They both sat down in their own respective green chairs to a nice, reserved applause from the 20-25 members in attendance.
Then the pastor got up to preach the sermon. She was a woman with extensions in her hair that reached down to the middle of her shoulder blades. Her countenance displayed stern love for her congregation. Like she could lift you up and beat you down in one sentence. She reminded me of my aunt.
They both had the same light brown, honey glazed complexion, and strong shoulders. The pastor had a prominent head like my aunt and the same tomboyish ways that come from dealing with six brothers. My aunt, when I would spend the night over her house in Berkeley, wouldn’t cook for me when I was hungry, but instead she would go down to Blondie’s on Telegraph and buy a whole pepperoni pizza. This is also the aunt that would look me in my eyes and say; “Don’t get slapped.” The second that I talked out of turn or said something slick.
The holy word burst out of this pastor in spurts. She would lull her congregation into calmness and then shout with guttural intensity when they got too comfortable, and between these shouts the parishioners would respond, “Ah-men, Ah-men.” It was the only word that I understood, however, I felt every second of her sermon.
It was my aunt on that stage saving souls, doing God’s work, and holding people accountable. She had made it from the ghettos of San Francisco to Addis Ababa, and I was there to support her. To give her an A-man. To show her that I had become a good principled man that knows when to shout and when to mind my business. It was her spirit that had made its way out of that lady’s mouth. I listened to her just as I have my entire life. I obeyed my aunty, I obeyed God, and I obeyed myself.