Vacationing in the North - Part 2: The Search for a Man goes International...

Previously on C.D.R

…I do think my mission in this life (read as sex department) will be complete when I take it over 30 thousand feet high!

I don’t even lose sleep over the thought of marriage even as my classmates arrange for wedding committee meetings that I graciously attend.

…I study my surroundings and the colored women paraded in front of me. It all becomes clear: it’s my first time in a brothel, the Fuck? 

******

“…I usually spend the holiday with my girlfriend.” He says as he drives past the Sedetegnaw Medanialem Church on Algeria Street. I know so because of the crossing oneself sign he just did. We look at each other and sigh simultaneously. “Wow, that’s a very good thing. Hope you’ll invite us for your wedding.”Jamleck tells him as we try to absorb this new information. I can’t discern how the conversation moved from him not keen on growing fat like his brother to his beau being plus size. “…she gets tired so fast.”  He tells us. The vehicle is quiet for a moment. “Can you briefly stop by Arat Kilo?” I ask breaking the silence...

Behind The Scenes

1. Still in matters weddings; this Saturday I will again have the privilege of being a groomsman. The groom is among a long list of crushes I had while growing up. Since the same day is my Birthday, I have asked him to be kind enough to ensure I get a huge chunk of the cake (the bride has intimated to me it’s a rich fruit cake) that I’ll take home after the evening party. I have noted a number of my classmates are reciting vows lately; of course there are also the usual ones I meet with their toddlers or deal with the agony of seeing them as their Facebook profile pictures. In fact, the other day while attending an exclusive Alumni event where the current high school candidates were being prayed for, I got two requests to be a committee member in a wedding committee which I’ve honorably accepted to participate in to keep me occupied on Sunday afternoons. 

2. Dating sites. So the other day I got this message on a dating platform: ‘Hi. I’m a dominant Top and I’m looking for a Submissive Bottom to be my slave. I will take care of you care of you and teach you ways on how to serve me...’  He attached a picture of his wee wee in the message. I think it was erect. Let me just say most of you have held bigger bic lighters before. It made me remember reading Fifty Shades. I’ve been reading some material on slave trade in Africa between the 16^th and 19^th centuries. For instance in what is now modern Ethiopia and Eritrea, slaves served in the houses of their masters or mistresses thus were regarded as second class citizens with complete freedom of religion and culture. Of course it was outlawed by Emperor Haile Selassie. I’m seriously thinking of responding to query further what roles a bottom slave is expected to play vis-à-vis the benefits that are in store when he impresses his master. In this century I don't think any zega man in their right mind should have a slave mindset.

3. Someone recently asked me to write on orgies. Let me be honest with you. I’ve never even been on a threesome yet I’m told it’s the beginners' guide. In the course of my research on threesomes, I came across a new position. It’s called the Eiffel Tower. I Know Right! e.g. When a you are on your knees performing a sweet fellatio to a man standing, and another man is railing you from behind, thus the two men join hands above you to form what looks like the Eiffel Tower. An example in conversation is, "Sweet dude, let's give Cole the Eiffel Tower tonight!" Enough said. *Continues his research*

4. Guess what? My photography blog is already setup! I’m so exuberant about it! I’m still trying to tie up some lose designing ends before I formally share it. Let’s do that sometime in November.

******

His hand is resting on the right side of my waist as he speaks to the lady attendant in Amharic in one of the shops in the Post Office area along Churchill Avenue.  My body is weakened and stiff in equal measure as my thoughts wander. I can’t move or talk. Jamleck who was engrossed in sorting out T-shirts soon realizes we are no longer in his conversation. He raises his head to find out what’s the problem. I signal to him the man’s hand resting on my waistline by tilting my head slightly to the right and the moment he sees it he gives me a thumbs up and a sorry signal and continues with his search for a green T-shirt. The shop owner walks in and asks me whether I would want some tea or coffee. I politely decline as the tall tower of water that was next to me moves his hand to my shoulder and turns me slightly. His stunners are suspended on his head. His dark coiled hair is beautiful and compliments his dark small eyes. His steady gaze right to my eyes is piercing. His blue t-shirt’s first 2 buttons are open exposing strands of hair. I get my eyes off that area and focus on his voice, ‘Are you sure you don’t need coffee? Looks like J will be here for a while.’ He asks me as the shop owner watches. I confirm to him I’m sure just to get rid of the shop owner. His hand moves from my shoulder to one of the shelves. Sh*t. The moment has been ruined. I look at my friend who’s pretending to be sorting out shirts. Going by the smirk on his face Jamleck is dying to gossip.

******

At a Trade Exhibition in Meskel Square

“It’s tight?” He asks him his hand resting on his shoulder. “Yeah”. Jamleck responds while nodding. I feel like killing him. This is the forth pair of shoe the gentleman has chosen for him. He asks the stall attendant whether he has something else and soon excuses himself to go get a different pair. I grab Jamleck on the neck and give the man one of my magazine standard plastic smiles so as not to make him understand what I’m up to. “J, drop the act as we still have a lot of places to visit here and you flirting and enjoying a Habesha man’s sense of gentleman hood is not helping.” I admonish him. He returns and my friend tells him that he likes the shoe. He grins. I feign some interest in some clothes and ask him to explain their designs to me as a drooling Jamleck reaches for his wallet to pay the waiting cute, not so tall shopping attendant. It’s my turn too to enjoy the Ethiopian kindness…

******

Jamleck’s Woes

We walk into a small eatery in Piazza District located off Colson Street slightly a walk away from the Seitan Bet Mega Amphitheater (locally referred to as the Devil’s house). We opt to sit on the patio. It’s good for man watching which is many a zega man’s favorite pastime. A male waiter walks to our table with three copies of the Menu. My jaws drop and I just can’t take my eyes off him. Average height, light skinned (the type you hope will agree to be your sperm donor in the future) and boy metrosexuality aside, wasn’t he chiseled like a real African man should! His sculptured face had some little mustache that I feel would provide great texture when making out. Coiled hair that you feel would be nice to play with after you have all poured the illicit seeds of love making. When bringing the drinks, his broad and sturdy arms that conspicuously showed his veins were a work of art. I am not an artist but I could pay to draw this man naked. While I was still marveling at this piece of meat before me and our friend gave him orders in Amharic. He noticed the stare he was getting from me and so opted to maintain eye contact with him. Let me just say he forgot the orders like twice. All he needed was just to ask. I’m sure we could have had it over and done with by the time the meal was being prepared. Whoa! However, my defining moment was when it all of a sudden started raining. I was having my lasagna while Cole was being fed Pizza and having things sliced on his behalf. ‘There he is all wet!’ Our mutual friend remarked. Whoa! Someone call the fire department already. How can someone look so damn fine during the day and still be legal! See, my piece of art had to get a seat on the front part of the terrace just next to the entry to the restaurant to ensure it’s not rained on. In the process he got all wet rained on making his shirt all soaked thus gripping onto his muscular and macho body. In that state I signal him to my seat so as to place an order for something. He places the seat next to us. Cole and his companion who’ve since abandoned their pizzas roll their eyes at me because the table is literally full. I order for a second bottle of carbonated water in some edited English, I notice some chest hair springing out of the wet blue shirt. His face is also wet giving it a hot manly feel. The things we could do in the shower…Taitu Hotel aside, that’s my favorite eating spot in the North.

******

We are standing at the gate of the Ethiopian National Museum along King George VI St. waiting for our cab driver. It’s a walk away from the busy Arat Kilo thus another forum for man watching has presented itself. We are with this adorable 12 year old kid who speaks fluent English with an American brogue we met after our tour at the Museum. He’s just way past his maturity levels. I turn to my left which goes all the way to the Addis Ababa University (formerly the Imperial Palace) and see a group of three men walking towards our direction where we are standing. Oh Boy! The Cole mind quickly rules that the guy in a tight yellow T-shirt leading the pack is another work of art. Tall, Muscular and Fine would be an understatement. I whisper to Jamleck to look on his left. “Jesus Christ!” He remarks loudly as usual almost embarrassing me. As the gentlemen walk past us, the object of our admiration looks at us momentarily. We are clearly smitten as we escort them visually until the 12 year old kid decides to weigh in, “They are policemen”. Our minds come back to the present. Why the heck did that kid think we needed that information? Of course we did. We ask him to enlighten us more. He tells us that he normally sees them while they are training at their camp in the mornings. Man watching is promptly abandoned and we decide to engage him further. Let me just say that as much as I would have created time to go watch them training, when the cab finally arrived and we had bid bye to the kid. We were disturbed. What has that kid gone through? He even had a neatly kept 100 shillings Kenyan note and a guy’s phone number. He told us he had been given by his Kenyan friend who had lived there for a year and even taught him English. With his accent, we’ve since ruled it’s an American guy living in Kenya who taught him. The elephant in the room was, what other things did he do with/to him? I remember when we were going for an exhibition just within the museum compound, after the same he stopped to ask me whether I enjoyed it. You know the way a guy would after taking you to the theater or Art exhibition? That way.

******

It’s our day to visit Entoto. He pulls over an hour late. Cole is pissed as he takes his usual front seat next to the cute cab driver. So much for the gospel of sitting back left for a service you’ve paid for! I tell him in Swahili to be nice and not raise the issue of delay as he takes his seat behind the driver who apologizes generously. He opens the bottle of Ambo water that was in his hand. It fizzes out making his dark green T-shirt and the floor of the car wet. He closes the bottle fast to avoid a further mess. The driver who had just turned on the ignition key reaches for some ‘soft’ and immediately helps him wipe the mess. I’m conspicuously quiet. I move to the back right to see the unfolding events. He finally takes the tissue from the cab driver’s hand telling him it’s alright. “Besides, we are heading to the forest; I’ll have dried up by then…” He tells him. “Are you sure?” The kind cab driver asks him maintaining a steady eye contact. If hospitality in Addis comes through pouring on yourself some ambo water, why lie, I’m game!

*****

It’s a chilly day. Jamleck and I make walk into the Bank of Abyssinia to get some paper for paying for my Jebena (Traditional Coffee brewer). Our friend will be joining us as we are to head to the Red Terror Museum and probably catch a movie, ‘We are the Millers’ later in the evening. As soon as he’s done at the counter, I make my way to also get some currency for last minute shopping rendezvous. The teller is charming. He asks which country I am from as he compliments my Maasai garb, the Kenyan branded bracelet and ring. I go about explaining. He asks me whether I’ve experienced their country or just about to. I tell him I’ve been here for two weeks. He smiles and asks me to take a seat as he processes the transaction. I take a seat next to Jamleck who’s reading a paper. He looks at me suggestively. I’m like, ‘What?’ “I heard you,” he retorts.  I notice he’s still on the same page. Apparently he was about two hundred meters but made out the entire conversation I had with the teller yet we weren’t shouting and he was on the other side of the glass. I tell him there’s nothing wrong with getting some little male attention.

******

The cab pulls over at the Weyin Ethiopia Cultural Club in Meskel Square at about 8p.m. It’s New Year’s Eve and we’ve been invited by some few friends for dinner. “Will you be okay?” He asks us as we step out of his car. I answer in the affirmative. He advises me to notify him ten minutes before we leave so that we don’t have to wait for long. It’s a dimly lit establishment with a vintage look. A band is on stage performing complete with four dancers: Two men. Two women. I greet everyone present with a firm handshake then take my seat next to the comely host who graciously extended this invite. Everyone seems to be drinking some yellowish fluid from something I only remember from my Chemistry class days. I’m told it’s their traditional brew called Tej. I’m served a little bit of it in a glass to taste. Well, after a single sip, I gather it’s quite something. Some injera and Doro Wat is soon served. I learn another culture called gursha where someone hand feeds you. It’s done for the purpose of reaffirming a bond. All the while the Tigrinya music is entertaining us and those two vigorous male dancers are wowing the crowd. Geta (Author of this article on C.D.R) and I agree that such energy is going to waste and would have probably been very useful if it was put to a different of course going a bit slow...Oops. This was so pleasant until one of them was standing right in front of me asking me to join him in the a dance. I shook my shoulders in a circular manner, I tilted my head sideways. I followed all his instructions to the amusement of my friends. Boy did I dance and I was still the virgin in the room.

******

We arrive at the Airport on a sunny afternoon. He requests me to hang on as he gets the luggage trolley. Aster Aweke's sultry voice is beautifully delivering 'Hid Demo' (It's a very great song for makeup lovemaking especially for foreigners as you won't understand it's strong message). After loading my bags onto the same, he walks around and opens the passenger door. I step out and stash my phone in my pocket. I dig inside my breast pocket and find a Kenyan branded bracelet and ring. I ask him to pick whatever he likes. He chooses the ring. ‘You can hang it in your rearview mirror?’  I supply. He smiles as he fits it in one of his beautiful fingers. The bracelet drops on the tarmac. He quickly squats to pick it up for me. As John Green once said, there are times when it is appropriate, even preferable, to get an erection when someone's face is in close proximity to your penis. This was not one of those times. I hand him the bracelet too. He pulls me into a warm embrace thanking me for the memorabilia. I hand him the fare and thank him for everything including the coffee on New Year’s Day. He smiles and says anytime. He tells me to ensure I come back and insists I call him immediately I land home. I promise him I will. He again pulls me into one of those hugs that are not rushed, "Ameseginalehu." He says.

Kenya may also boast of having fineness all over the streets but one thing that the men from the North availed was character. Sometimes, external solutions should be imported to address a local problem. The Habesha man’s moral fiber is geared towards treating things they like better. If he’s not ensuring your plate is replenished while on a restaurant table, he insists on helping you carry your luggage after shopping, ensuring that you are comfortable or better yet admonishing the street urchins asking you for 1 Birr. In light of the flaming hot mannequins that grace the men’s shop along Chichinia road complete with bulging crotches and nice thighs; and the few straight philandering folk who ask you to go visit a cultural event that turns out to be brothel, I can no longer authoritatively say that he (my hubby) will come from Kenya. There. I said it.

For making this article possible, Betam Ameseginalehu to V.Geta; Dove and his beau Bino; Nati Fikir (any luck on my request?); Ezana (Bitch, we need to gossip); Dawit Jr.; Bini (you still owe me buna); Yonas (Hope you are still coming for the honeymoon); Kamal & Tosh (the ideas on visitations/contacts were spot on) and other great people we met there especially on New Years’ Eve. Special thanks to Bahru for your invaluable time and making my stay in the North eventful. I'm indebted to you.

Peace Out.

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