My Favorite Essays I Published on This Precious Dark Skin
With favorite paragraphs pulled from each.
This month, many readers have joined This Precious Dark Skin. It means a lot to me that you’re here. Whether you’re here because my essays resonated with you, or you like reading my flash pieces, or you look forward to reading my curated reads, or you’re someone who leans forward on the chair when you read something about Ethiopia, I want to say welcome.
This week, I thought of sharing some of my favorites I Published on This Precious Dark Skin.
When I wrote the first essay, my grandmother was alive. Now, she’s gone, she died in October 2023. And I’m so happy that I read this essay to her and that, while reading her this essay, we cried on that old mat that still smells of my grandfather who died in 2013 (I know that’s an exaggeration but I swear that every time I visit their hut in Tiya, I can still smell him, that smell of my favorite person in the whole world.)
“Genanaw scrambled from the floor and ran to his cabinet. Taking out his rifle, he shot his dog. He then beheaded the dog’s head and shoved the head in a bag. For one hour, rain poured on him while he galloped his horse—carrying his wife, her bitten arm burning—to the town’s mini-bus station.”
“One night, I saw God talking to me in my dreams, I saved you and your family from being shot at when you were eleven. Stop your endless worry over gun violence, he said. The next night, I had another dream: a dream where there is no gun violence in America and the whole world; a dream where factories stopped manufacturing guns; a dream where we don’t even see gun shootings in movies. Then Breaking News on my television woke me up. There was another mass shooting in America. All the best dreams in the world cannot protect us from reality. That morning, I wished I could have stayed in the dream for a while. Before the dream lost itself in the reality.”
“But I wished, oh how I wished to be allowed to not downplay my emotional reactions to my grief in those days. To sit in my grief, for however long it took. Oh how I wished for someone to sit with me in the presence of my pain and my sorrow, in silence, without giving me an empty platitude. I wished, even as grief stalked me like my dog that had lost its cub, howling and insistent, even as my whole body stiffened with another empty platitude from a well-meaning friend, people would stop talking in hushed, whispered tones, in front of me, as if talking openly about my ectopic pregnancy was a shameful subject. I wished someone stopped for a minute and thought about what they were saying. I wished someone said the right words. Like, “Sorry about your ectopic pregnancy. Sorry it happened to you.” These words said things as they really were. They would have been heartfelt. They were million times more honest and more real than words people told me out of obligation.”
“Calling, texting, there they were, buried in their thunderous anger, clutching their revenge tight to their chests, suggesting I should swing my door open on hate, on darkness, some of my friends sent me drafts with obscene text bubbles, the nastiest words I’ve ever read. Their emails alarmed me.”
“I remember the luxurious room in Mercure Grand Jebel Hafeet hotel in Al Ain closing in on me. I remember the reflection of my face in the bathroom mirror asking me, “What are you doing here? Are you sure you can stand in front of foreign clients and give a presentation?” The night before my presentation, I remember my fingers twitching the whole night, my mind picturing a vivid image: the white audience cracking smiles, then looking away, and pretending not to be embarrassed for me. I remember dragging myself from the luxurious bed and stumbling on the Arabian rug, my body folding fetal position. The enormous wash of blood in my ears, so loud I couldn’t hear my own breathing, couldn’t hear the traffic outside, couldn’t hear anything. The morning of my presentation, I remember praying the earth beneath me would open up and swallow me. I remember my legs trembling beneath my Habesha kemis—a traditional Ethiopian skirt—I wore. I remember the full training hall, around 100 people, mostly Arabs, a few Americans, and Europeans. I remember this thought screaming in my ears, run away from this room, return to your country, to your home. I remember the man who strapped the mic on my back who said, “You’re shaking.””