Lost To Demera

I just can't recognize anything anymore. I am standing holding a camera and pretending to be interested in what I see so that I can ignore the fact that I am fucking lost. This was supposed to be a spiritual festival, yet I don't feel anything close to it. All I can feel is tangible flesh pressing up against me and my body drowning from this crowd of mass, heat, and noise. I look around one more time, hoping to see a familiar face. I regret coming here and curse my friend for convincing me to do so. I feel a bead of sweat trickling down my forehead. I take a deep breath and continue filming.

***

"Damn. When are you gonna stop reading that book?" Sebhat said as he came and sat next to me. I was reading Oromay by Bealu Girma, which I believed to be one of the greatest novels of all time. Although it was my third time reading it, I always read it with an ever-increasing excitement and reverence for the story and the author. I ignored Sebhat's witty remark and kept on reading.

Sebhat and I met in the eighth grade, and so that makes us friends of nearly half a decade. His family moved to Addis Ababa from Harrar when he was 14 years old. His father named him after the late Sebhat Gebre-Egziabher, a highly celebrated and critically acclaimed Ethiopian writer. I still remember the first time Sebhat and I met. It was after English period and I was getting out of the bathroom when I saw him writing something on the wall. I went over and read what he wrote:

"ONE MUST NOT FORGET THAT WHAT GOES IN, MUST COME OUT, IN ONE FORM OR ANOTHER."

I laughed, and then he laughed. We had lunch together that day and we've been close friends ever since.

"So you're going to the Demera right?" Sebhat asked, sipping his coffee.

"No," I replied after closing my book. The Demera was a festival that was celebrated in Ethiopia to commemorate the founding of the true cross by the Roman Empress Helena. It was a parade show prepared by the Ethiopian Orthodox Church on which plays and spiritual songs are performed before the final show, where a giant bonfire called the "Demera" is burned to celebrate the revelation that the empress had, by which she was instructed to burn a large bonfire and follow the smoke which led her to find the true cross.

"Why?" Sebhat blurted.

"There are gonna be tons of people there. We would barely see the show, even if we wanted to." I replied, sipping (or gulping, rather) my now cold coffee.

"What is it with you and people? Besides, this is a festival that happens once a year. Heck, even foreigners travel every year for the sole purpose of attending this event and you're sitting here acting like you're too good for it?" Sebhat took a breath and looked at me. I shrugged.

"Look," he said. "Martha is gonna be there too. I heard she's gonna perform with the Sunday school students at her church." I laughed when I learned about his true motivations. Sebhat has never been one to reveal his sentiments. So, when he asked me again if we could go, I agreed without hesitation.

***

I stop filming, for my phone battery os dead. If I have any chance of surviving this, it's outside of this ocean of my fellow sapiens. I start to push my way against the confinement of mass humanity. I'm struggling, apologizing to everyone stepping in my way, and trying my best to remain unnoticed as I go by.

Another wave of paraders is passing by. These are from the Holy Trinity Cathedral, as per the announcer. They are all wearing blue gowns, draped with white capes, harmoniously singing spiritual songs that praise the Virgin Mary and her son.

I keep moving forward. Forward against the tide. I'm hot, exhausted, and irritated. This was supposed to be a celebration. Isn't that why the whole idea of the festival was constructed in the first place?

I suddenly stop. Despite my cynical self's best opinion, I dare to look around, hoping to see a familiar face, again. This time I'm in luck, for I can see his face. There is no other way to put it, it just feels good to see someone you recognize - even if you've known them for a few hours - in a journey of protracted uncertainty. I feel slightly relieved, and start walking towards the man who looks like Baldwin.

***

I and Sebhat arrived at Meskel Square (which translates to "Cross Square" and is the arena where the festival took place) at around 4 A.M, earlier than we anticipated. Preparations were still ongoing. You could see young people wearing T-shirts with Bible quotes written on them preparing the stage, sound systems, and of course, the Demera. A few priests were roaming around the vicinity, giving their validation to the heartfelt dedication of the youth to make the festival possible.

Sebhat and I sat in a café right across the square. Enjoying our coffee, we kept looking at the scenery. Addis Ababa seemed peaceful at that particular moment, and all the urban chaos seemed to give way for spiritual calm.

"You can see their passions in their efforts," I said, pointing to the young people.

Sebhat nodded. "Too bad, festivals are the only time the youth happily collaborates with the church. I can guarantee you, this is as close as most of these people will get to go to church," he said.

"Why do you think that happens though?" I asked.

We sat in silence for a few moments. And then Sebhat said, "Well it's hard to give a simple diagnosis as to why that happens. But, in my head, I feel like there is a certain lack of adhocracy in religious institutions. Therefore, they somewhat fail to keep up with the progressive thinking of the youth. And the youth, instead of working with their institutions of faith to achieve progress, choose either blind compliance or no compliance at all. This is why we see many young people that are against religion or young people that follow religion without any clear understanding of it."

I didn't have much to add to that, so I chose to be quiet. I was contemplating Sebhat's argument while staring into my empty cup when Sebhat nudged me to look to my left.

"Look at that guy." He said, with some sort of excitement in his voice. On my left, 2 tables across, sat a tall man. He was dressed in a T-shirt, a pair of shorts, and timberland boots. Judging by his outfit and the camera hanging on his shirt, it was obvious this guy was a tourist.

"Yeah, what about him?" I asked.

"Doesn't he look like someone, someone you recognize," Sebhat asked, eager to hear my answer.

"No, not really," I said.

"Come on, man. James Baldwin. I mean look at him. He looks exactly like him."

When Sebhat said this, I started noticing the resemblance, especially after Sebhat googled and showed me a picture of the famous writer from his phone. I was outright shocked. With the same dark brown skin, wide bulging eyes, and pursed lips that made him look as if he was thinking something important, it was amusing to me how I didn't see the resemblance at first glance.

Both of us unconsciously kept staring at the familiar stranger. Sebhat also took a special interest in the large backpack that was sitting next to the man who looked like Baldwin. He swore, although I haven't seen for myself, that something was moving inside his backpack. Sebhat insisted that we go and talk to him, but I refused. Mainly because if I was in his place, I would have been annoyed if two people came telling me I looked like a famous author.

Once the man stared back at us, both of us broke our gaze and started looking at each other.

"It's almost time, the festival is starting," Sebhat said. Although what he said was true, it also served as an excuse for us to get the hell out of there. We quickly paid our bill and left for the square.

Sebhat walked quickly so it was hard to keep up with him. The area was already filling up with people draped in Netela - a white fabric people, mainly women, wore to religious events. Sebhat's urgency irritated me and after a while I stopped following him entirely. He didn't look back. I didn't care. I looked around the vicinity, and found the setting quite pleasant. I made a mental note to take pictures later on.

***

"I'm a photographer from Ghana. I'm here to take pictures of the festival." the man who looks like Baldwin says. We are now walking against the tide together, trying to find a way out. He seems as irritated and as exhausted as I am, but I can't hear his frustrations in his speech. His voice is calm and collected. He is carrying his backpack in front of him, presumably to avoid thieves.

We stop for a while, just to collect our sanity. And that's when I spot the thing Sebhat was talking about.

"What's in your bag?" I ask. The man smiles and slowly opens his backpack. If I'm being honest, I am not scared nor am I expecting something bad to emerge. From the backpack, he extracts a cat. A fully grown, black cat. The cat seems indifferent to the sudden change of environment and scans me with its green eyes. I uncomfortably draw my eyes away from its gaze, and for a moment, I think this is how the man must have felt at the café.

"This is Peter. My true friend and travel companion." the man who looks like Baldwin says.

"Hello, Peter," I say, and send my arm to pet the cat. The cat accepts my affection with indifference.

"Peter can be rude sometimes." the man says, with an apologetic smile. I tell him it's okay and he puts the cat back in his backpack. "Shall we?" he says, and we continue our struggle against the crowd.

Spiritual songs, praising chants and the announcers voice constitute the sound pollution. I wish I could shut my ears, but my arms are to busy pushing through the walls of the populace. The man who looks like Baldwin seems to know his way around, for he is pushing through with purpose, as if he has a clear destination. If he is lost, he isn't showing it.

I clearly have no clue as to what I'm doing. So I blindly follow this familiar stranger, who at least looks like he has some idea if what he is doing. Normally, I despise being led, but now circumstances have humbled me, and I desperately follow the man who looks like Baldwin.

***

The atmosphere feels lighter now, for we have found a way out. I breathe in the now cold air. It circulates inside my body and all my exhaustion is now let go. The sun is setting now, and the Demera is blazing. Me and the man who looks like Baldwin stare at the massive fire, our thoughts lost as though the fire consumed them. After taking a couple of snapshots with his camera, the man takes out Peter from his bag, probably thinking that he must be selfish for denying his travel companion the view of the ceremony. He holds the cat with one hand, petting it with the other. The cat shows no sign of excitement or fear. His stoic face keeps scanning the bonfire, me and the man who looks like Baldwin.

"Listen," I say "about earlier, in the café. I apologize. I didn't mean to stare." I say.

"It's no problem. Don't worry about it," he says.

"But has anyone told you you look like James Baldwin?" I ask.

He considers the question, shakes his head, and chuckles. "Goodbye, my friend. Thanks for leading me out of the crowd," he says.

"But you led me out the crowd." I try to say, but he has already left. I watch him walk away until he disappears far into the road. Without uttering a word, I bid farewell to the pleasant stranger and his feline friend.

The moon is full tonight. Although it has no stars to chaperone, it doesn't seem to care, for its light seems brighter than ever. I admire everything now, the night is settling in and I feel comforted. I see Sebhat from across the street, talking to Martha. He sees me and starts waving. I smile and start walking towards him.