Poet and playwright Mengistu Lemma came from a prominent clerical family. His father Aleka Lemma Haylu Wolde Tarik (1868- 1967), was an important head priest who commanded respect and admiration. He was a stern disciplinarian who imposed strict rules on his children, punishing them severely for any infraction. The following extract translated from Mengistu Lemma’s autobiography Demamu Beregna (Gle – Tarik), evokes one such incident when the future author lined up with his brother to be disciplined-receiving beatings with a nettle switch across his legs.

I was just a small boy then, but I remember the event as if it were a dream. It happened in Addis Ababa, in the Trinity Church, which was then made of thatch. Our mother would take us to the church on Sundays to receive Holy Communion. After partaking of the Blessed Sacraments, we would head home, loosely draped in Kuta (large shama cloth with an embroidered stripe on each end) around our heads, keeping our mouths firmly shut and breathing only through our noses. That was the rule required for children who took the Holy Communion. Spitting was strictly forbidden. We had to cover our mouths to prevent the flies or insects from entering, as that could desecrate the Holy Communion. Likewise, we couldn’t spit, as even the smallest particle of the Sacrament could mix with our saliva and fall into the dirt.

On the way home, we passed crowds of men and women sitting by the roadside to receive alms and we would weave our way through hundreds of them. My mother always stopped to give, but my father preferred to give discreetly, slipping in his generosity at odd hours to avoid making a show of it.

One day, my brother came up with the idea of posing as a beggar to collect coins, to which I readily agreed. But we were afraid to do it on Sunday morning for fear our mother or father might spot us. Thus we went in the afternoon, sat among the beggars, and lepers who were seated at regular intervals, and held out our hand for change. The beggars and the lepers were not upset with us-they made space for us.

We waited for a long time, but no one dropped a coin on our hands, maybe because it was not a good hour. A few people passed us by without so much as a glance. Suddenly, out of the blue, our father appeared on muleback, accompanied by his attendant, Chatula. As they approached, my father dismounted and handed over the key to Chatula so that he could open the bag and take out the money. Chatula started distributing the alms to each of the needy, older and younger alike while my brother and I hid behind the beggars’ backs. Chatula was coming towards us. We stretched our hands, hiding behind the beggars, attired in dirty, tattered clothes. When he reached us, Chatula stopped, visibly startled, his eyes wide with surprise. But he proceeded to give the handouts, telling us “You two wait, I will come back.”He returned and immediately reported to our father that he had seen us there. I heard my father’s menacing voice thunder, “What the hell are these brats doing here? ” He was furious beyond measure and said he would give us our due. “Not here, bring them home,” he ordered Chatula.

Once our father reached the mule, he mounted swiftly and rushed home, like a leaf blown by the wind. Chatula, grabbing each of us by the arm, led us home. We cried all the way home, dreading the wrath of our father’s angry hands. When we arrived, we found our mother in the alley outside, looking anxious. “What have they done?” she asked, fearing our father’s violent hands at dispensing justice.

Chatula brought a patch of stinging nettles, the fiercest, and handed them down to our father. He severely hit our legs with the nettles until they were bruised and swollen. The sting was so hard that Mother pleaded for mercy on our behalf. The pain was unbearable and we wept, our eyes were flooded with a well of tears.

Main Image: Mengistu Lemma interviewing his father, Aleka Lemma while he was in his twilight years

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