In Memory of Our Heroes
Yonas Assefa
Ethiopian Review
August 1996
About four years ago my coworkers and myself were invited to our company’s senior vice president’s house. However, some of us were not thrilled about the invitation. To being with, we rarely saw him and did not know him. We worked on the seventh floor while his office was located on the eleventh floor, the exclusively executive floor. We occasionally saw him riding the executive elevator. Sometimes we saw him in department meetings. Although he knew most of us, he said very little, but would smile cordially to let employees know that he recognized them.
He has a huge two story house. When we arrived at his house, his wife and his fourteen-year old daughter who was holding a poodle, stood by the door and shook everybody’s hand saying, “Welcome, come in.” He and his wife were dressed casually. We never saw him in other than the typical conservative gray or dark blue suit with a tie. He appeared very humble and informal.
His mother, who happened to be visiting them for a while, was entertaining those who had arrived a little earlier. “I am going to be your bartender, you party animals. What can I get you?” she jokingly asked me as she was mixing drinks.
Quite a few of my co-workers showed up. Of course, some of them showed up partly out of curiosity to see how the big boss is living, and partly not to be labeled as antisocial. Even those who grumbled under their breaths were smiling and pretended as though they were thrilled to be invited.
A few minutes later, our boss made an announcement, saying, “Well, ladies and gentlemen, I don’t know about you but I am starving. So let’s move on to the backyard and see if we have something to eat.”
“Alright!!” roared everybody, ready to eat.
The backyard was big. It had a tennis court, volleyball net, swimming pool, and a large space to throw frisbees. Everybody thought that the food was ready. Instead, there were three large grills, stacks of uncooked beef, chickens, hamburger patties, ribs, and all kinds of condiments. He looked at everybody and said, “Come on guys, what are you waiting for? Let’s get busy. Those of you who like steak, there it is, help yourself. Throw it on the grill. It is marinated and ready to go. Every thing is there for you, so let’s get busy and have fun!” he said clapping his hands.
The tensions and formalities disappeared. Everybody became involved. Soon the smoke of the chicken, the steak, the ribs and the hamburger swirled into the air, and smelled good. Noise and laughter dominated the place. Those who liked barbecuing were quick to show their skills. They started hollering back and forth to give and take special orders.
It was a lot of fun. The big boss was funny, humorous, humble and laughed very easily. He went around and told everybody to have more food. “Hey partner! Is that all you are gonna eat?”
After we finished eating and playing volleyball for a while, I went to the bar to get another drink. While I was fixing a cold icy drink for myself, my boss came from behind and said, “Having fun, Yonas!”
“Yes, I am having a lot of fun” I responded, smiling.
“Just curious, Yonas, where are you from?” he asked while putting ice in his drink.
“Ethiopia?” I responded and took a sip from my drink to get ready for the usual kinds of questions.
“Is that right?” he said gleefully.
“Yes, I am from Ethiopia, long way from home.” I said nodding.
“I’ll be damned!” he said scratching his head. Do you know as a young boy Abebe Bikila used to be my hero? I admired that man, and I still admire him. I was just fifteen years old when he won his first Olympic marathon. He was fantastic. In fact, I have his poster in my office. Come on, let me show you,” he said, walking fast leading me to his home office. Sure enough, there was Abebe’s poster which took almost half of his office wall. He then continued talking about Ethiopia. He knew about Mammo Wolde, Meruts Yifter, and, of course Emperor Haile Selassie.
When we returned outside, he made a point to introduce me to his mother, his wife and his children. “Yonas is from Ethiopia, where Bikila is from. Isn’t that amazing? he said smiling.
“Oh! That man was amazing. That is wonderful. You should be proud,” said his wife, nodding and smiling broadly. “My son was crazy about that man,” continued his mother. His seventeen-year-old son Jason kept on shaking my hand and saying “Cool! Cool!” over and over. I felt like a hero for a while. I grabbed all the attention. My co-workers were surprised too. My past experience concerning my heritage had been explaining and answering questions about the hunger, drought, and refugee camps which were constantly displayed on television by numerous charity organizations and religious institutions in their appeals to rescue Ethiopian children. For once, I did not go through that. In fact, it turned out to be an awakening and memorable day.
Some time after midnight, on my way back to my home, I thought very deeply. All my excitements and pride subsided into self-analysis. I wondered about myself, particularly about my childhood. I wondered about the poster. It was beautiful, speaking of adventure and national pride. I also wondered about my boss’s admiration of Abebe Bikila. His admiration was sincere. But on the contrary, let alone to have the poster, I hardly remember Abebe. It bothered me immensely. I started feeling guilty. I questioned if I really ever had a hero. Was Abebe my hero? Who were my heroes as a young boy and a young adult? Suddenly, I remembered the song I used to sing when I was a little boy: “Marathon, Marathon…” Yes, he was my hero and he will always be my hero. I turned off my car radio and started singing loudly. I could feel warm tears all over my face dripping down my chest.
I went back to my childhood, and I could see my old neighborhood, and my friends. I remembered “Abebe Bikila Tea Room” in Nazareth where my friends and I used to sit around a pot of tea and shoot the breath listening to music. I remembered my friends. I recalled all their personalities.
I remembered just about everybody. I even remembered the specifics of our discussions. It was so clear, it seemed like it happened yesterday.
“Yes, I had heroes,” I said to myself in jubilation. The poet and playwright Tsegaye Geberemedhin, the novelist/journalist Bealu Girma, the writer Berhanu Zerihun, and my teachers were my heroes. The ordinary hard working and struggling Ethiopians and those who died for good causes were my heroes. My parents, particularly my grandfather, were heroes. All of them have made a significant impact on my life. They have directly and indirectly shaped my personality, my intellect, and my general outlook about life.
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Yonas Assefa is a Pension Account Analyst for National Bank of Detroit and resides in Indianapolis, Indiana.
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