At Addis Ababa Bole International Airport, the rain also falls upon the cracked glass of my retina. Just as it strikes my gaze, it slowly and sacredly runs down the windows and the planes of Ethiopian Airlines. It methodically gathers the words that spill onto my little notebook, and I write down the date: an ordinary day in October.
It is a line that separates two destinations: one in the past and one in the future. A few hours ago, I was melting on the asphalt of Johannesburg; in a few more hours, I will be broken and cold beneath the European skies, on my way to France. It is not so important: the Great African Rift, the impossible tropics, the Sahara, the Mediterranean, the airport lights. Much later, I too will be languishing amid the fumes of Chunghwa cigarettes as I watch Chinese businessmen pass through the scene. I will be able to melt beneath the bright spotlights announcing the airport’s synagogue and mosque, and among the elephants made of crumpled cotton on the shelves of the souvenir stands.
I will be able to be all of that, and also another passenger at Addis Ababa Bole International Airport, Ethiopia.
And the layovers will no longer matter so much. And in this state of transit, I too want to be part of Ethiopian history.