My Identity

A feeling of nostalgia washed over me as I inhaled the smoky air. In my cocoon of soft cotton, I closed my eyes, seeing blurs of yellow and orange dance across my eyelids. The crackling of logs being consumed by the flames and the chatter of those around me slowly faded away as I was transported to a world 7000 miles away.
Sitting in a pool of perpetual perspiration, I longed to be back home. Besides the sweltering heat, I found myself lost without an instantaneous connection with the push of a button. Seeing no alternative, I sat and sulked.
My grandmother came to a halt when she entered the room and saw me staring at the whitewashed ceiling. "This is no way to explore your country!" she reprimanded. "Get ready, we're going out". There was no point in arguing with her stern, yet loving demeanor. Grudgingly, I got up and followed.
Walking through the busy streets of Addis Ababa, my senses were bombarded with a cacophony of sounds and smells. The laughter of children running around chasing each other, the baa's from a herd of sheep, and the honking of cars was accompanied by a strong earthy aroma mixed with burning wood. There was one thing that was the same wherever I looked: everything seemed to be covered in an impermeable layer of dust
After a considerable walk, we approached a large building with a mass of people flowing in and out. I hesitated, not wanting to be consumed in the sea of dust and bodies. My grandmother continued walking and the fear of not wanting to be separated from her pulled me along.
We walked inside and my jaw dropped in awe. I had walked into an immense indoor flea market. Dozens of tiny stands stood next to each other, overflowing with goods that begged to be bought. Sparkling gold crosses, brightly colored dresses, and thick cotton blankets, all handmade, covered every surface of the displays.
As I made my way around, I admired the fluidity of the scene. Shopkeepers carried on multiple conversations at once and shoppers moved around swiftly, with the expertise of experience. My grandmother proved her acquaintance with the market scene by artfully negotiating with store owners for lower prices. I emerged with a bag full of merchandise and a newfound appreciation for Ethiopian culture.
Every chance I got, I begged my grandmother to take me back. Each trip peaked my interest even more, so much so that I began to do my own research. A wood carving of Emperor Haile Selassie led me to discover the rich history of a dynasty that traced back to King Solomon. Posters of Lalibela and the Obelisk of Axum took me back to the 10th century, a time where Ethiopia was a flourishing kingdom in the beginnings of Orthodox Christianity.
I never would have thought a simple trip to the market would buy me so much knowledge. There was so much fascinating history to a culture I was proud to call mine. Too soon, my trip had come to an end. On the last day, my grandmother found me sitting sullenly on the couch, this time because I was dreading to leave my newfound home. She handed me a package. Inside was a thick, white cotton blanket with red and gold embroidery, one I had seen at the market.
I opened my eyes, pulling my gabi tighter around me to shield myself from the chill of the night breeze. The hand-woven cloth in front of me was my life. Like the cloth, I am woven together, each thread coming from an eclectic source of my experiences. And the time I had in Addis Ababa would be an indelible piece of my gabi representing the time I accepted, with open arms, my Ethiopian identity.