Walk of judgement

I love walking—as long as it is not very sunny. Looking like a boiled tomato ruins my anemic-looking aesthetic. But God, how I love walking. The windy Addis sets the tone whenever I walk home from work.

One of the many reasons I love walking is to terrorize the elderly. I walk up to the oldest person I see on the road—especially if they are an elderly woman (oh boy, jackpot). I walk towards them and say, “Mother, እንዴት ኖት?” Most of them reply with, “እግዜር ይመስገን,” as they slowly try to recall if they know me and where they know me from. But I am quick—I don't give them time to think. I rain a set of questions on them: How is your health? How is the family? Etc. Most of them are polite and answer, their old faces puzzled.

Then I add something like, "How come you never came to my mother's funeral?" or, "My grandson's funeral?" Or something even worse—I’m good at improvising. Then the inevitable question they’ve been holding comes: “የት ነው ማውቅሽ ግን?” To which I respond hysterically. I act offended, make them feel like their memory is failing, and suggest that this is an early sign of amnesia. After throwing a hissy fit of, "How dare you forget me?" I walk away as fast as I can, adding more to the confusion.

Why, you ask? Because I am a menace to society, and you must all endure what I subject you to. (Kidding. For those of you who love your grandparents—oops. For those of you who show affection toward the elderly—get help!)

The second reason I love walking is: where else would I get to judge everyone and feel like I am above it all? Or get motivated, if I get lucky enough. For instance, the other day, this man pushed me as he was walking by. As I was preparing to open my foul mouth, I noticed he had a jacket that read “dead inside.” God bless. What a way to start my day.

Right now, there are two people in front of me—either a couple or colleagues. The guy seems to be chattier than the woman. Both of them are holding a crumpled-up piece of paper. They must have eaten chips or something. Look at him mumbling like a moron. And look at her walking next to him, nodding like a freaking ventriloquist dummy.

The subjects seem to show a lot of primate behaviors, especially the male. He looks like an orangutan collecting lice from his mate—the way he is rubbing himself against her and tossing her hair in what humans would call a “playful manner” (Darwin was right). He then throws the crumpled-up paper into the air and tries to hit it as if it’s a soccer ball. This is not behavior I’d expect from a man with a receding hairline, but okay.

Now, for those of you thinking, “Why don't you mind your own business?”NO! The Habesha in me could never.And for those of you who’d say, “They seem happy. You are just miserably lonely. Go get yourself someone who can be silly, hehe.” Once again, NO! Dating is for losers. Let’s make arranged marriage great once again.

We cross the road, and I see a famous person also crossing. Oh my, this is my lucky day. This person is an influencer who has death and rape threats in his comment section. I know where he lives. (How? I leave that to your imagination.) We should make doxxing and cyberbullying a thing here for those who deserve it—especially when their whole content is “ቤብ…” starting with the classical from Kana TV’s Turkish dramas.

While I’m busy judging and terrorizing, someone else is probably watching me. (Nobody is.) Walking isn’t just about the physical act; it’s a performance. Standing still won’t make life less absurd. At least walking gives me the illusion of progress. It’s a stage where we all act out our roles—in this case, me as the judgmental wanderer, them as the oblivious players. Who’s the audience? Maybe the universe itself. Or no one at all. Isn’t it hilarious to think we’re all mirrors of each other’s absurdities?

Anyway, where are the amusing creatures now? Oh yeah, still walking in front of me. That’s when I decide to look up at the buildings around the area.

Shit. This is not the road to my home.