Ethiop

Ticking over half twelve, the Ethiopian lad crossing by Paisley corner had offered the nod & received in return. With the unseasonable cool his jacket was fully donned; through much of December it had been carried under arm. A number of weeks now since we had struck up the acquaintance, the first words back then the man having revealed with a conspiratorial smile that he too was a writer. Strangely, for some reason eagle-eyed Faisal maintained the fellow didn’t drink. Passing to-and-fro all day, Faisal perhaps had been fooled by the lolly-colours that alternated with the pale green. Lad came from a rich family in Addis—for a businessman like Faisal, who had a nephew fallen into the drug net, those cases were especially difficult to fathom. Soft, strongly Chaplinesque, nattering to himself quietly, scrounging ciggies & coin from the tables. Witticisms were exchanged with the regulars; not so much the street people, with whom there were good terms. One of the ladies had appeared the day before sporting a terribly dark black eye and sometimes the men wore other kinds of abrasions. As the sun rose one arm of the Ethiop’s jacket came off, care taken over its trailing on the ground. I need a holiday. I’m sick and tired of this. At the pass in the morning it had been unclear whether or not this had been a quip. As usual, the man had ignored the smile & nodding. Smiles the lad could give, but not easily receive. Many of us were struggling even with over fifty days of zero local transmission of the virus, news of the two new strains in the UK and the freedoms that had been restored.

 

 

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