A 90's music clip kicks off with a fast-paced electronic beat, instantly taking you to a nightclub. Berhanu Tezera - one-half of the legendary duo Lafonte - delivers the opening lyrics with his signature husky, melancholic voice. Ij Ansetem Tolo (We Will Not Surrender Easily) became an instant hit, capturing the relentless energy of Addis Abeba. Techno had found its place in the Ethiopian soundscape, and Lafonte embodied the spirit of the time.
The two artists came from Addis’s oldest and most storied neighbourhoods, Berhanu from Casanchis and Tadele from Merkato, with roots that infused their music with authenticity only a true Arada (streetwise Addis native) could deliver. But Addis Abeba wasn't their only muse.
Their song Dire paid homage to another legendary Ethiopian urban centre: Dire Dawa. The railway connecting Addis and Dire has long been a conduit for commerce, migration, and romance. The Addis-Dire love story is etched in Ethiopian music, from Mahmoud Ahmed to Tsegaye Eshetu.
Yet, one song stands apart: Babure (The Train), featuring Lafonte, Sileshi Demissie, and Harari artist Ehsan Abduselam. This fusion of fiery lyrics, Amharic rap, and Harari verses became a national sensation. The music video, filmed aboard French-built trains, cemented its place in Ethiopian music history.
Dire Dawa itself owes its existence to the railway. What began as a settlement for railway workers became a commercial hub, thriving off illicit contraband trade, its economy peaking in the '90s. Teddy Afro, another Addis native, paid tribute to the railway in his song "Chemin de Fer", an instant sonic landmark, entwining Addis’s cultural heritage with Dire’s enduring legend.
When my cousin invited me to Dire Dawa during my university break, I eagerly accepted, despite family warnings about the arduous 700-kilometre journey in a second-class, overcrowded coach. At dawn, we arrived at Legehar Train Station, where chaos reigned. The jostling crowd at the ticket booth, the aggressive shoving, and the cacophony of voices made it clear this wasn’t a journey for the faint-hearted.
Inside the train, the reality was even more surreal. People sat wherever they could: on the floor, on bags, even on each other. The aisles ceased to exist. Nobody seemed to mind the suffocation. Most passengers were contraband traders, making the journey regularly despite the risks of harassment and confiscation by customs officers. At each stop, young girls rushed to the windows, offering snacks, gelato, and bottled water, their transactions executed in seconds while the train was still in motion.
The landscape transformed as we descended from the highlands. Greenery gave way to an amber-hued expanse. The air grew hotter, and the vegetation became sparse. For the first time, I saw camels – majestic creatures moving in the distance. The vendors at the stations changed too. Out went the gelato and bottled water; in came nuts, oranges, and Ambeshok (Soursop).
At first, I refused to try it, put off by its spiky green exterior, but when a young Muslim girl handed me one with a radiant smile, I relented. The moment I bit into it, I was transported. A blend of mango, strawberry, and pineapple flooded my senses, unlike anything I had ever tasted.
The journey took a dramatic turn when a sudden commotion erupted inside the cabin. People jumped over each other, bags were flung in every direction, and panic set in. My cousin, unfazed, barely acknowledged the chaos. Soon, I understood why: the feared finans police (customs officers) had boarded. Traders scrambled to hide their goods, stuffing them under seats or slipping money into officers’ hands in silent exchange. There was no resistance, only ritual.
The coach broke down several times, causing delays. Passengers scattered, some walking into the fields or heading to the nearest station on foot. As we neared our destination, the train sped through steep hills, the clattering of wheels against tracks echoing eerily. It was terrifying, yet decades later, I look back on it with nostalgia.
Arriving at Dire Dawa, I was struck by how the train station resembled the Chemin de Fer office building in Addis. We stopped for breakfast at a small kiosk where I had the best ful I’d ever tasted. It would become a daily ritual during my two-month stay.
Dire welcomed me with open arms. I stayed in Sabian, a quiet neighbourhood still being settled, from where I explored every corner of the city: Depo, Legehare, Kezira, Dechatu, Gende Kore, Taiwan, Megala Konel, Greek Camp, and beyond. The city’s sounds, colours, scents, and warm air became an addiction.
Occasionally, my cousin slaughtered a goat, making a rich stew enjoyed with fresh Harun bread, a staple in the city. My cousin would lay out a light polypropylene carpet under the acacia tree, where his friends arrived Bercha (Khat) tucked under their arms. They launched into lively debates - trivial, hilarious, and endless - everyone talking, no one listening. Feeling overwhelmed, I'd step away briefly. I struggled to keep up with my cousin’s friends' rapid-fire exchanges, which led them to humorously inquire if something was wrong with me.
There was also her. A beautiful Somali girl with whom I shared stolen moments: walking together, sitting close while others were high on khat, exchanging subtle touches when no one was looking. It was a young, innocent affair, never crossing into deeper intimacy. My sly cousin noticed and warned me that her strict older brother wouldn’t take kindly to my “fooling around.” But the warning went unheeded.
Then, my older cousin intervened. Under instructions from my mother, he summoned me to his house and called Addis. My mother’s angry voice scolded me for staying too long and losing myself in the vibrantly warm city. My cousin had orders to keep me under his watch and send me back.
When I finally boarded the bus back to Addis, I left Dire with a heavy heart. I was shocked at how a city I wasn’t born in had overtaken my own. After the long journey, I wanted a shower. I was taken aback by the cold Addis water that now seemed to pierce my skin.
My second visit to Dire Dawa was shorter and heavier. Tears welled in my eyes as the Fokker 50 descended. My cousin, the one who had welcomed me with laughter, had lost his elder brother in a car crash near Kombolcha. The tragic news reverberated throughout the family, and everyone headed to Dire.
I was the first relative to arrive at the mourning tent in Lekso Bet (Funeral). No one knew me, so I took a quiet corner and sobbed. As the evening progressed, more people arrived, chatting warmly despite the tragedy. It was their way of comforting the grieving family. In Ethiopia, mourning is communal, but in Dire Dawa, it reaches another level. The neighbours had already travelled to Kemise to retrieve the body long before blood relatives could organise such an undertaking. When the coffin arrived, my cousin, typically brave, wept silently. Though I didn’t cry again, the trauma stayed with me for years.
Then, something unexpected happened.
As we walked in the funeral procession, a Boy Scout brass band appeared – dressed in full uniform, playing solemn funeral tunes. My cousin had been a beloved physics teacher, and his reputation stretched beyond the family. At St. Michael’s Church, students read from textbooks he had published. Friends recounted stories of his kindness and brilliance. I could still visualise in my mind's eye the rhythmic clicking of the sistrum and smell the aroma of the incense. It was a long, meditative, heartfelt mass for someone so beloved by his community.
Three days later, I left Dire again. The Fokker 50 lifted off, taking me away from the city that had claimed my heart. From the sky, it seemed unremarkable.
But Dire Dawa is like the Ambeshok fruit. Unassuming at first glance, even ordinary. Only once you taste it do you realize you’re hopelessly smitten. And so, like Lucie Manette and Charles Darnay, In Charles Dickens's legendary Classic novel ‘’The Tale of Two Cities”, bound by an invisible thread, Addis and Dire remain eternally entwined - two cities forever linked by the old Chemin de Fer.
PUBLISHED ON
Apr 06, 2025 [ VOL
26 , NO
1301]
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