Eternal Echoes and Living Legends ALEMTSEHAY WODAJO

May 3 , 2025. By BEREKET BALCHA ( Fortune Staff Writer )

I was six years old when I first saw her on screen: playing the role of Adanech, a tormented yet fierce heroine who exacts revenge with three bullets. Her image, dressed in black leather jacket with belted waistline giving her the look of a sharp hitwoman, face contorted with pain and fury, never left me. She penned lyrics for top notch vocalists ranging from Aster Aweke, Muluken Melese, Tilahun Gessese and many more. But for me, even at 48, she remained that woman from Unpaid Debt, forever etched into my subconscious, writes BEREKET BALCHA.

A haunting painting of St. George at the Armenian Church by Selam Amsalu lured me toward an unlikely exploration. I had never stepped foot inside the Teferi Mekonnen School of Fine Arts, but Selam’s work stirred something dormant. So, I ventured into the lush compound, just as the school was preparing for its centenary celebration.

There, in the open lawns scattered with student sculptures, Selam and her friend Bizunesh guided me through their creations. Selam’s sculpture of the Five Wise Virgins drew from a biblical parable of readiness and hope, while Bizunesh’s work, a surreal piece of a woman birthing a grotesque infant from her breast, offered a raw meditation on childhood dreams and how society corrodes innocence. Sitting beside Bizunesh’s sculpture on the grass, we fell into a deep conversation about life, beauty, and the burdens we carry.

Compared to my old high school, Black Lion, where arts were an afterthought, Teferi Mekonnen was a revelation. The Fine Arts building alone rivaled the entire main block of my former school. Selam led me further into the campus, to the music department, where sounds of practice spilled from every doorway, an ensemble of discipline and passion. I was reminded of my father's distant cousin, a Masenko and violin student at Yared Music School, who later left for Canada.

One sound in particular, a vibrant polyrhythm, pulled us toward a rehearsal room. Peeking through the old wooden door, we were quickly caught. Inside was Robera, a young drummer immersed in his own world. We asked him to continue playing as if we were not there. His style hinted at jazz, and it turned out he idolized Dawit Adera, the acclaimed jazz drummer and alumnus of the school. Surprisingly, Robera was unaware of the upcoming 100th anniversary festivities. He was simply there to practice and his excellent performance and free spirit promises a bright career ahead.

My plan was to attend the celebration on Saturday. But Saturday had other plans.

A phone call with one of the organizers revealed another event, something even more thrilling: the inauguration of the Taytu Cultural Center and Museum, housed in Addis Abeba’s first municipal building, just across from St. George Church. I had not heard of the center before, but one name changed everything, Alemtsehay Wodajo. Actress, poet, playwright, cultural icon; Alemtsehay was behind the center’s renovation and founding.

I was told the official opening was invitation-only, packed with dignitaries including the Prime Minister and the Mayor expected to attend. But there was an alternative, a children’s book launch later that afternoon, hosted by Alemtsehay herself and open only to parents, children, and teachers. That was my opening and a much-needed lifeline to accomplish my objective.

I prepared two copies of my article from May 2024 on Yilma Habteyes, Ethiopia’s most prolific crime fiction author. His work Yaltekefele Ida (Unpaid Debt), adapted into a 1980s TV drama, featured a riveting performance by none other than Alemtsehay Wodajo. The popular series with the beautiful diva pistol on hand, knit brows, indignant by the relentless coercion by her vile lover and conscience ridden by enormous guilt was a block buster.

I was six years old when I first saw her on screen: playing the role of Adanech, a tormented yet fierce heroine who exacts revenge with three bullets. Her image, dressed in black leather jacket with belted waistline giving her the look of a sharp hitwoman, face contorted with pain and fury, never left me.

As I matured, I learned Alemtsehay was more than a screen presence, she was the force behind countless plays, lyrics, and artistic milestones. She penned lyrics for top notch vocalists ranging from Aster Aweke, Muluken Melese, Tilahun Gessese and many more. But for me, even at 48, she remained that woman from Unpaid Debt, forever etched into my subconscious. It is surprising at six years old and very little grasp of the intricate plot, I still had the presence of mind to understand the injustice she endured.

I arrived early at the Taytu Center. The compound was inviting; green, well-tended, adorned with posters, and alive with the sound of children in uniform. As I waited, my nerves betrayed me. I stood out in the crowd of parents and schoolchildren. Selamawit Tesfaye, a friend of Alemtsehay, noticed my awkward presence and asked why I was there. Once I told her, she took me backstage.

And then, there she was.

Alemtsehay stood in a white Habesha Qemis (Traditional Ethiopian dress) and golden-trimmed Kaba, radiant and regal. Her earrings, her hair, her presence; it was like stepping into a vivid dream I had carried for four decades. She mistook me for someone she knew from the US or perhaps sensed our connection. I hugged her like a long-lost relative. We exchanged autographed copies of the article. I was still breathless when the event began. For the rest of the afternoon, I was in a kind of euphoric state which seemed to relapse even when I reminisce in my mind.

Children performed folk songs and patriotic verses. Alemtsehay, Addis Abeba Women, Children and Social Affairs Bureau chief, Woizero Konjit Debela, and the book’s graphic designer, Bezawit Amdework all spoke. Selamawit’s children Biruk and Rediet Samson took the stage as Count Antonelli and Empress Taytu in a reenactment from Alemtsehay’s play Taytu Bitul. The book itself was a beautifully illustrated retelling of the Empress's life, a piece of history wrapped in colour and courage. I bought two copies. I did not know for whom, but I knew they were treasures.

After the show, parents and children lined up to take pictures with Alemtsehay. She called me over with a smile. I removed my GAP hoodie to reveal a T-shirt from Togo, drenched in Ethiopian flag colors. I wanted the moment immortalised in the national spirit. We hugged each other last time. “God bless you,” she said, and in that moment, I felt something cosmic. She looked so much like my mother.

The next day, I visited my family. My niece, Amen Befekadu, only three and the light of our lives, was there. Suddenly, I knew who the book was for. We sat together, and I read Taytu Bitul. Not Frozen, not Snow White, not Cinderella, but a real Ethiopian queen, brought to life by a woman whose legacy spans generations.

I was thrilled when my brother told me that Amen was so taken by the storybook, she now wears her hair in Taytu Bitul’s iconic Shuruba style. Her fascination reminded me of the power of planting vision and pride early in life, something Alemtsehay clearly understands. Her lifelong focus on nurturing children will echo across generations, as it already has in mine. That one woman could inspire both a six-year-old me and my niece decades later is a true measure of Alemtsehay’s enduring greatness.

As I narrated the story, Amen silenced the adults with her tiny but commanding voice: “We are reading a story!”. And indeed, we were. A story long overdue, one that lives on through voices like Alemtsehay’s and little girls like Amen.

PUBLISHED ON May 03,2025 [ VOL 26 , NO 1305]

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