Prose

Ibrahim Tella: The Arab Who Built the Dead

Many whispered about Ibrahim’s origins. Some claimed he descended from Abdella Taha’s lineage, others denied it vehemently. A few insisted he hailed from Yemen, though even they could not say exactly where, leaving him labeled simply as “an Arab.” When pressed for specifics, he would shrug with the air of a man who knew life’s mysteries were best left unsolved: “Does it truly matter?” And so, his past remained a shadow, elusive as the wind over Jijiga’s dusty streets.

Yet wherever Ibrahim walked, his presence cast a weighty shadow. Children, intoxicated by curiosity, pursued him relentlessly, chanting names like “Ebro-Timbro!” Dogs barked in chorus with their calls, vendors shouted, and clients muttered prayers and curses alike. To the town, he was Ibrahim Tella, the mason whose work spoke louder than words, etching floors, walls, and tombs with near-religious precision. In fractured Amharic, he could sting and amuse with equal measure: “offspring of harlots,” “Bint al Sherumuth”, each phrase a rhythm of humor, poetry, and bite.

Unlike his teetotal neighbors, Ibrahim occasionally indulged in alcohol, placing him delicately between Christian and Muslim communities. He was a bridge of sorts: part observer, part participant, part entertainer, part craftsman.

Professionally, he was obsessive. A floor was not merely cement; it was a canvas. He measured, leveled, shaped, and filled with Gereb Asan—the red clay from nearby mountains. Mortar dried for three days before he returned to add loops, strings, and squares, each etched in meticulous detail. At corners, the wall often claimed one ear of the loop, an imperfection that challenged his mastery. His signature, carved in Arabic script alongside the date, was meant to endure eternity.

Life flowed predictably until the construction of Fitawrari Mulugeta’s tomb shook Jijiga. The Fitawrari, felled near Durwale by Somali gunfire, was to be buried in Saint Michel graveyard—the town’s sole Christian resting place. Burial within the church compound was a mark of favor; outside, misfortune lingered. The funeral reflected the gravity of sins, with the self-slain relegated further afield.

Ibrahim approached the project with solemnity: no daylight drinking, quiet evenings, moving with feline stealth. The mausoleum was to be completed by the 40th Memorial Day, a sacred time marking the spirit’s lingering.

But disaster loomed. His assistant etched the epitaph, and Ibrahim, in tiny Algerian-style script, added his own name to the corner. Dawn revealed a catastrophe: “Fitawrari” became “fitu-Tawero,” “Mulugeta” morphed into “MeriGeta,” and “Tewledu” twisted into “Tebedu.” The tablet now told a tale of escapades, sight loss, and death, a tragedy wrapped in comedy.

Meri-Geta, the presiding priest, froze. His mind raced, then tumbled back into memory:

He was a shepherd boy, sixty years past, playing husband and wife with a neighborhood girl. She made coffee from corks and soil, set a bed of leaves and grass, and they slept together in innocent mimicry. Now, decades later, that innocence contrasted painfully with the cemented humiliation of his adult life—an irony so sharp it drew laughter from no one but memory itself.

The sudden wailing of a late-arriving cousin of the deceased pulled him back to reality. Before him lay the miswritten tablet, a veil over the solemn Qidase, yet its message was legible to all. Ibrahim, unaware of Amharic’s subtleties and relying on a friend of dubious skill, had become an unwitting culprit in this comedic tragedy.

The family quickly covered the epitaph with a second Netela, but the service stumbled on. Meri-Geta’s embarrassment was profound; he swallowed, muttered prayers, and attempted to ward off spiritual contamination with whispered incantations.

Enter Eteye Beletu, with a two-day-old can of Sharban Ella water, Muslim-owned and therefore doubly suspect. She inquired if it could still sanctify the errant tablet. The priest, torn between duty and outrage, murmured blessings in Geez, sprinkled water, and hoped the spell took hold. It did not. But the act itself—ritual performed amidst absurdity—was sufficient, in his mind, to reclaim dignity.

Later, during the post-service festive, Meri-Geta inquired of the mason. It was Ibrahim. The widow, Woizero Yeteme, subtly revealed her unwitting complicity in commissioning him, and Meri-Geta’s anger simmered. Public humiliation, he believed, should not remain private. The lesson lingered: in Jijiga, dignity, honor, and humor danced together in an intricate, unpredictable choreography.

Ibrahim absented himself from the celebrations, retreating into his home. His shame was not in business lost, but in flawed inscriptions and the storm they had ignited. Moral code intact, he had accepted no payment from the bereaved.

Ibrahim’s Flashback

And then, as he stared at the mis-inscribed tablet, memories of his own life came flooding back—vivid, unavoidable, as if the past had jumped in front of his eyes.

He saw himself as a small boy, grazing goats in the rugged hills of Yemen, the wind tangling his hair, the sun baking the dry earth. His Medressa teacher loomed over him, white satin in hand, shouting: “Recite the ninety-nine names of Allah!” But the letters danced before him, an uncatchable mirage. Counted fingers and whispered murmurs of classmates offered no comfort.

He failed. Repeatedly. The Koran refused to stay in his memory, slipping like sand through his fingers. Shame curled in his chest, and the boy made a decision: he would master his hands instead. Masonry, he realized, would be a language he could learn, precise and tangible, a skill unshaken by forgetfulness.

Dreams of the sea came next. He trekked for days to the port, legs sore, heart heavy, carrying little but ambition and the memory of the girl he loved. She had eyes like warm honey and laughter that chased the wind—but he was forced to leave her behind in Yemen, a memory sealed with longing. The port smelled of salt and fish; sails flapped, seagulls cawed, and he hitched a lift to Ethiopia, drawn by rumors of opportunity, of work, of a future where his hands could speak better than his tongue.

Every step forward in Jijiga was measured against those memories—the stubborn goats, the Medressa scoldings, the girl left behind. And now, decades later, he was the man who shaped floors, walls, and tombs with exacting care, yet still felt the pang of that lost innocence and first love.

The Town Reacts

As news of the mis-inscribed tomb spread, the town erupted in a theater of its own:

• Osman-Gobeye the blacksmith, squinting at the tablet, muttered, “Fitu-Tawero? Is that a new saint?” and nearly dropped his hammer in laughter.

• Kedija, the fruit seller, whispered to her neighbor, “Did he write MeriGeta or is it some secret code we must decode?”

• Old Hassen, the storyteller, took a long puff on his pipe and declared, “If Fitawrari were alive, he’d demand a second funeral—this one just for the letters!”

• Children ran around chanting, “Fitu-Tawero! Fitu-Tawero!” and even the dogs barked in what seemed like rhythm to the accidental comedy.

Ibrahim, meanwhile, retreated into his meticulous habits. Floors, walls, tombs—they demanded perfection. Even as the town whispered, giggled, and concocted tall tales, he worked in quiet focus. His assistants, aware of his exacting eye, tiptoed around him, careful not to disturb the sacred geometry of strings and loops.

Yet humor never fully left him. When a wall corner claimed an ear of a loop, he would mutter under his breath, “Even the stone rebels against perfection,” and chuckle softly, a private joke shared only with his craft.

Even the missteps became stories: a botched floor in Menze Sefer was recounted at evening taverns with exaggerated gestures, while his signature in Arabic script was described as mystical and hilarious in equal measure. Children would trace it with chalk, imagining secret codes, while adults nodded knowingly at the intersection of artistry and absurdity.

Through it all, Ibrahim remained indispensable: the town needed him more than they needed scandal. The mis-inscribed tomb became a cultural touchstone, a reminder that even in solemnity, human folly and humor could coexist, and that mastery was not just in skill, but in navigating the unpredictable currents of life and community.

As the town slept, dust settling over the narrow streets of Jijiga, Ibrahim Tella emerged from his modest home, lantern in hand. The moonlight traced long shadows, and the wind whispered through acacia leaves, carrying faint echoes of children’s chants from the day: “Fitu-Tawero! Fitu-Tawero!”

He walked silently to the cemetery, each step measured as carefully as his mortar lines. The mis-inscribed tombs glimmered under the silver light, their letters rigid, awkward, betraying the folly of human error. Yet, to Ibrahim, they were not failures—they were invitations to mischief.

With a small chisel and a secret smile, he began his clandestine work. “No one need know,” he muttered, tracing subtle corrections, smoothing a crooked line here, straightening a squiggly letter there. Each touch was precise, like a painter restoring a masterpiece in the dead of night.

He paused at Fitawrari Mulugeta’s tablet. Fitu-Tawero… MeriGeta… Tebedu… The letters seemed to squirm under his gaze. With a flick of his wrist, he realigned them, almost imperceptibly, a silent nod to both the dead and the living.

Occasionally, he paused to chuckle, recalling memories that no lantern could illuminate fully: the goats grazing in Yemen, the stern Medressa teacher waving his satin, the girl he loved and left behind, the long trek to the port, and the excitement of his arrival in Ethiopia. “Even in mistakes, there is poetry,” he whispered to the night.

By dawn, Ibrahim disappeared into the alleys of Jijiga, leaving the cemetery seemingly untouched. But subtle perfection lingered in the stone: a crooked loop now straightened, a squiggle tamed, letters almost imperceptibly corrected. No one noticed, yet the essence of dignity remained, like a silent prayer cast over stone.

And so, the town awoke, bustling with its usual chatter and gossip. Life went on, children ran, vendors hawked, priests muttered prayers—but somewhere in the quiet corners of the cemetery, Ibrahim’s private justice had been done. The world had its laughter and folly, but his craft, his hands, his secret humor endured—untouched, timeless, quietly victorious.

For Ibrahim, mastery was never just about cement and letters. It was about walking the delicate line between human error and divine precision, infusing life with subtle humor, and honoring both the living and the dead in ways only he could see. And in that quiet, solitary artistry, he finally found a kind of peace.