It was a workshop of sorts. This guy meets a friend and hugs him with some “Where have you been all this time?” To his shock the friend appeared to have encountered some dinosaur.

A year or so back there was this spectacle in a crowded street in Addis. The middle aged man was walking with a relatively younger woman towards the Arat Kilo area, and almost every thirty seconds or so he either slapped or punched her.

“I wish I was childless! I wish I didn’t have any kids!” Looking at him one would think the guy has been given his last thirteen days in this world by the doctor.

The boss dials his secretary; “Tell the accountant I want to talk to him.” “But sir, he’s not in yet.’

The most prominent derby in the country’s soccer calendar is a local version of el classico. Every encounter of St. George FC and Coffee FC generates so much enthusiasm soccer craze reaches its peak.

It was just another morning at this rundown village, a place where one would deduce, “Poverty couldn’t be any worse than this!” A place where a not-so-romantic past and a bland and unpleasant present mingle  an bleak,

“Did you watch last night? “Watch what?” “What do you mean watch what? Don’t tell me you didn’t you see how that Atez guy fooled Bahir!”

Life was going well for the thirtyish couple. He, a highly paid accountant; she, a cosmetic shop owner in the affluent Bole area; a spacious multiple-room villa and a couple of cars.

I’ve a confession to make. I never danced. Yes, NEVER. Ages back friends who tried to pump some dancing sense in me ended up frustrated.

Recently a friend was telling me about his problems with his boss. He says his boss hates him and doesn’t even try to hide his feelings.