No Funeral at AA University.

AAUniversity Student’s Death and the Friends Who Carried Him to Gojjam. By Allelign Sisay

In September 1981, Tibebu, Amanuel, Girma, and I (Alebel) met during freshman registration at Addis Ababa University. We came from the provinces. Tibebu and Amanuel came from the Gojam province, Debre Markos city. Girma from Gonder and I from Wollo. We were eighteen. After the registration, we found a spot at the Law School Café. We discussed high school stories and concerns about university life. Addis Ababa overwhelmed us. Too loud. Too fast. Too many moving pieces. But the more we spoke of provincial life, the more we nodded. Friendship came easily after that.

It was Monday night, 1981. A thud woke me. I peeled off my blanket. Pitch dark. Girma snored across from me. Was I dreaming? My brain spun from last night’s beer. I tried to sleep, but then—

“Help! Help! Alebel, Girma! Help!”

Tibebu’s voice. I flipped on the light. Girma and I jumped out of bed and ran into the next room.

Tibebu stood frozen, eyes locked on the floor. Amanuel lay on his back, rope around his neck, eyes wide to the ceiling.

“Oh my God,” Girma gasped. “Is he dead?”

“He’s not breathing,” I said.

“Touch him,” Girma whispered.

“You touch him,” I said.

“I’ve never touched a corpse.”

“Tibebu, he’s your childhood friend. Can you check?”

Tibebu shook his head. “No. I don’t touch the dead.”

We stood there, just boys in T-shirts and underwear, paralyzed. The room reeked of blood, urine, and feces. I yanked them into our bedroom and locked the door like Amanuel might rise and chase us. We were eighteen. Freshmen. We had ditched the dorms and rented a two-room house behind Kidist Mariam Church in Arat Kilo. No curfews. Freedom. Girls, beer, smokes. We were enjoying ourselves until this.

“Should we take him to the hospital?” Tibebu asked.

“He’s dead,” I said. “Unless we drag him to Jerusalem and ask Jesus to raise him like Lazarus.”

“This isn’t funny!” Tibebu slammed the table.

“What if we call the police?” Girma asked.

“Only if you want to spend your life in jail,” I said.

“So what then?” asked Tibebu

“We bury him,” Girma said.

“Where?” asked Tibebu

“Under his bed,” said Girma. “A shovel’s cheaper than a coffin.”

“Why don’t we bury him at AA University? He’s a student there. There is a Church. St.

Marekos,” I said.

“No,” Tibebu said, “No funeral at AA University. We take him to Gojam. His mother must bury him with ritual.”

“How can we take him?” I asked. “We have no money or car.” We counted what we had: 180 cash. Not enough for anything. “Shhh!” Tibebu hissed. “Did you hear that?” “Hear what?” I asked.

“I think he moved.”

My blood froze.

“Go check,” I said.

“You check,” Tibebu said.

“You shared a room with him!” I glared at Tibebu.

“You’re the brave one,” he shot back.

We argued, but none of us dared to touch the dead body again. Then, we made a plan to borrow money from classmates. Regroup by noon. We gathered outside. I’d borrowed 100 birr. Tibebu found 300. Girma stole 100 birr from his girlfriend. Altogether: 680 birr. I stashed the money in my pocket.

We walked to “All Sizes Car Rental.” A girl of our age greeted us.

“What can I do for you?”

“Van. One day. Black.”

“Four hundred birr,” she said.

I paid. Then she added, “Insurance? Two hundred.”

I handed her the rest and kept 80 birr.

“You need a driver?”

“Yes,” Tibebu said.

“300 birr,” said the girl.

“No,” I said. “I can drive.”

She raised an eyebrow. “License?”

I handed her my driver’s license. She studied it.

“You’re only eighteen.”

“I drove for one year with my father. Another year alone.”

She smiled. “You don’t look it.”

I blurted, “You in college? You speak like a literature major.”

“I am. But flattery won’t get you the car.”

She paused. “What’s the van for?”

I glanced at Girma and Tibebut. Girma looked away. Tibebu gazed at his feet.

“To transport our friend’s body,” I said. “He hanged himself.”

The girl screamed as if Amanuel were her brother.

“Please,” I said, covering her mouth. “We’re students. We don’t know what to do.”

Her father burst in from the backroom.

“You screamed?”

“No, Dad. I laughed. His Wolloye accent.”

“You’re Wolloye too,” her father said, frowning, and returned.

“Two thousand birr extra. That’s what it costs to clean up after death.”

“We don’t have that.”

I took off my girlfriend’s gold chain. “Take this. It’s all I have.”

She studied my face, then nodded. “No, I don’t need your gold. You told the truth. I respect that.” She handed me the car key and a black plastic body bag for the corpse.

“Wrap him. No leaks in my car,” she warned.

We thanked her, and I drove to our rented house. At dawn, we woke up to load the body. The smell hit us. Then, we worked like silent soldiers. We wrapped the body in the bag and put him in the trunk. We trembled to close his eyes or untie the rope wrapped around his neck. I drove through the quiet, sleeping city of Addis. On the outskirts, a traffic officer flagged us down. I froze.

“License,” he said, sniffing. “You stink.”

I handed him my license. He peered inside but didn’t open the trunk. “Don’t speed.” We exhaled after he waved us on. Later, the descending road to the Nile gorge began.

Narrow, steep, no guardrails. We passed priests standing on the side of the road and begging for the church. Then ignored the kids herding goats and looking us down from the mountainside. Then—CRASH. A stone shattered the back window. I slammed on the brakes. The bus behind us stopped. The driver came out.

“You passed the priests and the goat keepers. Now this?”

He signaled the goat herders’ kids to come down.

“He’s new,” he said.

“He learns his lesson,” the little goat keeper.

The driver handed them candy and waved them off. Soon, the van lost power and came to a stop. Two bus drivers behind us assisted us in changing the flat tire. They inquired about the smell and the blood oozing from the trunk.

“Red wine spill,” I lied.

When asked to open the trunk for the spare tire, I had no choice. I told him. The stench poured out. The drivers gagged. They laid Amanuel’s body on the ground, changed the tire, and replaced him in silence. Two miles later, four bandits stepped onto the road with rifles.

“One thousand birr!”

“For what?” I snapped.

“Or we send you into the Nile Gorge.”

“We have a corpse in the trunk!” Girma shouted.

“Liar,” barked the bandit.

“Check it!” I said.

Tibebu stepped out like a war general. “You can’t open that trunk. Not in this heat.”

“Who are you?” asked the bandit leader.

“I’m Tibebu Belay Zeleke the Third.”

The bandits bowed. “Belay Zeleke’s grandson?”

“Yes,” I said.

The bandit bowed in unison. “Forgive us, sir. Can we escort you?”

“No need,” Tibebu waved them away.

We drove off. I turned to Tibebu, stunned.

“Are you really Belay Zeleke’s grandson?” I asked.

“No,” he laughed. “I made it up.”

We reached Debre Markos. Tibebu pointed. “That’s his house. Next one’s mine.”

We knocked. Amanuel’s mother answered, her face brightening with joy.

“Weee, Tibebu! Where’s my son?”

“In the car,” he whispered.

“Sick?”

“No… dead.”

She stared at us. “Not my Amanueley. He’d never leave me. He’s my only love. I raised him alone. Show me!” she said.

We opened the trunk. Her scream ripped through the village: “Erreeeyee! Erreeeyee!” Neighbors flooded in. The crowd wept. Tibebu’s parents arrived. Amanuel’s mother led the wailing, then raised her hand for silence.

“Unwrap him. I need to see my son.”

They brought the body inside. She turned to me. “You drove him. Are you sure this body is my son?”

I nodded, wordless. She collapsed into my shoulders, crying. Her tears soaked my shirt. I broke down. I cried with her. A priest came and separated us. He told us to follow him. We entered another room. He and Amanuel’s brother asked questions about how he died. I answered. They asked us to stay for the funeral. I said we had to return the car the same day. Amanuel’s brother pressed 1,000 birr into my hands for the car rental fee. I hesitated. Then accepted. The mother came.

“Why didn’t you close his eyes?” she asked.

“Fear grabbed our hands,” I said.

“You were brave to bring him,” she said. “He didn’t die alone.”

We embraced and wept with her. Tibebu stayed for the funeral. Girma and I returned to Addis. At the rental shop, the same girl greeted us.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

I handed her 900 birr for the broken window.

She shook her head. “You paid for damage insurance. Keep it.”

She held the keys in her hand.

“Was it your first time dealing with death?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I could tell. But you didn’t abandon him.”

“No,” I said. “We couldn’t.”

A true story fictionalized with identity changes for the safety of the living.