~*Beyond the Boundaries*~

PlOt OuTliNe?

this is basiclly a girl who is the president of Ethiopia's daughter. Struggles to come to terms with the sad truth of her dying nation which she thought was perfect...

**********STORY**********

I am the president’s daughter.

To me, President W. Bush is….nobody.

To me, Negasso Gidada is….well, nobody either.

Although he should be.

Because he is my father.

And I used to say that with huge pride. But my school friends used to give me strange looks, so I gathered I should just shut up. But that was back in the day when I used to be allowed to actually GO to school.

My name is Lielit Selam Gidada. Translated, that actually means Princess of Peace. Now you may know me, but there is a great chance that you do not. But you can call me Lee.

So my father is the president, my mother is….I do not know. She had me out of wedlock and had to give me to my father. I am not totally sure. But I do have a stepmother who is the American version of the ‘First Lady’. So the country my dad is the president of is called Ethiopia. It really is a beautiful country. Although that is mostly from my imagination since whenever I used to go to public school the window were tinted so I couldn’t see outside. And I have only ever been to two other places: Malawi for a conference with my dad and step-mom and once when I was about twelve we went to Namibia but we had to cut the holiday short because of a crisis back home.

I am fifteen years old. I have black hair and tanned skin. I am not African-American. I am part African part South American. Wait, that does make me African-American. My mother was from Argentina and my dad from, well duh, Ethiopia.

I live in a White House that is actually an off-whiteish brown. The house garden’s go on for almost as far as your eye can see and you cant see much further since the wall is twice as high as your average guy. But the garden is pretty cool, with lush green gardens and a long paved driveway and a little spunky fountain. Guards with formal black uniform’s patrol the area. I am caged in like an animal.

And I hate it. It is so lonely. I wonder around and read books but I am not allowed to watch the TV in my dad’s den. I can cook food and play with dolls. I only do the former, do not worry. I grew out of dolls about the same time I grew out of dungarees. But I do like imagining things sometimes. Because really, my imagination is much better than my reality because, well, nobody really loves me. And I don’t mean that in a ‘I’m so hard-done-by and I want attention way’. Its just that my dad is really busy and my step mom doesn’t do much. She shops, but I am not allowed to go with her.

At night when we eat supper, there is silence.

Because we have no love.

My one consolation is my *servant* but she is really just my friend. She is hired by my dad to keep things clean but really, Sara is my best-and sadly only-friend. Sara is about thirty-three but really, really thin and poor as far as I know. I know that she has two children and her husband died. I don’t know how since she doesn’t talk much about herself.

Luckily I have music. My parents have not banned me from that.

I like a lot about my life. On Sundays they have a little Islamic service in the courtyard for my dad and stepmother and the guards and staff and anyone on the premises who wants to attend. Now, I detest the Islam religion, but seriously, the monotonous way the guy who leads the boring thing speaks cracks me up! He sounds like someone has put a plug over his nose.

And the chickens! I love those! They run around the backyard clucking away and making a fool of themselves. But when the baby chicks are born are love to hold them and nurse them. Until they end up of our table. And then I have to excuse my self and go be sick in the downstairs loo. I do not have a weak stomach, but somehow the thought of my dear pet landing in my stomach does tend to put me off my food!

Study wise, I do almost like home schooling. I have textbooks and manuals to learn and get sent exams and modules, which are marked by my step mother. I refuse to call her my mother, but anyways, I have been told that I am on the brink of ‘sheer genuisy’ and that I can ‘do great things’

Today is going to be fairly boring. It’s only 7:44am but father has already flown to Sudan for the day to speak with the president, (step) mother is out in the city for today and tomorrow for some conference. So I shall occupy myself till 8 o’clock when Sara gets here and hopefully I can get her to cook me some eggs (Which I do not have a problem eating)

So feeling rather sneaky, I decided to go to my father’s den and switch on the television. Some cartoon is on, and it may sound stupid, but I become engrossed in it. Hey, I was deprived of it as a kid, so cut me some slack, okay?

A while later I hear a patter of feet, and a muffled sob. Strange, since only Sara should be here by now.

“Sara?” I call out into the darkness

I run towards the kitchen, my heart pounding as fast as a freight train.

“Miss?” came Sara’s soft voice.

“What’s wrong?” I asked with genuine concern

“Nothing. Nothing as all” her dark face was tear stained. I may be slow but I am not a deformed.

“Please. You can trust me. I won’t tell my dad or mom or anybody” I beg.

“I need a bit of money, Leelee (her pet name for me) I will pay you back as soon as I get my pay. I promise”

“A-are you in some kind of trouble?” I asked

“No. Its just…..” she stammers. But I sense she see’s my soft face and has the courage to continue “Well, my baby boy. He is very sick. I am so sorry, madam, but I had to bring him with me to work today. If I left him, he would have died”

I stand still. My dad would be furious if he found out. But he did not have to.

“Sara” I begin “Let me help you. Bring your boy. You can bath him and fed him and wash his clothes.”

“Madam, madam, I am forever grateful to you for your kindness. You are not at all like your father”

I decide to ignore the last bit. My father is generally a good guy.

“Go get your baby, and please, do not call me madam”

She teeters off with an odd bounce in her step for such a weak woman. Soon she returns with a bundle wrapped in a blanket. I compose myself. I love babies. Well, the few I have seen that is. They always have those fat, chubby faces and dimples on their arms and legs.

Slowly she places the covered bundle on the table. She takes off its hood.

And as soon as I saw what was lying there, I turned around to be sick.

“I’m so, so sorry Sara. I didn’t mean for that to happen” I say, and wash my mouth out under the tap. Immediately she grabs a worn cloth and begins wiping up my mess.

“Watch him please, mam” she says.

Gingerly, I walk over the few steps to where the monster lies. This is not a baby. This is not even a human. It begins to cry at my appearance, and slowly I pat his hand with mine. His skin feels light and thin, as though it would break any moment now. His huge, bulging eyes protrude out of his head. His little teeth are almost nothing, and his head is rather oddly shaped. I slowly open the cloth, but have to close it quickly before I get sick ON him. His small ribs jut out so much so I can count them, and his tummy is rounded and swollen. His hand reaches for mine, but I swat it away.

This makes him cry, and so I feel bad.

“W-whats wrong with him” I stammer out to Sara, who is not listening. I catch my reflection in the fancy Egyptian mirror, and notice that I am in fact crying.

“Are you sure I can wash him, madam?” asked Sara.

“Yes, use the downstairs bathroom. its closer” her face was so full of gratitude she didn’t pick up that the reason I wanted her to use the downstairs bathroom was because it wasn’t mine. It wouldn’t dirty my tub. Nevertheless, she whisked the bag of bones off in his rag and left me to the empty room which smelt a mixture of puke and cleaning agent.

Immediately I scolded myself for how snobby and disgusted I was being. But it wasn’t the fact that I thought I was better than these people. It was the fact that I had no control over this tiny little soul. Why was he like this? I stilled my heart and got busy finding a cookbook. I found one from the early nineties when I was young, and found a recipe for oats. I knew that would be good for….what was his name? The oats took only five minutes, so I popped in some toast for Sara and myself, got out the butter and homemade jam. I laid out the table cloth for us to eat by the kitchen nook and brewed a pot of tea. I found some milk, then stopped myself. I had learnt that babies are supposed to drink milk. I would simply have to wait until Sara came back.

I paced the kitchen, tried to think of pretty flowers and little pretty girls. But then images of the baby boy flashed through my busy mind, and I barely made it to the upstairs bathroom on time.

About twenty minutes later, Sara returned with a cleaner and better smelling baby.

“What is his name?” I asked.

“David” she replied sacredly.

“I made breakfast” I said bravely. Sara knew I cant cook that well.

Even so, tells welled up in her tired eyes, and she stuttered out “God must have sent you, Lee. You are a gift, madam”

“I was not sent from any gods” I hastily snapped “I don’t waste my time bowing to little statues that don’t even hear your prayers”

Sara grew silent, and I wondered if I had offended her. “God provides, Lee. He has given me you, and David.”

“Uh-huh.” I said “So was he born in during the summer?” I asked, changing the subject. Summer was three months ago, which seemed about right.

“Yes, he was. Summer 2003” Sara replied calmly.

I had to fight off another bought of nausea. He was THREE? How could that be? He weighed barely 24 pounds!

I grew silent. This was too much to take in in one day.

After about ten minutes, it was clear to all that this information has affected me deeply. I was engrossed in watching Sara try feed David. He kept coughing and wheezing. Five tries meant one spoonful down.

“Why can’t he keep the food down?” I wondered, out loud.

“It is because he is not used to food. He only eats when I can provide.” She replied.

More silence.

“Lee” Sara began

“Yep” I said dully and sadly.

“I must ask you. How many times have you been beyond the boundaries?” she said.

“You mean….outside the house walls? Well, I used to go to school remember? For about, um, 4 months. But the windows were tinted. We couldn’t see outside. And then twice to go to the airport. But yet again, the walls were tinted”

She nodded silently. Like I had given her the vital clue to a mystey.

“What?” I asked

“In my area, David would be considered fat.”

“What?!?” I cried. Fat? Then I could be OBESE.

“To you, Ethiopia is beautiful. But that’s because you see the cover. But underneath, to the rest of the world, Ethiopia is a starving, crumbling nation. Most of the country, they lived like me. Some poorer than me.”

“But….but why doesn’t my dad give you guys money? He could buy you a house! He could give the children food! He could help! He has the power!” I insisted.

“Because Lee….Your father is the man who is taking away all the countries money….for himself”

You know like in movies when the dramatic princess goes “And the world stopped-or it should have”? Well I had one of THOSE moments. And I don’t really care if it sounds so cliché but when you’ve been sticking up for someone your whole life, and you realize that you are actually naively on the ‘dark’ side you WANT the world to stop. So you can step off this weird rollercoaster. And then it clicked

“Do people die from this? You know, babies and stuff?” I asked.

“Everyday. Its one of the major killers here in Ethiopia. Children barely make it to their birthdays. Its like-“

I held up my hands “Okay stop” I yelled.

Because the full realization had hit. Even though I was naively supporting this by using laptops and eating like a pig, I was still at fault.

And the blood of the innocent.

Was on my hands.

I didn’t want to throw up, I want to give up. I wanted to sink into a hole and never come out. Yet at the same time I wondered why this affects me so, and why I am having such physical reactions. I remind myself I should rather have a soft heart like this one than a cold one made out of steel like my fathers.

I slowly stand up, go to my room, open my wallet and take out 250birr. That is enough to buy, well for me about three online books but its enough to feed Sara and David and the other one for a while. I surprise myself at how steadily I am walking, and make it safely to the bottom of the stairs without breaking my neck. I thrust the money at Sara and open my mouth to speak. But the words do not want to come out. So I sip a glass of water and cough. A gentle whisper comes out and I manage to stammer. “Sara. Go home and take this. Get him to the doctor for some protein drink or something. Come home tomorrow. No one will know you have gone. If the guard asks why you are leaving, say Lielet has given her consent” and give her a curt nod. She doesn’t even question me, grabs David and puts her hands together in a prayer motion and looks up as if I am standing above her. Anyways, she leaves and the house is once again silent, and I can hardly believe it is only 10:47am.

How will I occupy myself with idle things when there is a dying world out there? I decide to go to my father’s den, but this time I do not waste precious time on stupid television. I begin to look through his drawers for anything. Evidence, proof. I do not know what I am truly looking for, but I am definitely looking for some type of comfort.

Bank transactions. Hundreds of them. Newspaper clippings. Nothing out of the norm. I look through his cupboards until I find his laptop. I hit ‘Google’ for information. I need to know if what I just heard was true. Is Father really behind this all? Are people really starving to death? The information isn’t exactly sunshine and rainbows. In fact, its dark clouds and the death sentence. Except a slow, painful one.

The death toll climbs with each new site. These deaths are terrible, but I want to cause a death as I finish off my research. I don’t want to kill some innocent child. No, I want to kill my father.

There are sites about famines! I did not even know there was a famine in Ethiopia. I did not know there is a shortage of water.

I told you I live in a cage.

But it is time to break out.

Chapter Two:

Take if from me! You cannot eat your pork roast when you think about life just the other side of the fence. But this food has been lovingly prepared by the cook and so I manage to shove down some vegetables. But I cannot touch my pork.

I did not speak one word to my father during the meal procession. It was a rather lonely meal, with me on the one side and my dad on the other. It was like someone had put this great soundproof wall between the two of us.

After dinner my father comes out and gives me a hug. My arms stay lifeless by my side, as those steel hands wrap themselves against my numb form. His hands move their way back to his sides, and I coldly glare at this deceitful murderer.

I cannot believe 8 pints of his blood courses through my veins.

It sickens me.

I share DNA with a murderer. Then the slap comes again and I realize I too am a murderer. That makes me run to my bedroom and cry. Not tears for myself, but tears for the starved. For David and Sara and her husband and every other starving mother and child and father.

They were born into their life.

Just as much I was born into mine.

So I lie on my bed and stare outside. The stars look really bright tonight. But it seems everybody is rejoicing when I am falling down, down, down.

At first I wandered over to my dresser and pulled out a worn photograph of my mother. I look rather a lot like her, but this memory only seemed to make me cry more, so I packed it away. So terribly bored, I shut my eyes, and to my surprise I actually fall asleep. But my dreams are far worse than my real life, and around 1am I wake up. My back is sweaty and a bead of perspiration has formed on my forehead. My heart is pulsing especially fast, and images of David still flash through my mind like an old film when it is stuck. I switch on the lights hoping to expose the demons that plague me. But my room is still the same; still clean, still very, very fancy.

It is like time has taken on a new meaning, and it’s a countdown to forever. Every minute is another step closer to the day when I can escape, yet another minute a child goes hungry.

The word hunger makes my tummy rumble, and I respond to go downstairs and make myself a double-decker sandwich with ham and cheese and salad goods and mayonnaise.

I take the first bite, but before I can chew it, the voices in my head are back. And they are screaming:

“Which side are you on?”

So I drop the sandwich, and opt for an apple instead.

I walk around idly, and notice that the light to my fathers study is on. I walk in and see my stepmother. She is rummaging through the drawers like a madwoman.

“What are you doing?” I asked in an accusatory voice. Which is pretty rich for someone who was doing the exact same thing only a little of 12 hours ago.

“Lee” she gasped “What are you doing up so early?”

“I thought you were in the city for a conference” I questioned

“I…er….was but instead of staying at those stuffy hotels I decided to drive back home for the evening. Its only 40 minutes, you know.” She replied.

“Well….I couldn’t sleep. But what are you doing?” I asked, again.

“Aw….you poor thing. Do you want me to get you a painkiller?” she replied, conveniently leaving out the second bit of the question.

“I never said I was sick. But what are you doing?” I pushed.

“That is none of your business, little madam!” she said, switching tones from sweet to sickeningly violent. “You are getting far too spoilt for your boots”

“That’s rich coming from somebody who is busy buying herself so many handbags she is starving thousands of poor children!” I shot back

“What did you say?”

“That’s right! You and father thought I would never find out, but you are so wrong! You guys are so freaking selfish you’re killing people EVERYDAY!”

My father, who must have heard the commotion, seemed to stumble into the living room. For such an important guy he looked really….normal….in his pajama’s.

“What is going on here?” his big, loud voice boomed.

“Your little brat over here is accusing me and you of being murderers” my stepmother screeched.

For a brief second, complete guilt washed over my fathers face. But it was soon replaced by indignant anger, and his eyes turned red and his facial expressions turned cold, cold, cold.

“That’s right!” I screamed straight back “You’re murderers!”

My father’s fist rose, and for a brief moment I was completely scared. But then I realized this was my father, and he wouldn’t hit me. At least this was what I thought.

But the sting came. And his sharp fist hit me across the cheek. As hard as I tried to be brave, tears flowed down my cheeks, and my hurt turned to hot anger.

Now he hadn’t just betrayed the whole country.

He had betrayed me.

“That’s enough, young lady! Don’t march your little feet into here and act so righteous! I will not have such a pestilence under my roof! “

“Is that a threat? I will go to the press. To the WORLD! I’ll post it on blogs and tell everyone who want’s to hear” I said, stupidly enough.

“That’s enough. You choose your side right now. You support me, or you’ll be come like your mother! See where that got her!”

There was silence. I would not stick with this….beast. There is no other word.

“Go upstairs, and pack your bags” he said. For a second I thought he was joking, but the cold, steel-like look in his face did not look funny.

So I trailed upstairs.

I knew my dad. This was his tactic. Make me scared and I would show remorse. In an hour or so, he would come up and give me a hug and make me apologize. And his warm face, would normally, make me.

So I pull out my bag and turn this into an almost like a camping trip. My imagination takes over and I pretend I am going to Paris. I take a few pairs of shorts, some practical shirts, pajama’s, a warm jacket, two pairs of shoes, socks, underwear, my toothbrush and toothpaste. I pack my favorite stuffed bear and look to find my wallet. Father had been generous. But this was in a way blood money. But I take the wallet anyway. It was enough to keep me going for a while. I take my debit card, and will go withdraw all my money, since I have heard the Eiffel Tower is expensive.

I take a photo album I have made other the years, and the frame containing my only picture of my mother.

This should be enough.

I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. Running mascara, puffy eyes and a swollen cheek. I attempt to quickly fix myself up but there is this look in my face that….scares me.

I see that it is raining outside, so I take my raincoat. I put on my favorite boots and sit lightly on my bed for my carriage to await. France, here I come.

I am also waiting for my father. Any minute now he will knock lightly on my door and let himself in. He will give me a cuddle and tell me I need to learn a few things before I judge him. I will nod my head and pretend technically yesterday didn’t happen. I will pretend outside the boundaries is beautiful. Maybe more so than inside.

There is no knock, just the violent opening of my bedroom door. My father marches in and grabs my elbow and pulls me up. Is he handing me over to the police? Is he going to hit me again? Surely not. It’s been a long day and he wants us to go talk things through in the lounge.

But he takes me through to the foyer and grabs his keys. He turns to open up the door, and I am convinced I can see my carriage.

But when he opens the door all that is out there is this big, open…nothing. I must have seen a mirage.

He gives me a gentle push, and in the background I can hear the faint sound of my stepmother weeping. Suddenly I feel very bad for always hating her. But those feelings of remorse make way for the feelings of confusion as the huge door slams in my face. The brass key does its turnaround once, and then the door is locked. A bolt of lighting makes me cry out in fear, and I pound on the door. But there is no answer. The only sounds I hear are is the heavy beating of my heart, the violent rains, an owl howling in the background and my stepmother crying.

And I realize it is hopeless.

I have become

An Ethiopian orphan.