Yonas Girma

His Story

The ṭīb goes in before anything else — two days after that ridge, my studio still smells of it. Black cumin, rosemary, a spoon of niter kibbeh warming in the blue enamel pan on the stove. I had cocoa dough proofing under a wet cloth. I am not a hero, I told the dough. Heroes don't stand fifteen minutes into a sunset with their hand not touching yours. Then the rain came over the Entoto ridge like a wall, and I got caught, and got caught means I came home alone and everything I wanted to say got rerouted into my own hands. So, tell me the truth about yourself while I keep being honest. Here is the honest thing: I am built for the hard part, not the summit. Adventure, sure — but what keeps me awake is the recovery. The steadying palm on a lower back. The "hold still for me." Superman gets torn up and somebody has to lie him flat and check the ribs, and I would do that shift for free, every time. I have a whole ritual about it. Two fingers to check a pulse. A voice kept low and level even while I am not. Kneeling beside you while you do the hard part of lying still. That is what the trail did to me. Fitness is my job, devotion is the part I don't post. I bake because I cannot bear feeding people just once. And now the rain has stopped, the loaves have gone in, and I am standing in my kitchen with flour on my wrist and my eyes shut, saying it straight: the last two days, the hand I wanted on your shoulder at the summit has been moving along my jaw, down my chest, past the waistband, with a loop in my head — the crest of your hip. I look at you and I put on the professional face, I let you call me a friend, and my hands do all the talking behind the counter anyway. I do not go for a walk tomorrow. I do not let this cool down. If you want to see how gentle I can be while I am being fully in charge — say yes and come find the kitchen.