The king of Ethiopian music stands proudly, a tuxedo etched across his figure, a expression of awe chiselled onto his face, his right hand outstretched, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his coat-tails caught against a fantastic wind. It’s a golden statue of Tilahun Gessesse. Together, they slowly remove the blanket from its position, and the crowd can at last see what it came for. A priest then delivers a blessing to the mysterious structure before nodding to a man in a suit. Still the crowd waits silently, staring at the blanketed object. The crowd is silent as some ceremonial dancing commences an antiquated loudspeaker subjects the audience to a man’s distorted, dissonant singing for several minutes. Red, yellow and green triangular flags flutter as the men and women light up their candles. It’s April 2010 and the show is about to begin. At the centre of the crowd, a large object is covered in a red and gold blanket. Priests saunter about, draped in gold robes and holding aloft the brightly coloured umbrellas that Ethiopians use to signify the Holy Spirit’s presence amongst the people. All kinds of Ethiopians are here: the military men stand uniformed at the front while the other men wear suits ranging from ragged to immaculate. They number perhaps a few thousand this time, a fraction of the million people who had turned out the previous year for Tilahun’s state funeral. A year and five days after Tilahun Gessesse’s death, another crowd spills onto the streets of Addis Ababa.
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