Page 25

We’d then endured a mind-numbing eleven-hour stretch over the Atlantic to Paris, before a midnight connection straight into the Horn of Africa.

Still, nothing woke the soul like Ethiopian coffee beans; the flavor of pure, liquid velvet sliding down like spiced silk.

‘Hey y’all,’ a voice called out.

My eyes fell on a petite woman approaching our breakfast table, balancing three aluminum lens cases against her hip.

Pretty, tanned, and fit, she had blue eyes that danced beneath a fringe of purple-dyed curls.

The rest of her hair was in a ponytail, stuffed under a Yankees baseball cap.

Yael was a tough nut: a 29-year-old, energetic New Yorker who loved photography and had a fast-firing mouth.

‘The charter office just called,’ she declared, setting her load down with a metallic clank. ‘Our twin-prop to Jimma is cleared for an eight-thirty departure. If we don’t get moving, our cargo gets bumped for a load of agricultural machinery.’

She was also our runner and a punishing timekeeper.

Baz ignored her and focused on his plate, scooping up spicy firfir made from spongy injera bread in a zesty tomato-based sauce alongside his omelet.

‘Relax, kid,’ Baz drawled. ‘We’ve got plenty of time, and our guide Salim’s not even here yet. Eat your eggs. You’ll miss them when we’re surviving on protein bars and nuts.’

‘He’s right, Yael,’ I said, reaching for my Canon EOS R5 camera and sliding on my new toy, my RF 50mm lens. ‘Fortify yourself, woman. The road from tomorrow will rattle the teeth out of your skull.’

‘How would you know?’

‘I’ve read about it,’ I said dryly, practicing a shot on her and picking up her skin tone, highlighting every pore. ‘Some bugger lost his dentures, and another swallowed several molars on their way to Kibish. Can’t have you do the same; it’ll ruin your good looks.’

Yael rolled her eyes at me.

‘Yes, mother,’ she murmured, sinking into a chair beside me with a sigh, tugging the platter toward her and packing her plate as she chowed down fast.

Salim, our chief guide, soon strode into the courtyard through the morning haze with a broad smile.

His neat, meticulous demeanor showed in his crisp linen shirt and ironed slacks.

A Jimma University graduate, Salim was handsome, a collector of baseball hats and vintage aviators, and, to my surprise, a Six Sinners fan.

He’d somehow found out about my connection with them and was over the moon at the fact that my ex was one of the famous band members.

When he picked us up from the airport the night before, he played us their old rock albums in his Toyota Hiace.

Which had only brought back bittersweet memories and the sting of missing Deacon, always.

‘Hey Salim, we ready to rumble?’ I asked.

‘The vehicles are packed, Ana,’ he said, dipping his chin with a smile. ‘The plane is waiting. The weather over the southwestern highlands looks clear for now, but the afternoon rains might turn the mountain passes into red clay. We need to move, get on our flight and land before any rain hits.’

We finished eating, knocked back the last dregs of coffee, filled a thermos with more of the delicious brew, and picked up our gear.

After checking out of the Hyatt Regency, we loaded our gear into Salim’s battered van, then strapped in.

Moments later, we were weaving through Addis’ chaotic early-morning traffic.

The city blurred past the windows in a rush of blue-and-white minibus taxis, roadside fruit stalls, and construction cranes dominating the hazy skyline.

Street vendors lined the asphalt, balancing crates of fresh fruit and vegetables.

The city’s smellscape was redolent with the scents of freshly roasted coffee, earthy frankincense, sweet eucalyptus, and diesel exhaust.