Soul's Wisdom

The Unstoppable Tide: Why Time Outweighs Finance

2025-08-29T13:47:00.003-05:00

In a world that constantly pushes us toward chasing financial wins—bigger salaries, smarter investments, endless accumulation—it’s easy to forget the resource that actually gives life its shape: time. Money matters, of course, but time is the one thing we can never earn back once it slips away.

When money is lost, we often get another shot. Opportunities reappear, setbacks soften, and with effort, most financial wounds heal. Time plays by a different rulebook. Once a moment passes, it’s gone—no strategy, no amount of wealth, can rewind the clock. That simple difference makes time the more valuable currency.

Think about the experiences that stay with us: being with the people who matter, exploring our interests, learning, growing, creating memories that outlast the moment. Money can support these things, but it can’t substitute for the time invested in them. It’s the hours we give, not the money we spend, that make those experiences meaningful.

Picture someone who spends their life chasing wealth while sacrificing relationships, health, and joy. Even if they reach impressive financial heights, what good is that success if there’s no time or energy left to enjoy it? On the other hand, someone who protects their time—who pours it into growth, connection, and purpose—may not become as wealthy, but they often end up living a far richer life.

This isn’t about dismissing the importance of financial stability. It’s about keeping perspective. Money is a tool. Time is the foundation. When we forget that, we risk trading the moments that make life feel full for numbers on a screen.

In the end, the real investment is how we spend our time. If we choose to use it well—on people, on experiences, on becoming who we want to be—we build a kind of wealth that doesn’t fluctuate with markets and can’t be taken from us. The quality of our days is the true measure of our fortune.

My Resignation

2025-06-06T07:23:00.005-05:00

Resigning from a job is one of the boldest decisions anyone can make. It marks a moment of clarity—when you realize the place that once fit you no longer matches who you’ve become or where you’re heading. As the anonymous quote says, “Sometimes we’re forced to let go—not because we’re weak, but because we’re strong enough to know we deserve more.” I finally accepted that truth.

After more than 15 years of commitment, I chose to step away from my last job. I walked out of the office not with doubt, but with quiet certainty. For the first time in a long while, I wasn’t just leaving something behind—I was stepping into something bigger.

Outside, the world felt different—not because it had changed, but because I had. The air felt lighter, filled with possibility instead of routine. Even the sun seemed warmer, illuminating paths I had yet to explore.😊

That isn’t to say I don’t miss the meaningful moments shared with exceptional colleagues or the lessons that shaped my career. Those memories remain valuable, and I carry them with gratitude.

But there was also fear—fear of the unknown, fear of questioning my own judgment. Still, right beside that fear was a sense of excitement, a quiet thrill at the chance to rediscover what genuinely ignites me. And when I reflected on the moments when professionalism began slipping within the workplace, it became clear that change was necessary. Those challenges, both frustrating and revealing, sharpened my understanding of what I stand for. This transition has been as much about honoring what mattered as it was about releasing what no longer aligned with me.

With no desk waiting, no inbox demanding my focus, I felt unanchored—and free. I breathed deeply and reminded myself, “This is mine now—my path, my choices, my story.”

And with that, I stepped forward—into a world that had always been there, patiently waiting for me to finally say yes to something more.

This new chapter is unfolding with confidence, purpose, and a sense of wisdom earned over time. There’s something powerful about beginning a journey not with youthful impulsiveness, but with experience, financial stability, and the clarity that maturity brings.

It’s a rare gift to welcome change without struggle—to move into it with ease and trust, knowing it’s right for you. That certainty makes all the difference.

And perhaps the greatest reward is the freedom to use my time as I choose. Nothing compares to shaping my days around what truly matters.

Reading, writing, staying informed, and connecting with people—these have always been my passions. But they require time, something a 9-to-5 rarely offers without compromising well-being. For me, reading and writing aren’t just hobbies; they are doorways to insight, creativity, and expression.

Now, I finally have the time to embrace them fully—and for that, I’m deeply grateful.

THE PATH TO RENAISSANCE: (Where Lament Becomes Blueprint) - Part 3

2025-06-05T12:07:00.006-05:00

We Refuse Amnesia.

Our ancestors still whisper between the lines of colonial textbooks. To resurrect the soul of Africa, we must begin with memory—not nostalgia—and transform lament into action. First, we must rewrite the curriculum. Ministries of education need to purge the "single stories" that erase us and replace them with oral histories, indigenous knowledge systems, and ancestral proverbs. Children must be taught that their skin is a library, their language a compass.

Then we reclaim the digital space. Let us build Afrocentric platforms—imagine an AfroWiki, a Sankara Archives—where truths buried by search engines can surface and thrive. Let Ubuntu Stories flood the timelines: grandmothers’ lullabies, the wisdom of farmers, the poems of the young. Let’s hijack the algorithm with beauty, turning virality into unity memes—not endless streams of trauma.

Reviving the council fire means restoring dialogue. We must gather elders and youth under baobab trees, not behind sterile conference doors. There, we ask: “What was erased here? How do we restore it?” And we document the dialogue in our native languages—before the final griot sings their last.

We must also redefine what we mean by “development.” This demands rejecting forms of aid that strip away dignity. Instead, we invest in the land and the people—plant seeds, not fantasies. An Ethiopian coffee cooperative serves our dignity better than another IMF loan. Nigerian solar grids speak more to our future than fossil-fueled investment plans. Growth must be measured in collective well-being, not abstract economic figures.

At the center of it all is a sacred trinity: Truth, forged from honest memory. Justice, rooted in land returned and reparations paid. And Joy, which becomes our armor—through art, through laughter, through resistance.

To African youth, who were taught they are fragments—“Hutu,” “Oromo,” “Tutsi,” “Xhosa”—hear this: you are whole. You were told your pain is exceptional. But your healing is shared. You were warned against complexity—urged to pick one identity, one enemy—but you contain galaxies. You are expanding, not shrinking.

Now is the time to write your renaissance. Not with permission—but with ink made of struggle, soil, and stubborn hope. For the sun will rise in the South.

Colonialism stole our clocks. We reclaim time. Neocolonialism stole our tongues. We reclaim the narrative. As for our future—it was never theirs to take. We remember, so we never beg for mirrors. We rebuild, brick by sacred brick. We rise—not in mimicry of the West, but as the dawn that rises on its own terms.

The 'Qene' Lab - Part 2

2025-06-03T17:14:00.003-05:00

Six months into the semester, The Integration Studio had gone beyond discussion. It had become a living lab. At the far end of campus, students from Ethiopia, Ghana, Kenya, and Senegal were grouped around makeshift stations filled with clay pots, solar sensors, and leaves drying in the sun.

Meklit, a third-year student from Wollo, stood at the center of the herbal pharmacology group. Before her, laid out on a handwoven mat, were vials of extracts from 'tenadam'ጤና ኣዳም (Ruta chalepensis), known back home to soothe stomach issues and purify blood.

She wasn’t just studying these herbs—she was coding an AI-driven diagnostic tool that could suggest combinations based on both symptoms and traditional Ethiopian treatments. “We’re not replacing doctors,” she always said. “We’re restoring forgotten ones.”

Image: ChatGBT

Her teammate Jamal, a systems engineer from Addis Ababa, had designed the algorithm to cross-reference both WHO data and oral knowledge passed down through his grandmother—encoded in' qene', the double-layered poetry taught in traditional church schools.

“This one,” he said, holding up a printed verse, “talks about the rain’s rhythm, but if you read the second layer, it tells farmers when the soil is ready. It’s meteorology in metaphor.”

Professor Luyando watched them with quiet pride. This, she knew, was the Africa that had long been silenced: not anti-modern, but fiercely self-aware.

In another corner, a group had reconstructed the Ethiopian timekeeping system, where a day starts at dawn and the hours are counted differently. They mapped it alongside global time standards, proposing a new scheduling app that honored local rhythms. “Maybe 9 a.m. doesn’t have to be universal,” mused student Bekele. “Maybe our time is valid, too.”

Their final project? An open-source platform called 'SENBET', which would integrate traditional medicinal knowledge from across Africa, tagged by region, plant, treatment, and verified modern trials—offering global access to wisdom that had survived millennia without a patent.

And on graduation day, when the students stood to present their projects, it wasn’t just to faculty—it was to elders, farmers, herbalists, and priests. For once, the university wasn’t just borrowing from the community. It was bowing to it.

Image: ChatGBT

Reclaiming the Classroom - Part 1

2025-06-02T16:57:00.005-05:00

Image: ChatGBT

The sun poured through the louvered windows of Professor Luyando’s classroom at Mukuni National University, Zambia, casting golden light on the woven mats that lined the back wall—gifts from elders who still read the soil like scripture and knew the sky’s moods by heart.

“Today,” Luyando began, her voice calm but resolute, “we are not just learning. We are reclaiming.”
The students leaned in—future healers (doctors and nurses), teachers, and various research scientists. This was no ordinary course. It was The Integration Studio, a new curriculum initiative that aimed to disrupt the colonial foundation of African education by fusing ancestral knowledge with contemporary learning.

“For too long,” she continued, “we’ve sat in classrooms shaped by people who did not believe our grandmothers could think.”
A ripple of silence swept the room. Her words struck deep—not in anger, but in recognition.
Luyando gestured toward the holo-screen behind her. On the left appeared a scanned page from a 1938 biology textbook, which labeled African medicine as “primitive herbology.” On the right, a molecular diagram: the chemical breakdown of mutondo bark—still used in rural Zambia to treat infections, and now under patent in Europe.

“You see?” she said, eyes scanning the room. “What was once mocked is now monetized. What our people knew, others now profit from.”

At the back of the class, Kojo raised his hand. “Professor, are we saying our local knowledge is equal to Western science?”

Luyando nodded, then paced slowly. “Equal? No. It’s older. It’s not a supplement—it’s a foundation. We are not replacing Newton or Pasteur. We are standing beside them—with our own.”

She turned and pointed out the window. Beyond the lecture hall, on university land, was an experimental garden planted in patterns passed down through song, not spreadsheets. Rows of millet and enset እንሰት grew side by side, their positions chosen not by crop rotation models, but by the wisdom of elders who listened to the land.

“What if,” she asked the class, “a child could grow up learning the Pythagorean theorem and how to read the stars to know when rain will fall? What if your degree included the study of tenadam,(ጤና ኣዳም) not just antibiotics?”

Minds stirred. Heads nodded. Something ancient and urgent was waking up.

Outside, the wind picked up, whispering in the language of trees and old stories. The future, it seemed, wasn’t something to import. It had always been here—rooted, breathing, alive—waiting for its children to remember.

The Benevolent Guardians: A Satire on Western Patronage in Africa

2021-12-12T08:06:00.010-05:00

How fortunate we Africans are—or so we’re told.  For generations, Western powers have cast themselves as our guardians, treating us like perpetual minors who supposedly cannot see, hear, or think for ourselves. They claim to perceive our realities better than we do, to interpret our voices for us, and to define democracy in ways that leave little room for our own agency. Their “guidance” has always come wrapped in the language of benevolence, even when it limits our freedom.
What began as colonial extraction—packaged as a friendly exchange in which taking far exceeded giving—has simply evolved into a modern doctrine: accept what we prescribe, or brace for the consequences. Today’s benevolence often carries the quiet force of coercion. From dictating what we consume to influencing our political choices and even shaping our social values, the hand that claims to guide often ends up controlling. Their democracy, in practice, can feel less like empowerment and more like a soft-edged autocracy.
The science of division is another segment of it. With academic confidence, Western institutions classified us into rigid racial boxes—Negro, White, Yellow—as though human beings were color-coded products. Ethnic identities that once coexisted naturally were reframed as immutable sources of conflict: Hutu/Tutsi, Amhara/Oromo. Even gender, once straightforward in many of our societies, was turned into a sprawling catalogue of labels and imported debates. Under the banner of “progress,” these interventions often deepened fractures instead of promoting harmony.
#NoMore: A Turning Point
Then came a shift. When Ethiopia declared #NoMore, it wasn’t just a national campaign—it symbolized Africa reclaiming its voice. We rejected:
The myth that Western institutions understand our realities better than we do.
A version of democracy that mutes our own political will.
The branding of African unity as extremism.
Imported divisions that corrode our social fabric.
Africa chose to step into its own adulthood.
The New Paradigm
The direction of our journey is now in our hands. To our Western partners: it’s time to retire paternalism and adopt humility. #NoMore stands for:
Respect for African sovereignty,
Listening before prescribing,
Collaboration built on equality rather than custodianship.
Africa’s message is clear: we welcome partnership, but not control. Work with us—or step aside.
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Silencing the Empty Viral Shriek in Unison

2021-09-20T09:42:00.013-05:00

The Neocolonial Blueprint: Coercion, Collapse, and Collective Defiance

Economic Warfare as Policy: From their self-appointed "Central Command," Western powers steer the global ship by force. Economic sanctions are not tools of justice—they are scalpels deliberately wielded to cripple vulnerable nations. Starvation becomes a strategy. Debt becomes bondage. The result? Sovereign economies bled dry to ensure compliance.

Regime Change by Design: Neocolonialists don’t negotiate—they engineer chaos: Their tools are obvious and tested:

· Coups as corporate takeovers (Example could be Ethiopia, Guinea, Democratic Republic of Congo),

· Conflicts as profit ventures (Examples are Libya, and Ethiopia),

· Isolation as prelude to predation: singling out nations like wounded prey to be devoured by sanctions and slander. (Example is Burkinafaso)

The Unbearable Calculus: Enough is enough. Africa and the Global South now see the equation clearly:

What the West wants (as used to be) is their "right" to decide our fate
A phantom "Global Management Office" has usurped our sovereignty. Its headquarters? Western capitals. Its shareholders? Arms dealers and extractive conglomerates. Its victims? The global majority.

The UN’s Betrayal: UN is no more working as per its mandate and establishment.
Where peacekeeping was promised, we see peace-breaking. Where justice was vowed, we see judicial colonialism. The institution designed to protect all member states now:

· - Guards Western interests, not international law,

· - Enforces austerity, not development,

· - Legitimizes invasion, not liberation.

So what could Africa's ultimatum be? It's nothing but silencing the empty viral shriek in unison.

Our message to the West is clear: Your "management" is malfeasance. Your "order" is oppression. Withdraw your economic hitmen. So, recall your regime-change architects.

Our message to our leaders is also vivid:
No more puppet presidents.
No more traitors signing our death warrants.

Our message to Our People:

"THE STRUGGLE HAS NO SHORTCUT—BUT SURRENDER IS A DEAD END"

· Reject division engineered in foreign think tanks.

· Dismantle the lie of "Western salvation."

· Unify as the sleeping giant now wide awake.

Our Weapon? Unbreakable Solidarity.
Our Demand? A World Reborn—Without Masters.
AFRICA RISING: #SilenceTheEmptyViralShriek

AFRICA’S UNANSWERED PRAYER: A LAMENT AND AWAKENING

2021-07-20T01:31:00.024-05:00

If only we saw not with eyes, but with the ancestral heart that beats beneath the soil of our birth...
If only we sensed the leopard's agility in our stride—the strength that built pyramids without cranes...

If only we heard our elders' wisdom over the static of imported absurdities...
If only we smelled the rot in aid packages gilded with empty promises...

If only our fingers traced the false glitter of fool’s gold before trading diamonds for trinkets...

If only we outgrew the fairy tales of Western saviors—their equality a mirage in our deserts...
If only we tasted truth like honey hunters—knowing sugar dissolves, but honey heals...
If only we dissected every "gift" with the courage of those who refuse poisoned alms...

If only we felt the pulse of our soil—knowing it holds cures their labs still steal...
If only we saw the fire in our children’s eyes—brighter than all foreign spotlights...
If only we believed like Sankara: unity is our shield, diversity our sacred geometry...
If only we breathed our beauty—ebony armor against empires built on our shadows...

If only we knew the knife in our back bears foreign fingerprints...
If only we listened —truly listened—to the chorus of our own voices...
If only we dared envision dawn over the Sahara—not as dreamers, but as architects...

If only we stood like baobabs—claiming stolen rain with roots that crack empires...

Then...
We would remember what we never truly forgot.
We would build what they cannot conceive.
We would become the future they fear.

The hour is late—but the heart remembers.

(Image Chat GPT)

Rise. Reclaim. Reimagine !!!

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Becoming Victims of a Single Fictional Narrative (part 2)

2021-03-26T14:49:00.037-05:00

The Stolen Narrative: Reclaiming Africa's Soul

Our Buried Inheritance

Ethiopia—and Africa—possess a living tapestry of history: ancestral wisdom in 3,000 tongues, cultures deeper than soil, unity forged through millennia, and pride in the melanin that maps our genesis. These are not relics, but birthrights. Yet they were deliberately
fractured—not for being too vast, but too unifying. Colonial architects knew: united
cultures resist exploitation.
The Generation of Lost Stories
70% of Africa is youth (20-35) but all of them (100%) were robbed of their roots.
Our elders’ truths were silenced by political puppets branding historians "tribalists" or "backward." Western-curated textbooks replaced oral epics. Youth learned distortion as doctrine: Diversity became division, Kinship became suspicion, Shared land became "stolen"territory.
The weaponization of identity has become the main strategy to implement the fictional narrative making us victims of it. 
Hear the tragic irony: In London, saying, "I’m British and Cockney" is patriotism, where as in Addis, for example, stating "I’m Ethiopian and Oromo" is heresy. Funny!!!
Neocolonialism taught the youth to disembody identity from nationhood. Their birthplace is a "theft." Their neighbor is an "occupier." This manufactured amnesia severs the very bonds that birthed civilizations.
Algorithms Erase Empathy
Social media—the new colonial outpost—amplifies this poison: When terror attacks a certain community, the response goes, "Why mourn them?". On the othr hand, if someone  shared pain in his/her response to the terror, it reduced to tribal calculus. Racism doesn’t just blind minds—it shrivels hearts.
Africa’s Defiant Truth
We Africans are and always were compassionate - this could be testifiesd from actions taken during other countries turmoils: 
·        1953: Ethiopia sent emergency coffee to flooded Britain
·        1950s: Kagnew battalions fought for Korea’s freedom
·        Today: Ethiopian peacekeepers guard Somalia’s hope
Our DNA carries Ubuntu: "I am because we are." Even as puppets peddle poverty porn ("starving, barbaric Africa"), our reality is resilience in the face of erasure.
Reclaiming Our Right To Complexity
What's the cure?
·       Boycott single stories: Google buries truth! Seek elders, not algorithms.
·       Resurrect oral archives: Your grandfather’s memory is truer resource than Wikipedia.
·       Demand media integrity: Investigative journalism, not Twitter tribalism.
"Conflicts resolved under baobabs, not barrel bombs."
(To Be Continued: The Path to Renaissance)


 

Becoming Victims of a Single Fictional Narrative (part 1)

2021-03-26T14:42:00.077-05:00

I love my birthplace—Addis Ababa. I love my village, my town, and my country. How could I not? I believe the same holds true for every Ethiopian. We are deeply connected to our people, our languages, our landscapes, our food, our culture, and everything we grew up with. It is part of who we are.
Ethiopia, like many African countries, is vast and diverse—stretching across the south, north, west, and east. To give you a sense of scale: the eastern part of Ethiopia alone is comparable in size to the entire country of France. As a nation, we are large, rich in heritage, and culturally and linguistically diverse.
Yet, for generations, Ethiopians—like many Africans—have been fed a single, fictional narrative. We were told we are “poor,” “uncivilized,” “backward,” and even “liquid” — a term some Western thinkers used to label developing nations, in contrast to their supposedly “solid” societies.
But the events of recent years, especially, the COVID-19 pandemic, have revealed the truth: no country is truly “solid.” As the late Polish sociologist Zygmunt Bauman said, we now live in “liquid times.” We all walk on moving sands. No nation or people is immune to vulnerability, no matter how powerful they appear. We are all on the same ship, facing the same storm.
Despite enduring countless hardships—wars, famine, political upheaval—Ethiopia has remained united. Our sovereignty has never been negotiated or surrendered. We have stood firm in protecting our territorial integrity, regardless of the challenges.
However, in the colonial era, new tactics replaced direct colonialism. Ethiopia, though never colonized in the traditional sense, was not spared. We became targets of cultural invasion, wrapped in the packaging of development aid, education, and foreign “assistance.” Decade after decade, western influences permeated our systems—economically, educationally, and culturally. And along with that came another story: the continuation of a single, false narrative.
Today, new global powers are emerging. China, for instance, stands at Africa’s doorstep—an economic giant with enormous reach. While their approach may appear different, the underlying strategy is similar: influence masked as partnership, support tied to strategic interests. All this arrives under the guise of free trade, low-interest development loans, and foreign investment. But the true cost? Long-term dependency.
Alongside these economic tactics, the west also planted divisive stories in our history books. One of the most dangerous was the idea that one ethnic group dominated and oppressed all the others. This narrative, found in Western-written travelogues, academic texts, and colonial archives across Africa—from Rwanda to Uganda, Ethiopia to Kenya—was designed to sow division. The goal? To fracture societies from within so that they would remain weak and dependent on foreign support. Sadly, it worked.
These fabricated histories were adopted by local elites—often educated abroad—who returned home and repeated these narratives without critical analysis. Together with opportunistic local actors, they spread these ideas in classrooms, storybooks, and university lectures. Over the past three decades, these stories have been taught to generations, planting seeds of resentment and mistrust.
From there, the narrative spread further—taken up by regional politicians and activists, who used it to incite division, especially among the youth. Slowly, people began to view their fellow citizens as “other”—as if they belonged to a different nation altogether. The result? Conflict. Distrust. Even violence. Brothers turning against brothers. Villages divided. Dialogue replaced by anger.
Social media added fuel to the fire. With powerful algorithms and emotional messaging, these divisive ideas spread faster and wider than ever before—further polarizing people and deepening the damage.
So now we must ask ourselves some serious questions:
Should we keep fighting each other, knowing the true
     roots of our conflict are not what we’ve been told?
When will Africans awaken to the trap that has been set
     for us—designed to divide and rule?
Why haven’t we realized that much of the so-called
     “economic support” is just a means to extract our resources and keep us
     dependent?
When will we reject these false narratives and see
     through the systems designed to weaken us?
And most importantly: When will we stand together—not
     divided by ethnicity, language, or region—but united in purpose, to build
     our future with dignity and strength?

It’s time for Africans to recognize our worth. To rise above the noise. To protect our unity. To remember our shared identity. And to finally show the world—and
ourselves—that we are wise, resilient, and ready.
Watch this video 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fSLDGuBPxJo

(To be continued...)

The Unpredictable Tomorrow: What's Your Stance?

2020-11-15T14:00:00.086-05:00

An Invitation to Balance Human Ingenuity with Divine Trust
In earlier times, conversations often began with something as simple as the weather. Today, we instinctively reach for bigger questions—questions that ask us to imagine the shape of tomorrow. So let me borrow that modern icebreaker: If you could see your future, what would it look like?
Most of us would answer with hope. And this is striking, given that we live in an age marked by pandemics that have shaken the world’s confidence and overturned our assumptions about progress.
This is the paradox of progress: Humanity has achieved extraordinary things. We have shrunk distances through technology, built unprecedented wealth, and connected billions with a touch. Yet for all our brilliance, we remain unable to see even one step ahead with certainty. COVID-19 laid this truth bare:
With all our algorithms, satellites, and data, we still could not foresee the fury of a microscopic organism.
This isn’t a lament against modernity. I admire medical breakthroughs, the boldness of space exploration, and the digital threads that tie the world together. But our knowledge extends only to this moment—not the next.
There is a tension within. I often feel the pull of two convictions. On one hand, I believe deeply in human potential—the creativity that produces vaccines, transforms industries, and solves problems once thought impossible. On the other hand, I grieve what seems to slip away: the warmth of neighborhood laughter, the slow and steady wisdom of elders, the peace of a community where doors were left unlocked.
Technology gifts us much, but it quietly takes its share as well.
This is the only certainty, as I see it:  When wars erupt, diseases spread, and technology accelerates faster than our ability to understand it, I find myself returning to one unshakable truth:
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord,

“plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

— Jeremiah 29:11
We may strive to predict tomorrow, but Scripture reminds us of our limits. As James 4:14 puts it:
“What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.”
This isn’t meant to diminish us, but to ground us.
The Challenge Revisited
So let me return to the question—not to extract predictions, but to examine our posture toward life:
Will we exhaust ourselves worrying about storms we cannot see?
Or will we build with courage today, trusting the One who shapes every tomorrow?
In the end, our hope doesn’t rest in forecasting the future. It rests in the One who holds it.

Ethiopia’s Stunted Democracy : How Engineered Division Turned Promise into Polarization

2020-09-27T10:22:00.011-05:00

Ethiopia’s fledgling democracy stumbled before it could take root. This failure is not Ethiopia’s alone; it echoes across much of Africa, where nations that once embraced self-determination now teeter toward discord. Our youth—those who should be the torchbearers of democratic ideals—have become captives to a politicized identity crisis. In today’s discourse, especially on social media, political opinions are interrogated not for substance but for the speaker’s ethnicity, region, religion or identities. Ideas have been subordinated to who we are: this or other ethnic group. We’ve ceased to be citizens first; we are now tribal emissaries, relics of a corrupted liberation struggle.

This crisis was not born of chaos but of calculation. For over thirty years, higher education was turned into a tool for social engineering. Universities no longer nurtured critical thought; they manufactured ethnically charged elites. Curricula were hollowed out and replaced with dogma approved by those in power. The aim was not enlightenment—it was division. Governments carefully crafted and amplified ethnonationalist narratives until myth became memory and suspicion replaced solidarity. The result was the disintegration of Ethiopia’s tightly woven social fabric into fractured, bitter threads.

We now live amid the poisoned harvest. Political parties are led by ethnic brokers, movements thrive on ancestral grievances, and a generation has been conditioned to see differences of any sort as danger. Ethiopia’s soul has suffered atrocities born not merely of conflict, but of cultivated contempt.

And yet, redemption is not beyond reach. Rebuilding demands patience equal to the depth of the damage. To reclaim a democratic future, we must begin by dismantling divisive pedagogies in our schools and restoring universities as spaces of truth rather than tribal allegiance. We must demand that politics be driven by principles, not by bloodlines. The road ahead is long, but if division was engineered, unity can be reconstructed—deliberately, stubbornly, and together.

*Left Out in the Cold

2020-09-27T10:20:00.004-05:00

While reading Jimmy L.Lyson’s poem "Left Out in the Cold," I was deeply moved by his palpable anxiety and felt compelled to sympathize with his sense of mental incarceration—which I did. His portrayal of being unable to act or speak freely, despite his technical "freedom," evokes a universal empathy. He admits to wanting to "remove the sting," which I interpreted as a stain from the past, yet finds himself perpetually "left out in the cold"—a fate that feels tragically plausible.

But as I immersed myself in his thoughts, the line "wanting to claim some of God’s power and glory" struck me abruptly. My sympathy curdled into anger; the words seemed delusional. If he truly believed in God’s power and glory, why couldn’t he be "brave and bold" enough to "sing" as he claimed he desired? Mystified, I reread the poem, probing beneath its surface. Only then did I grasp Jimmy’s deeper intent: his repeated lament—"he has been left out in the cold"—isn’t just about isolation, but a profound craving for human reassurance.

Yet a paradox remains: If he knows he could "sing and tell stories of God’s power and glory" (a soul-deep yearning), what cages him in this fantasy of coldness? Why fear mortal judgment more than the Omnipotent? The poem forces us to ask: Could the "heat" he craves—the empty applause and worldly validation—truly warm him or crown him "successful"? This echo Job 9:4: "He is wise in heart and mighty in strength—who has hardened himself against Him and succeeded?"

Perhaps Jimmy’s prison mirrors our own: We retreat into stalls of fear, shivering in imagined cold, forgetting that true warmth lies not in human approval, but in stepping boldly into God’s strength. The cold is fleeting; His glory is not

I'm shedding tears of pain,
and I'm afraid I'm going to go insane.
I'm feeling sick, tired and old,
like I've been left out in the cold.

I want to be able to sing,
and to completely remove the sting.
I need to be brought back into the fold;
I feel I've been left out in the cold.

I'm having trouble getting to sleep,
just lying here trying not to weep.
I want to be brave and bold,
but I've been left out in the cold.

I've been wanting to tell my story,
and to claim some of God's power and glory;
but it's impossible to grab it and hold,
because I've been left out in the cold.

Jimmy L. Lyons

*The Level of Our Spiritual Lives

2020-09-27T10:16:00.006-05:00

Today’s public discourse—both in mainstream and social media—reveals a consistent, radical shift in societal values. Perspectives on tradition, education, and life itself have transformed dramatically. Why? Time has changed: democracy champions unprecedented freedoms—gender identities, careers, lifestyles—with few restraints. Living standards have surged, extending lifespans. Youth form families earlier, fueling a global population boom. Education is democratized; degrees and titles flow freely (if not always meaningfully) from institutions. Technology shrank the world, and nanomedicine promises miracles. Even religious institutions now prioritize "well-being" over scripture, granting followers near-total autonomy.

Yet, amid this wealth, luxury, progress, and optimism, heinous crimes multiply. New diseases emerge. Unemployment and poverty persist. Deaths toll hourly. What explains this paradox? What defines today’s "refined" human?

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s diagnosis echoes:

"The strength or weakness of a society depends more on its spiritual life than its industrialization. Abundance alone cannot crown human achievement. If a nation’s spiritual energies decay, no government or industry can save it. A tree with a rotten core cannot stand."

Our core is rotten. We planted forests of progress—technological, material, intellectual—but neglected their roots. Spiritual decay feeds our crises. Until we tend to that decay, the tree will fall.

*The Problem with Unnecessary Titles in Local Media Reporting

2020-09-27T09:50:00.005-05:00

There are many quirks in local media that I can usually tolerate, but one recurring practice makes me uneasy: the excessive and often unnecessary use of personal or professional titles in news reports.

Take, for example, Mr. Bekele. He may be a civil engineer by training but currently serves as a CEO of a company. Yet, the media repeatedly refers to him as Engineer Bekele—"Engineer Bekele said this and that..." This is superfluous. What matters to most readers is that he is the CEO, an authoritative figure in the context of the report. His educational background, unless directly relevant, is secondary at best.

Firstly, his current role as CEO is far more pertinent to the issue being discussed than his academic or professional training. Secondly, "Engineer" is not a formal title like Dr., Prof., Mr., or Rev. (A discussion I’ll save for another piece.) If the aim of the news is to convey what the company thinks or what its leader has said, why distract us with irrelevant or redundant titles?

In fact, using such titles can sometimes be misleading or inappropriate. Many countries regulate title usage—requiring official certification, like RN (Registered Nurse), or restricting professional titles to those actively practicing in that field.

Now, consider the following common examples from our local mainstream media:

"Graphic Designer Eshete said..."
"Farmer Gebre accepted..."
"Dr. Engineer Semunigus affirmed..."
"Artist Kebede stated..."
"Architect Senedu contemplated..."

What’s next? "Social Media Evangelist Belachew commanded..." or "Captain of Buzz Seble said..."?

Well, I don't want to argue with some Gen Z who would like to call themselves like 'Tiktoker X or Y' if that is what they'd love to be called.

While I respect people’s preferences for how they are addressed—whether personal or professional—I believe journalistic professionalism calls for a focus on substance over form. The story should center on what was said and why it matters, not on inflating the speaker's title.

We can learn a lot from international journalism in this regard. Consider global figures like Angela Merkel, often described as the most powerful woman in the world and the de facto leader of the EU. She holds a PhD, yet we rarely—if ever—hear her referred to as "Dr. Merkel" in news reporting. The same goes for Chinese President Xi Jinping or Iran's former President Hassan Rouhani—both of whom have doctorates. Their titles are used only when their educational background is central to the story.

In short, I see no compelling reason for local media to overuse professional or educational titles, especially when they add no value to the news being reported. In fact, I’ve grown increasingly intolerant of this practice.

As always, I welcome your thoughts on this topic. Have a great week!

*Faith Greater than Our Fears

2020-09-27T09:47:00.003-05:00

Have you lately found yourself bewildered—like me—by people you thought you knew, only to realize you never really did? Or caught in a situation you assumed you could handle, only to discover you’re utterly unprepared? It’s unsettling. Life has a way of pulling the rug out from under us just when we feel most grounded.

What do you do when you're caught between deep fear and fragile hope, unsure of which one to trust as you look toward the near future? When the road ahead seems foggy, and your inner compass begins to spin?

Let me take it a little deeper: What happens when you feel enveloped by darkness—but somewhere, distant yet visible, a faint light glimmers at the end of the tunnel? When the world around you becomes dissonant—some voices singing songs of war, others insisting all are normal, as if nothing has shifted? And in the middle of it all, you stand—sometimes firm, sometimes swayed—often alone and sometimes pulled unwillingly by forces larger than you.

I don’t know about you, but in moments like this, I find myself praying—not for the storm to pass quickly, but for my faith to grow bigger and my hope to burn brighter. I want to stay grounded in something deeper than the fear that floats in the air like smoke after a fire. I want to choose trust over terror, even when trust feels like the more fragile option.

It’s in these moments that I often return to the timeless and defiant words of the prophet Habakkuk:

“Even though the fig tree does not blossom,
and there are no grapes on the vines;
even though the olive crop fails,
and the fields produce no food;
even though there are no sheep in the pen,
and no cattle in the stalls—
yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
I will be joyful in the God of my salvation.”
(Habakkuk 3:17–18)

This is not blind optimism. It’s hope with a backbone. It’s the kind of hope that sings even when there’s no music. A resilient, stubborn kind of joy that says: even if everything falls apart, I will not.

Maybe, just maybe, that kind of posture is how we endure uncertain times—not by pretending things are fine, but by choosing joy and faith anyway.

*The Burden and Beauty of Choice in the Information Age

2020-09-27T09:42:00.006-05:00

Life offers us an endless array of choices. Isn’t that remarkable? Some are simple and straightforward, allowing us to make quick, confident decisions. But others—more complex and weighty—require time, discernment, and often a painful trade-off. From choosing toys as children to selecting a life partner, a career path, or whether to settle in a foreign country as adults, the need to decide is constant.

In today’s information-rich world, however, making decisions feels harder than ever. We are surrounded—both physically and virtually—by a surplus of options. What once might have taken us a minute to choose now demands days, even weeks. Even the simplest of decisions can feel like a burden.

Have we become more cautious? More risk-averse? Or, perhaps, just more overwhelmed?

When I was a child, like many others of my generation, I was often asked by family or friends to choose between one toy or another—“You can only pick one,” they would say. And I did. Quickly. I might have had second thoughts later, but the decision had to be made swiftly.

Fast forward to the present, and the picture looks quite different. Let me share a moment you might relate to:

A couple of years ago, I promised my boys I would get them new phones. They had been pushing for it for a while, despite the fact that their current phones were still perfectly functional—smartphones that did everything a kid their age could reasonably ask for. But once I gave them the green light to choose, it took them almost three weeks to decide. Three weeks! Each day brought new comparisons, new features to weigh, and new models to consider.

And who can blame them? Today’s generation is flooded with dazzling possibilities—each option seeming better than the last, each choice demanding perfection. The paradox of abundance is real: the more options we have, the harder it becomes to choose.

Of course, there are decisions in life that truly require deep reflection—such as career choices, marriage, or where to live. These are not decisions to rush. They demand clarity, emotional intelligence, and a weighing of long-term consequences.

Still, life doesn't always wait for perfect clarity. At some point, a decision must be made.

We’ve all had moments when we reflect on past choices—some we celebrate others we regret. That’s the nature of life. And while it’s important to learn from our missteps, we can’t be defined or paralyzed by them. We move forward, carry the lessons, and hold on to the choices we got right.

In this era of endless options, indecision can creep in even for the simplest matters. And when we grow accustomed to postponing decisions—out of fear, perfectionism, or sheer overwhelm—it becomes a habit with consequences. Time may be forgiving to some, but it can be merciless to others who wait too long.

As José N. Harris once aptly said:
“Waiting hurts. Forgetting hurts. But not knowing which decision to take can sometimes be the most painful...”

So here’s a gentle reminder to all of us: choice is a gift, but action is a necessity. Choose, reflect, move on—and let life unfold.

*The Truth Always Floats on Top

2020-09-27T09:38:00.006-05:00

The renowned British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, who served his nation most critically during wartime, once remarked, “In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies.” Disinformation, then, was considered not just a tactic but a necessity. But I believe Churchill’s observation extends far beyond the battlefield—it feels just as true today, in our everyday lives.

Truth, once revered, now appears to be in exile. Those we once considered reliable—news outlets, corporations, public figures—seem to treat lying as business as usual. Service providers often promise far more than they can deliver; products rarely match their grand cover stories. In many cases, the experience they offer is not just disappointing—it is shockingly the opposite of what is advertised.

We’ve long accepted that advertising involves exaggeration. But what we see now goes far beyond harmless hype. Businesspeople, driven by greed, are faking original products using hazardous ingredients, endangering their own communities in pursuit of criminal prosperity.

Governments, too, are often complicit. Under the pretext of “national interest,” officials bend facts and cover up truths. Politicians increasingly resemble cunning illusionists—twisting narratives, striking shady deals behind closed doors, and partnering with business elites or even criminal networks to enrich themselves.

Even those who were once the moral anchors of society—religious leaders, medical professionals, caregivers—are not immune. Some now exploit their sacred positions, committing ethical breaches that rob people of their life savings, dignity, and even health. What could be more alarming than a doctor or priest turned felon?

Though there are still voices crying out in defense of truth—those who believe it is the only path forward—they are often drowned out by the louder, more glamorous noise of deception. Even the courts, which are meant to uphold truth, sometimes seem to falter under the weight of influence and manipulation.

Am I overstating the reality? Or has falsehood truly become the new norm?

One thing is certain: I sense something is deeply wrong in many offices, institutions, and systems around us. Yet, in the midst of this fog of lies, I still believe we must not surrender. Truth may be buried, obscured, or delayed—but it never dies. It rises, slowly but surely, like oil on water.

Should we accept that truth is a relic of the past? I don’t think so. We owe it to ourselves—and to the future—to fight for it, even when it's inconvenient, even when it costs us.

Because whether we like it or not, truth always floats to the top… eventually.

*Be the Part of the Undergoing Changes

2020-09-27T09:35:00.004-05:00

The Ethiopian political landscape has undergone a tremendous transformation—one that, by all indications and by God’s grace, points toward lasting progress. We sincerely hope never to return to the painful years behind us. But while change sounds inspiring, it is rarely as effortless as we wish.

Too often, we assume that positive change will simply unfold on its own—that progress is something others will deliver while we watch from the sidelines. This mindset is not only mistaken; it is dangerous. As former U.S. President Bill Clinton observed, “The price of doing the same old thing is far higher than the price of change.”

For years, Ethiopians had little room to participate willingly or meaningfully in shaping the nation’s future. Today, however, we stand in a new era—one that seems to call on every citizen, including you and me, to take responsibility for the country’s transformation.

This is a moment of shared duty. To experience the full promise of this new beginning, we must all engage—actively, urgently, and with persistence. As it has been wisely said, “He who rejects change is the architect of decay. The only human institution that rejects progress is the cemetery.”

Real change requires more than talk. It demands a shift in how we think, speak, and act—every single day. It calls us to break free from old habits and embrace a renewed commitment to growth. Change is neither a campaign slogan nor a passing trend. It must be lived consistently until it becomes a defining part of who we are—a lifestyle.

The time seems to be now. The call seems to be clear. The responsibility belongs to all of us. Let’s hope the current changes lead us toward the better future we long for.

*A New Chapter in Ethiopia

2020-09-27T09:33:00.003-05:00

The past weeks and months have marked a genuinely unique chapter in Ethiopian politics—unless one insists on viewing everything through the fog of deep pessimism. From my perspective, remarkable shifts have taken place—some of them quite dramatic—as the country steps into a new era of leadership.

Beyond the public relations efforts, which I believe have played a meaningful role in shaping public confidence, I’ve felt something deeper awakening in me. For the first time in many years, I can say I’m optimistic of our Prime Minister’s speeches, many of which are marked by clarity, substance, and moments of genuine wisdom. As George Orwell once noted, “In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.” In many ways, the tone and honesty in these speeches feel like a long-needed reset.

His words have stirred something that had grown quiet in me: a renewed sense of Ethiopian pride. After years marked by silence, disillusionment, and even shame, I once again feel grateful to call myself Ethiopian.

I won’t attempt to list all the achievements of the new leadership. Instead, I choose to hold on to hope—hope that the Prime Minister and his team will continue to guide the nation toward meaningful and lasting progress. As Václav Havel said, “Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.” That sentiment captures my posture today.

Optimism, after all, is the foundation of courage.

May God bless Ethiopia and all Ethiopians in the years to come. A new chapter seems to be unfolding—and for the first time in a long while, it feels as though we are finally turning the page.

Shuruba Hair Style as an Expression of Ethiopia's Culture

2020-09-27T09:24:00.008-05:00

Hair is more than just a physical feature—it is a living expression of culture, identity, and heritage. In Ethiopia, many contemporary hairstyles are deeply rooted in history and tradition, transcending mere fashion statements. These styles serve as testimonies of who we are and where we come from.

A short one or two-hour or so journey in any direction across Ethiopia—north, south, east, or west—reveals the rich diversity and cultural depth of Ethiopian hairstyles. From highland villages to bustling urban centers, intricate braiding patterns tell stories passed down through generations.

One traditional hairstyle that has endured with grace and pride is shuruba. Originating in northern Ethiopia, shuruba consists of tightly braided plaits running along the scalp, often extending freely over the shoulders. Though historically worn by both men and women, shuruba has transcended geographic boundaries and remains a beloved style nationwide. Today, it is sometimes enhanced with hair extensions or adorned with beads and embroidery.

Shuruba holds a distinguished place in Ethiopian history. It has been worn by nobility, including emperors like Tewodros and Yohannes, and legendary figures such as Empress Taitu, wife of Emperor Menelik II. These braided styles symbolized dignity and power. Today, Ethiopian women—and some stylish young men—continue the tradition, wearing shuruba with pride, elegance, and a strong connection to their royal lineage.

Whether tightly woven or flowing freely, shuruba remains a potent symbol of Ethiopian pride and patriotism. While fashions change and societies may imitate fleeting cultural icons, shuruba endures. More than a hairstyle, it stands as a cultural constant—forever fashionable and proudly Ethiopian..

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In Memory of Nelson Mandela

2020-09-27T09:16:00.006-05:00

Forgiveness, Reconciliation, and the Legacy

This piece was originally written shortly after the passing of one of the world’s most iconic and revered leaders—Nelson Mandela. Like many around the globe who paid tribute to this remarkable figure, mine was a very modest gesture of admiration for a man whose legacy continues to shape the meaning of true leadership.

Yet as time passes, the lesson Mandela left us remains not only timeless, but strikingly timely—especially in light of Ethiopia’s current political landscape.

Nelson Mandela showed us, with grace and conviction, that forgiveness and reconciliation are not signs of weakness but marks of extraordinary strength. He was a man who endured decades of persecution, wrongful imprisonment, and personal suffering. Still, upon gaining power, he chose not revenge, but reconciliation. He reached out to his former oppressors, building bridges instead of walls.

Let’s pause here: how many of us, as everyday professionals and citizens—who have endured far less than he did—and can truly say we practice forgiveness when wronged? Even though many of our cultures and religions, especially Christianity, uphold forgiveness as a core value, in practice, we often fall far short. We grow up hearing about it, preaching it even—but when it comes time to embody it, we struggle. Why?

Because forgiveness and reconciliation are not as simple as they sound. They demand strength, emotional maturity, and a deep clarity of purpose. Our instinctive reaction when hurt—whether by an individual, a group, or an institution—is often retribution, especially when we hold the upper hand. And those in positions of power, particularly political leaders, may feel even more justified in exercising authority over those perceived as adversaries.

But leadership excellence is precisely defined by choosing a higher path. It means learning to respond to deep harm—not with retaliation, but with restraint, wisdom, and a long view of what truly heals and unites.

I call this higher path the golden nuggets of leadership—forgiveness and reconciliation. These are not theoretical virtues or abstract ideals. They are lived practices, and they require nothing short of daily self-sacrifice. The true height of leadership is the ability to maintain a winning spirit even in the face of profound personal and collective anguish.

Yes, this is easier said than done. But are these golden nuggets truly impossible to emulate? Or is it that we’ve convinced ourselves that forgiveness is impractical, unrealistic—especially in the realm of politics?

I believe it is possible to practice. It begins with a conscious resolve. A commitment to rise above instinct and ego. A willingness to surrender short-term power in the service of long-term peace.

Leadership is not just about vision—it’s about the courage to reconcile. The legacy of Mandela reminds us that greatness often begins where vengeance ends.

Failing with Honor: A Forgotten Measure of Leadership

2020-09-27T09:12:00.003-05:00

A recent roundtable with line managers and the CEO of a prominent company inspired this reflection. After one manager's straightforward report, the CEO interjected: “I know you’ve tried your best, but your best didn’t yield any fruit.” The pointed phrasing and animated delivery suggested derision, implying not just poor results but a lack of results at any ethical cost.

Leaders navigate highs and lows, yet we often judge them solely by achievements. The true test lies in handling failure with integrity, especially when moral principles like honesty and honor feel outdated amid profit-driven pressures. Ethical leadership demands expanding "value" beyond finances to include virtues like humility and dignity, even when success falters.

The following are historical examples of failing with honor:

Socrates (469–399 BCE): Accused of corrupting youth and impiety, he chose hemlock over fleeing, upholding reason and virtue—immortalizing his commitment to truth.

Dag Hammarskjöld (1905–1961): As UN Secretary-General during the Congo Crisis, he maintained neutrality against Cold War forces, dying in a plane crash while prioritizing peace over politics.

Lech Wałęsa (b. 1943): Facing imprisonment and Solidarity's early defeats, he persisted nonviolently, sowing seeds for Poland's communist downfall through steadfast integrity.

These figures show failure infused with dignity outshines transactional wins, making leadership aspirational. In chasing results, we should admire those who stand firm in virtue amid loss—teaching enduring lessons over deceitful success.

The Courage to Change Course

2020-09-27T09:07:00.005-05:00

Making meaningful changes in our lives—whether in our personal routines, social groups, or professional settings is rarely easy. Even when we hold a position of influence, adjusting long-standing habits or persuading others to embrace new directions often meets resistance. Still, change is essential as we move forward.

This isn’t to say our previous approaches were inherently flawed or dismal. Rather, it's a recognition that no system or routine is ever truly perfect—and there's always room for growth. The impulse to improve is not a condemnation of the past but a necessary commitment to the future.

Of course, change comes with its own unpredictability. Sometimes, despite our best efforts and good intentions, new strategies don’t yield the anticipated results. In fact, they can occasionally backfire, slowing our momentum or diverting us temporarily off course. But setbacks shouldn’t shake our resolve or distract us from our broader purpose.

With clear intent, humility, and faith, we can recalibrate and refine our approach—ultimately arriving at our destination with grace. I've heard critics claim that adjusting course midway is a betrayal of one’s original convictions. That it shows inconsistency. But I see it differently.

As Jimmy Dean wisely put it, “I can’t change the direction of the wind, but I can adjust my sails to always reach my destination.” Flexibility in pursuit of a worthy goal is not duplicity—it’s the essence of strategic, values-driven leadership.

In the face of uncertainty, adaptation is not weakness. It’s wisdom in action.

Be a Better You

2020-09-27T09:04:00.005-05:00

Why Most Resolutions Fail—And How to Keep Becoming Better Anyway

The dawn of a new year always brings with it a quiet (and sometimes not-so-quiet) optimism. across the globe, people vow to start fresh, ditch bad habits, adopt new mindsets, and finally become the version of themselves they’ve been envisioning for years.

Some (myself included) declare it's time to drop a few pounds. Others commit to learning a new skill, picking up a long-lost hobby, or emulating the qualities of a role model they’ve long admired. There’s something universal in that hope. But also, something all too common in what comes next.

Fast forward 12 months, and for many, that bright beginning ends in quiet regret. The goals were grand, the motivation was real… but life got in the way. We look back and ask: Where did my resolve go? What happened to that energy I had back in January (or September for us, Ethiopians).

If this sounds familiar, you're not alone. And you’re not a failure.

Personal development experts often remind us of a simple truth: transformation isn’t about giant leaps—it’s about daily steps. The key is consistency, not intensity. Even if your first few attempts feel clumsy, even if progress is barely visible, what matters is that you keep showing up.

Becoming better than you were yesterday is not a one-time victory. It’s a process—a quiet unfolding that rewards perseverance far more than perfection.

So if your New Year’s resolution is already collecting dust, don't beat yourself up. You haven’t missed the boat. You still have time, space, and energy to keep going.

Stay focused. Stay patient. Take small steps. And trust that something better is unfolding—because it is. With effort, you'll look back at the end of the year and realize: you did become better. Maybe not exactly how you planned, but in ways that matter more.