We have walked for weeks, Ahmed Alema Hessan and I, atop discarded Stone Age cutlery—the litter of ancient meat-gorged bacchanals in a landscape often equated, today, with hunger.
We yo-yoed for miles across waterless gullies to Gona. Its silence rang. We toppled, exhausted, devastated by the heat, under the spiky shade of an acacia. Yet even there we sizzled. And couldn’t linger. There were reports of armed Issa nearby, rustling Afar cattle.
“Let’s go, man,” Alema said, kicking my boots.
History is a mirror. The revolution continues.