By: Ahmed Mohammed
On my third day in this livable city of Hawassa, I by chance got lost deeper into its heart, where the pulse of life beats in sync with the lapping waves of Lake Hawassa. Every corner whispered stories—of lovers strolling the lakeside at dusk, of children chasing soccer balls near the newly launched corridor developments, of vendors selling ripe mangos and avocados under the shade of towering fig trees.
To your surprise, Hawassa grows smarter and brighter when the day gets darker. As the sun slipped into the horizon, the city transformed into a portal where, on the flipside, you can see its ecstasy. Streetlights flickered to life, casting golden reflections on the freshly paved roads. The lake, a vast mirror, swallowed the last embers of daylight, only to give birth to a shimmering constellation of floating restaurants and distant boat lights.
I found myself drawn to a quiet spot beneath an ancient fig tree, a tree of nearly a hundred years, I guess—with its spread roots cutting the earth like the wise fingers of an elder. There, a light-dark-skinned woman with waist-length hair moved gracefully, her hands busy with a traditional jebena (kettle). The aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans curled into the air, an invitation I couldn’t refuse.
She poured the strong, dark liquid with practiced ease, the steam rising like morning mist over the lake. I took the small cup, our fingers brushing briefly.
"Buna tetu?" (Have a cup of coffee?) She asked me humbly, her voice as smooth as the drink she served.
Eerie! Pairs of apes clutched at her loose dress, which she wore carelessly yet beautifully.
"Eshi, ameseginalehu," I replied, nodding in gratitude.
We fell into an easy conversation. Her name is Muna, and she had been serving coffee under this very tree for ten years.
"People come here to forget their worries," she said, stirring the coals beneath the jebena. "The lake listens. The wind carries away sorrow. Even the apes know when a stranger needs peace“. She gave a glance but ended up with a locked look.
As if summoned, a hyperactive ape began sliding from the branches, eyeing my cup with playful curiosity. Muna tossed it a piece of bread, and it retreated just as quickly, chattering its approval. It returned back with some groundnuts in his hands.
Later, I wandered toward the lakeside, where couples sat on benches, their murmurs blending with the rustling reeds. The water was calm, a silent confidant to whispered promises and shared dreams. A young man strummed a krar, its melancholic notes floating like fireflies in the night. A little further, another man lost in his thoughts, with "The Red Book" by Carl Jung in his hands, I thought he was rehearsing and discussing what he read from the pages, maybe of shadow self, of inner child....
Then I turned my head to where my eyes took me too and welcomed by another beauty. Hawassa’s public spaces are wordlessly spotless —no litter, no chaos—just an orderly beauty that made it easy to lose track of time. Newly constructed walkways lined with flowering shrubs led to open-air cafes where tourists and locals mingled effortlessly. The city was evolving, yet it held onto its soul.
The next morning, I returned to the fig tree, only to find a troop of apes leaping between branches, their black-and-white fur stark against the green branches. Muna laughed as one boldly approached me, tilting its head as if assessing my intentions. He intently stared at my goatee beard: “Do I look like you? “ I laughed at the ape.
"They know you now," she said. "Yesterday, you were a stranger. Today, you are part of the rhythm. The dance of life here in Hawass"a
And perhaps that was Hawassa’s magic—it didn’t just welcome you; it absorbed you. The city was a living, breathing entity where nature and humanity existed in seamless harmony. The lake massaged the air, the trees offered shelter, the coffee stirred the spirit, and the people—warm, unhurried—reminded you that time was not a river to be fought but one to be sailed.
As I left, the wind carried Muna’s final words: "Come back when your soul needs dancing again."
And I knew I would. Because in Hawassa, the mind, soul, and spirit never stop moving to the rhythm of the lake.
When I threw my eyes, I stumbled upon white people. Under the broad shade of another fig tree, five tourists laughed as they feasted on freshly harvested fish. The aroma of grilled tilapia mixed with the lake breeze. Their joy was contagious, infectious, a simple moment yet unforgettable.
