BN Book Excerpt: A Tale of an African Executive & His African Dream Team – in Corporate America by Yibrah Tesfazghi

Part I: Village Life in Sere’e

The year 1954 marked the end of a long and gruesome drought in the Hazemo plains, located in the Akele Guzay Region of today’s Eritrea. It was into this climate of renewal and resistance that I was born.  My name, Yibrah, in my Semitic Tigrigna language, is loosely translated to “let it be light” or “let it be bright.” I was born in an ancient Logo clan’s village named Sere’e.

Like all of my brothers and sisters, I was born in a Hedmo, a traditional house dominant in the highlands of Eritrea. These houses consist mainly of masonry walls, wooden ceilings, and soil roofs. My late mother, Weizero Abeba Reda, gave birth to all her children in the same Hedmo and on the same Ni’edi, a stone-and-mud traditional bed, with the support of traditional midwives who did not have any formal medical training.

Formal schooling was a distant dream in Sere’e. Instead, education took root within the modest walls of Saint Mary’s Church, an Orthodox sanctuary where learning was passed down through the oral traditions of storytelling and recitation. Night lessons conducted in a blend of Tigrigna and Ge’ez were led by the esteemed Qeshi Neguse Atzebaha, the head priest. The curriculum revolved around two sacred skills: Memorisation and Oral Recitation. Young students would gather in the dimly lit church, listening intently as the priest recited ancient Ge’ez religious texts. Materials like pens and paper were virtually non-existent, making every written word a testament to determination.

The church atmosphere was illuminated by the faint glow of kerosene lamps called Lamba. These simple devices, with flat cotton wicks, cast a flickering yellow light that danced on the rough walls. Yet, the smoky haze they produced was a constant discomfort. For the students, this smoke became a symbol of endurance; a reminder that even a dim light could brighten the path to knowledge.

Transportation in Sere’e was limited. Each day, a single blue bus made its way across the Hazemo plains. Catching the bus, however, was always a gamble. Three factors determined the chances: whether the bus would pass that day, whether there would be room, and the mood of the driver. On a bad day, the moody driver might even bypass passengers who had waited for hours along the roadside. For most people, horses, mules, and donkeys were the primary means of transportation.

Radios were a rare luxury; batteries were expensive and hard to find. By the early 1960s, only eleven radios existed in our village, and even those were often without batteries. News travelled by word of mouth, and evenings were spent around the elders, listening to their stories and folklore. The outside world felt distant and almost mythical.

 Part II: The Monster Machine

Just a few months shy of my sixth birthday, my father made a decision that would change the course of my life. He chose me to pursue an education in the big city. On the day we were to leave for the city, my mother woke me early in the morning and told me to get ready. There was no special preparation; my night and day clothes were one and the same. She said we were travelling to the city to visit my grandfather. There was no mention of school.

The walk to catch the bus was brutal. I had never seen a bus, let alone ridden one. From stories told by the elders, I imagined it was a magical, flying object. Then, I saw it; a light blue machine with wheels hurtling towards us noisily. I had never seen such a strange and intimidating object. It raised clouds of dust as it moved and belched grey smoke from different parts of its body. When it screeched to a halt before us, my instinct was to run back to the village. My mother, as if reading my mind, grabbed my arm firmly.

The machine opened its “belly,” and a man dressed strangely emerged. He barked instructions, and people began climbing into the metal box like lambs to the slaughterhouse. I refused to join them, convinced I was walking into danger. Some villagers helped my mother drag me inside as I kicked and screamed. Once inside, the box roared to life with a deafening clatter, rattling as it spewed smoke. I looked out the window and saw trees and rivers seemingly fleeing from the beast. Feeling dizzy, I closed my eyes. My stomach churned as I watched my beloved village vanish in the distance.

Part III: The Stubborn Light Bulb

We eventually arrived at my maternal grandfather’s house in the capital city of Asmara. Coming from a stone-age-like village to a modern city with thousands of Art Deco buildings was breathtaking.

When it was time to sleep, my mother completed her night prayers and, exhausted, she went straight into a deep sleep. Silence took over, an almost absolute stillness. Lying beside my mother, my mind wandered back to my village, Sere’e. I marvelled at how rapidly my life had transformed; the changes were both colossal and exhilarating.

Eventually, sleep began to creep in. My eyelids grew heavy, yet the bare lightbulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling remained lit. Its harsh, unyielding glow kept me from fully surrendering to rest. No one was there to turn it off, as there had been on previous nights. I longed to switch it off myself, just as I used to extinguish the kerosene lamp back in Sere’e. That bulb, emblematic of this new, electrified world, held a strange, compelling allure.

Accustomed to kerosene lamps, I had assumed the same technique would work: a gentle blow of air to extinguish the flame. How could I have known that an electric bulb was not so easily tamed? 

On that first night, I stood up on the bed, determined to perform what I thought was the simple act of turning off the light. I blew air toward the bulb, hard and deliberate, but it stayed stubbornly lit. Undeterred, I tried again and again. The bulb was too far from my reach, suspended from the ceiling like a glowing fruit just out of grasp. I jumped from the bed, puffing air with all my might, but my efforts were still in vain.

As I continued my struggle, the commotion roused the sleepers in the room. My mother stirred first, her drowsy eyes filled with confusion. One by one, the others awoke, their expressions shifting from bewilderment to amusement as they took in the scene. Liation laughter erupted, warm and uncontrollable, filling the room that had been silent only moments before. I froze, bewildered by their reaction. To me, there was no humour in my genuine attempt to extinguish the light. Yet, their mirth was infectious, and soon I found myself laughing along with them, though I wasn’t entirely sure why.

It was a moment of shared joy, a bridge between the simplicity of my past and the complexity of this new life. My mother patiently showed me how to operate the small black switch attached to the electric wire hanging on the side wall. I followed her instructions and successfully flipped the switch, turning off the lightbulb for the first time in my life. It was a moment of quiet triumph, a simple yet profound act that made me feel an undeniable sense of accomplishment.