When I think of weddings now – all the waste and propaganda – I prefer to remember that fake spring union of Misrak and Abebe. We understood that the dangers of hours and hours of cohabitation would never touch these two, and as such, they were gleaming, like the afternoon itself. We knew as well that our own futures were bound to be different. About romance and companionship we knew little, but watching those two commit themselves felt honourable, the way marriage was intended to be, a transaction devoid of the complications of love.
