Recently I watched a video of Ethiopians dancing in the countryside, recorded in 1965 by Hungarian researchers who documented Ethiopian music and dances at the request of Emperor Haile Selassie. Right away I noticed that the people dancing eskista in the dusty town square were wearing shoes! Some were even wearing shiny, black leather shoes! Well, the researchers were foreigners, and they were sent there by the Emperor himself. It must have been quite an occasion, one that called for the best modern clothes and shoes. I can imagine what a big deal it must have been in 1965!

In the early 1990s, I owned my first pair of shoes when I started 8th grade—the first pair of shoes that I actually got to put on in the morning and take off at night. Many years before then, my birth mother Mulu bought me a pair of new shoes before she left Ethiopia as a refugee. I was three years old. To this day, I remember my excitement and happiness when she showed me those shoes—leather, with pockets on top. My small 3-year-old feet must have felt awkward in the new shoes’ stiffness. Shortly after that Mulu went to Sudan, leaving me to the care of Tirunesh, my adoptive mother. Wearing shoes was a luxury to many Ethiopians, even in the 1980s; so my family put them away. Sometime later when the shoes were taken out again, my feet have outgrown them.

I went on with my life without shoes, and without knowing any of my birth family until 16 years later. But wrapped around by my adoptive mother’s deep, wise, selfless love, I was a happy child. I did not mind having no shoes. I ran up and down the Yeka Mountain with my friends, without shoes. I wandered all over the city of Addis Ababa, without shoes, following any adult who didn’t object to having me around. That was how I got the nickname of “መላኩ የተም” (Melaku Everywhere).

I also went to school without shoes, smelling like the cows I took care of in the morning. The cows were better friends to me than some human beings in my village. The cows never looked down on me for not having shoes or smelling like them. They looked at me with gentle eyes and gave me fresh milk to drink every day. (I have them to thank for my good immune system.) My classmates who made fun of me for my poverty did not know the riches I had in my heart. But they all knew I loved to sing and dance. “Melaku, sing for us!” They would shout during breaks. I happily obliged and sang for them. I even composed my own songs—four of them. I don’t remember those songs any more, but I remember the feeling of joy when I sang them. In 2020, one of my grade-school classmates showed up on YouTube when my DJ session was streamed. She remembered something that I sang during first grade. መላኩ ኢለመንተሪ ስንማር ክፍል ውስጥ ትዘፍን ነበር እረሳውም። “ወታደሩ አቧራውን ለብሶ ድንጋይ ተንተርሶ” የሚል ዜማ ስት ዘፍን ለተማሪዎች ትዝ ይለኛል።

I learned how to dance in weddings and at Timket festivals without shoes. In my village, whenever some kind of party or celebration went on, people would say, “Where is Melaku? Get Melaku over here to dance!” Shoes or no shoes, good dancing is good dancing. Like most Ethiopians, my family did not encourage me to take up dance as a profession. They wanted me to become a pilot or an engineer. But I knew what true joy was when I danced. I didn’t want to stop moving, because, as much as my bare feet were connected to the earth, my spirit would fly into the endless sky above the mountains. The good earth of Ethiopia has given me boundless energy, to walk, to sing, to dance, and to soar.

I still love to dance without shoes when I can. But now I also love my heavy hiking boots. In them, I still wander all over Addis Ababa—Kazanchis, Piazza, Arat Kilo, Mercato, Yeka Mountains, Entoto. I also wander all over the world in them—Paris, Berlin, New York, Chicago, Abu Dhabi, Zurich… My childhood nickname “Melaku everywhere” foreshadowed my future. I love traveling and learn so much from it! But I will always come back to Ethiopia, where my people have planted my feet in the ancient soil of deep love and rich spirit. With or without shoes, I will dance, and I will be free.