The floor sings symphonies under our steps, the roof reminds us of yesterday’s rain and the walls tell the stories of decades past. And yet, Addis’ oldest bowling alley is the best place to be on a Sunday afternoon.
Somewhere in the darkness, at the end of the lane, there are pins waiting for their final blow. Something moves and you think: perhaps this is the moment the roof will collapse on us.
Lined up like clumsy soldiers on a war front, the pins look like they’ve been through some rough times. No surprise, since they’ve been there since the times of the Italian occupation.