Today was not the first day that my alarm clock failed to go off. But today was the first day that I almost missed my own meeting because my alarm clock failed to wake me up. Better late than never I supposed. So I caught a taxi cab – a ten fold increase in fare as compared to the bus – and opened the laptop to prepare. I noticed that the cabbie was a Hornist and avoided eye contact so as to escape the inevitable back and forth on establishing identity, politics and a long discussion on the miseries of the migrant life. I don’t know if this is just me, but saying where you are from has become a task that requires great mental agility these days. And I think this is particularly true for those of us from the Horn. I am always careful not to offend in case my cabbie runs us both off a bridge. Over the past 10 years I have determined that my identity is really dependent on my counterpart’s identity. If he is from Addis then I am from Addis. If he is from Oromia or Ogaden, then I am most certainly Eritrean.