In 1993, when I was in 11th grade at Black Lion High School, a pair of teenagers from Atlanta who called themselves Kriss Kross had the world jumping—literally. Their breakout hit, “Jump,” topped the Billboard Hot 100 for eight weeks and dominated charts in Australia and Switzerland. They performed in oversized jeans worn backwards, a style that felt rebellious and, to us, irresistible. We mimicked them, striding into school with our trousers reversed, earning the scorn of teachers who saw in our fashion not youthful exuberance but deliberate defiance.
“Boys will be boys,” they often sighed, dismissing our antics. Perhaps it helped that we balanced our mischief with academic excellence, poetry readings, basketball tournaments, and even blood donation drives. In the end, nearly every one of us secured admission to Addis Ababa University—a fact our teachers surely found redeeming.
On the final day of high school, after our last exam, a classmate borrowed one of my notebooks—an exercise book filled with poems. He had always been fond of my writing, reading and rereading the verses. But that afternoon, he forgot the book on the desk of an Indian invigilator, who, in a moment of curiosity, began flipping through its pages. When my classmate returned, she asked him to bring me to her. By the time we met through the flood of students spilling out onto Churchill Road, she had already gone.
Among the poems in that notebook was one I never forgot. Inspired by another Kriss Kross track, “I Missed the Bus,” it captured the anxious scramble of a boy who oversleeps, dashes to catch his school bus, and arrives just in time to see its automatic doors slam shut. After a scolding and dismissal in front of his peers for arriving late, the lyric ends with regret and the vow never to repeat the mistake.
“It was nothin’ I could do, I tried to explain
But the teacher treated me like I was playin’ a game
YOU LOSE, YOU LOSE—the day was a no-win
I learned to never miss my bus again.”
These lines, delivered by Kriss Kelly and Chris Smith—better known as Mack Daddy and Daddy Mac—were more than lyrics; they were a mirror of my own childhood commute on the Anbessa #2 bus from Vatican Embassy to Geja Sefer. Our strict church school demanded a mountain of homework each night, with particularly grueling math assignments that kept me burning the midnight oil. Rising early became a battle for every extra second of sleep I could cling to.
Listening to “I Missed the Bus” with its fast-paced, warm tempo, I was struck by how closely my life resembled that of two kids across the Atlantic. We were lucky if a late bus delivered us in time for the morning church sermon, or at least before the line-up where the Lord’s Prayer or the national anthem was recited. Arriving while students were still running across the schoolyard was a rare delight. But arriving to an eerily quiet compound—everyone already seated in class—was every student’s nightmare.
The old Anbessa #2 buses often outlived their intended service lives. On several occasions, a groaning Fiat would struggle up the steep hill near the former OAU compound, forcing passengers to disembark and wait until the bus reached level ground before continuing. In retrospect, it was almost farcical—the mix of students, petty traders, kiosk owners hauling goods from Merkato, and injured soldiers from a nearby army hospital—all trekking up the hill with equal parts desperation, pity, and frustration. Yet missing the notoriously late Anbessa #2 was not an option.
Over time, we were granted a degree of leniency for lateness, thanks to the peculiar transportation challenges of our Vatican Embassy neighborhood. Few routes connected our sparsely populated suburb to the rest of the city, and Geja Sefer was even worse: a congested, dilapidated maze of ancient, crumbling houses.
To this day, both neighborhoods retain much of the same character, and the Anbessa #2 bus remains the only transport connecting the route from Dejazmatch Balcha Hospital through Amistegna Police Tabia and Cheffe Meda, continuing through Geja Sefer, Berbere Terra, and finally Merkato. If anyone needs proof that expanding transportation networks and road infrastructure is essential for an area’s development, this route alone tells the story.
During a recent visit to my elementary school, I was stunned to find the neighborhood largely unchanged from when I left in 1990—35 years ago. The place felt frozen in time. The school itself, with its prominent chapel and towering cross, stood out as the only significant structure; the surrounding buildings, by contrast, were a pitiable eyesore.
Now, as I commute daily from Ayat 49 Mazoria to Bole for work, I see children clad in uniforms, carrying oversized school bags, braving the morning chill, and vying for space on overcrowded buses. For students lucky enough to have a chartered school bus, the struggle may be unimaginable, but for the vast majority, missing the morning bus is an existential risk. Today’s public buses are as overloaded as they were in my youth—but the reasons have multiplied. Beyond homework, commuting challenges now stem from the city’s rapid expansion, the growing distance between residential neighborhoods and schools, and uneven urban development. A journey that once took us from Vatican Embassy to Geja Sefer—a “long” trek in our minds—is now dwarfed by commutes from Ayat to Megenagna. What was once a suburban neighborhood, Vatican Embassy, has become part of downtown, while students are forced to traverse ever greater distances to attend school.
The rainy season provides a brief reprieve for students and the city’s struggling transport network alike, halting school-related commutes. But come September, the streets fill again with the chaos of young commuters. Across continents and generations, Kriss Kross’s song resonates. It is a poignant reminder of a time that seems eternal: the anxiety of missing the bus, racing against the clock, and confronting the relentless pressures of urban life.
Despite decades of change, students still miss their buses and, in that timeless moment, echo the refrain:
I missed the bus… I missed the bus…
Jumped in the shower and I knew I was late
Stepped out, put on my jeans and my uni
And said to myself, if I miss school I’m ruined
But I ran downhill, and I RUSHED, RUSHED
I ran down the hill, TRYING TO CATCH THE BUS…
I missed the bus [ohh]
And that is something I will never, ever, ever do again.
Bereket Balcha holds a Bachelor of Arts in Sociology and Social Anthropology from Addis Ababa University (AAU) and a Diploma in Purchasing and Supply Chain Management from Addis Ababa Commercial College/AAU. His extensive professional background encompasses decades of experience in the aviation industry in diverse roles, complemented by a two-year engagement at the Ethiopia Insurance Corporation. He can be reached at [email protected])
Contributed by Bereket Balcha