This third and final installment on Teklenkiel Gebru (Wedi Gebru) requires clarification at the outset. It is not a showcase of his artistic career. If I were writing based on his music alone, as remarkable as it is, he would not have stood out for me in the way he ultimately does. Eritrea has produced many artists whose technical mastery, vocal range, or musical innovation equal or surpass his. But none, in my judgment, matches his singular moral posture. What sets Wedi Gebru apart is not the beauty of his voice, nor the breadth of his repertoire, but the courage of his convictions. He was incomparable in his willingness to criticize the very organizations, communities, and governments with which he affiliated himself—ELF, EPLF, Eritrean people, and later the Eritrean state—because his loyalty was never to institutions. It was to principles.

This is why Wedi Gebru matters. This is why he deserves to be remembered. And this is why I chose to write about him. Eritrea today is full of nationalists—men and women who profess love of country, who speak of sovereignty, identity, and struggle. But very few have elevated themselves into patriots. Nationalism is easy; patriotism is costly. Nationalism demands devotion; patriotism demands accountability. Wedi Gebru understood the difference. He lived the difference. And that distinction is the central concern of this final piece and the preceding two.

The first installment traced his formative years before joining the National Liberation Struggle. The second examined his role during the struggle itself—his music, his activism, and his principled dissent within the liberation movement. This concluding installment turns to the last three decades of his life, the period after Eritrea’s independence, when the artist finally lived in the country he had long dreamed of and fought for. These were years marked by hope and disillusionment, by repression and national fragmentation, by poverty and widening inequalities. They were also the years in which Wedi Gebru’s patriotism reached its fullest expressions, sometimes implicitly, in the quiet integrity of his choices, and at other times explicitly, in the sharp moral clarity of his art.

Here, I will explore how he responded to the conditions of post‑independence Eritrea: the political stagnation, the erosion of civic life, the betrayal of the ideals of the struggle, and the suffering of ordinary citizens. I will show how he marshaled his art—his lyrics, his satire, his sharp moral commentary—to remain a voice of his people. In a society where silence became the norm and conformity the safest path, Wedi Gebru chose to speak. He chose to critique. He chose to remain faithful to the principles that animated the Eritrean struggle long before independence was achieved.

This final installment is therefore not a celebration of an artist, but a study of a patriot. It is an attempt to understand how one man, armed only with his art and his conscience, confronted the failures of the nation he loved—and why his example is urgently needed today.

The power of will

In the aftermath of Eritrea’s liberation, the most consequential question confronting the Eritrean Diaspora was whether to return home. For decades, the overwhelming majority had lived as refugees, sustaining themselves on the dream of one day going back. Yet when independence finally arrived, that dream collided with a host of practical realities—economic constraints, family obligations, professional commitments, a political system that offered little incentive and at times erected deliberate obstacles for returnees, and the sheer difficulty of rebuilding a life in a country emerging from war. For many, returning to Eritrea was simply not feasible.

But for Wedi Gebru, these considerations were secondary, even irrelevant. What mattered to him was not circumstances but will. He believed, with almost Victorian intensity, in the power of individual resolve to shape one’s life and environment. It was the same ethos that animated the Victorian Age—a belief in the sovereignty of personal willpower, the idea that character and determination could overcome material limitations. That spirit found its most famous expression in William Ernest Henley’s Invictus, with its defiant assertion of self‑mastery.

Wedi Gebru distilled that philosophy into a single, crystalline line: ድሌት ‘ዩ ወሳኒ ካብ መሰረቱ — The power of will determines everything at its foundation. Or in the words of Ernest Henley, “I am the master of my fate and the captain of my soul.”

For him, returning home was not a logistical question; it was a moral one. It was a test of conviction—of whether one’s professed love of country could be translated into action. And in that sense, his stance became a mirror held up to the Diaspora, revealing the gap between real nationalist sentiment and its concomitant commitment. Wedi Gebru lived the very principle he preached: he returned home with nothing, and from that nothing he rebuilt a life. He did not wait for ideal conditions, nor did he measure his return against material readiness. He acted out of duty, not convenience.

His nationalism was not rhetorical; it was lived. During the Ethio‑Eritrean war of 1998–2000, when the country was once again thrust into conflict, Wedi Gebru was mobilized like countless other citizens—and he did his part. He stood with the nation (that is how most people understood it) in its hour of need, not because he was compelled, but because he believed that nationalism demands participation, sacrifice, and presence. In returning home, in rebuilding his life, and in answering the call during wartime, he demonstrated that the foundation of all action—ድሌት ‘ዩ ወሳኒ ካብ መሰረቱ—is the will to do what one believes is right.

ሓደ ነገር ኣሎ ንዓይ ዝገርመኒ                  There is one thing that amazes me:
ኣብ ስደት ዘለና ኢና ጀጋኑ መስለኒ             Those of us in exile appear to me like heroes.
ኣይተማሂርና ጽዒናዮ ዲግሪ                     We did not learn—and earn degrees;
ወይ ሰሪሕና ድማ ንብረት ከነጥሪ             Nor did we work and accumulate property.
ግዜና የሕሊፍናዮ ኣንታ ከነውሪ                 We wasted time, trading in rumours;
ጌጋኻ ዘይምፍላጥ ነውሪ ኢዩ ነውሪ          To be blind to your own mistakes is the vice of all vice.

ጥራይ ኢደይ እንድየ ዓደይ ክኣቱ             “I’m going home with an empty hand,”
ምባል ግደፎ ካብ መሰረቱ                       Stop saying altogether.
ንጥዑይ ሓንጎል ‘ንከላይ ክእለቱ               A sound mind, with all its talent—
ድሌት ‘ዩ ወሳኒ ካብ መሰረቱ                    The power of will determines everything at its foundation.

ኣብ ናይ ዓውደ ውግእ ኣብ ናይ ቃልሲ ሜዳ           In the battlefield’s circle, in the field of struggle,
ዑውት ‘ንደ ኔረ ወይ ኣነ ጎሚዳ                             saying, “I was victorious, or a blademaster”—
እንዳበልካ ምዝራብ ‘ንታይ ኣለዎ ፋይዳ                 What benefit is there in boasting
ኣብ ዝባንካ ከሎ ዘይተኸፍተ ዕዳ                         When an unpaid debt still rests on your back?
ይኣኽለና በሉ ዕላል ነቋርጾ                        It is enough for us; let’s stop the chitchat.
ብኣፍካ ምጥቃው ከምቶም ተበላጾ         To pretend virtous with words like those opportunists
ኣኺሉ ‘ዩ ደጊም ትዓጺ ‘ዩ ማዕጾ               It is over; the door has already shut.

The Tortoise and the hare: ኣካይዳና ኣካይዳ ጎብየ

Isaias Afwerki often described his regime’s modus operandi and its efficiency through the parable of the tortoise that ultimately outraced the hare. At the very moment when knowledgeable Eritreans—especially in the Diaspora—were advocating a leap‑frog strategy to accelerate development and close the gap with the region and the world, the regime embraced the slow, plodding pace of the tortoise. The result was predictable: Eritrea remained trapped in abject poverty and chronic underdevelopment, unable to lift itself into the future it had fought for.

To make matters worse, the slow‑motion governance model did not produce equality or shared progress. Instead, it magnified disparities. The divide between those who had access to resources and those who did not became increasingly visible. Inequality, once muted by the collective austerity of the struggle years, now stood in plain sight.

Wedi Gebru saw this clearly, and—as always—he felt compelled to point it out. His art became a mirror reflecting the contradictions of a society where some could not afford even the simplest staples while others indulged in excess. In doing so, he exposed not only the failures of policy but the erosion of the egalitarian ethos that had once animated the liberation movement.

ዎ ጎብየ: ስምዓኒ ጎብየ                            Oh Tortoise, listen to me, Tortoise.
ሕጂ ተቐላጠፍ: ኣለካ ዝዕየ                      Now hurry—you’ve work that needs to be done.
ግዜ እንተረኺበ: ዕድመ እንተሂቡኒ           If I find the time, if God grants me longevity,
ኣጆኹም ድኻታት: ዝዛረቦ ኣሎኒ             Hold on, poor people; I have plenty to say.

ናይ ገለ ጎሮሮ ሓተላ ስኢኑ                        Some throats lack even the dregs;
ናይ ገሊኦም ከኣ ዊስኪ ይብሉ ቀጢኑ        While some complain their whisky is watered down.
ናይ ገለ ኩርምቲ ቆሎ ዓተር ሲአኑ            Some molars have never tasted roasted chickpeas,
ናይ ገለ ኩርምቲ ፓስታ ፈንፊኑ                While some have even grown weary of pasta.

ናይ ገለ መኣዲ ኣብ ዓመቱ ጣይታ            Some tables receive tayta only once a year;
ናይ ግሊኦም ከኣ ድሕሪ መግቢ ቶርታ       Others, after eating, finish with cake for dessert.

ኣብ ገለ ጎደና ይረአ ለማኒ             On some avenues you see a beggar,
ኣብ ገሊኡ ኸኣ ይጓሰጥ ብባኒ       On others, you see someone sparring with bread.
ዎ ጎብየ ተቐላጠፍ ኣለካ ዝዕየ      Oh Tortoise, hurry— you’ve work that needs to be done

The 2% Diaspora Tax

Although, like everything else in Eritrea, there is no credible public data, it is widely believed that the regime of Isaias Afwerki generates close to 30% of its GDP from remittances and from what is popularly known as the 2% Diaspora Tax—officially the Recovery and Rehabilitation Tax. In the thirty‑five years since independence, the regime has never published a national budget. No Eritrean knows how revenues from mining, remittances, or the vast network of PFDJ‑owned conglomerates are allocated. What is known—because it is visible—is that those with proximity to Isaias live comfortably, even lavishly, while most citizens struggle under severe economic hardship.

This stark inequality, produced and protected by corruption and opaque governance, did not escape Wedi Gebru’s attention. True to his nature, he exposed it. Through his art, he revealed the widening gulf between the privileged few and the many who bear the weight of national stagnation. The poem below captures his critique with precision, irony, and moral force. In the Eritrea that emerged after independence, some of the regime’s top military brass and political cadres—those who placed personal gain above national duty—transformed themselves into a nouveau riche class of “merchants,” driven not by public service but by the pursuit of profit at any cost. These are the regime loyalists who, in Wedi Gebru’s own biting words, earn five thousand nakfa a month yet spend twenty thousand in a single sitting: ደሞዞም ሓሙሽተ ሽሕ ናቕፋ፣ ዕስራ ሽሕ ይሕሽሹ ኣብ ሓንቲ ጣውላ.

What made Wedi Gebru’s courage even more remarkable was the reaction of the very people seated before him. When he performed this song in front of senior military leaders, many of whom were themselves trapped in the same suffocating system, they did not silence him. They cheered him on. With a mixture of admiration, resignation, and quiet defiance, they urged him forward: “ኣጆኻ ወዲ ገብሩ ዳሕዳሓዮ,” Cheer up, Wedi Gebru, spill your beans freely. Their response revealed a deeper truth: even those inside the machinery of power recognized the rot, felt its weight, and found in Wedi Gebru’s voice a rare moment of honesty in a country where truth had become dangerous.

Their ascent marked a profound betrayal of the egalitarian ideals for which so many Eritreans had sacrificed their lives. It was precisely this betrayal—this moral inversion of the liberation ethos—that Wedi Gebru insisted on confronting.

ክልተ ካብ ሚእቲ መኽሰብ ኣይኣክል ዶ?               Isn’t two percent enough profit?
ዕሚም ኣብዝሕኩም ነጋዶ ዓዲ ዳሓን ዶ?        Why are you, merchants, complaining too much? Isn’t the country okay?ብክዳን ኣይትምሰል ዓቢ             Do not pretend to be great with mere garb.
ተማራመር ልብካ ይዕቢ             Enquire and let your heart grow.

ዘረባ ግደፍ ብሃውሪ                    Quit speaking in haste;
ኣስተብህልካ ኣውሪ                    Speak only after full study.

ኣብቲ ገለ ገዛ ስሓቅ ተረስዑ         In some homes, laughter is forgotten;
ኣብቲ ገለ ድማ ኣመና በዚሑ       In others, there is far too much of it.
ልቢ ይዕብና ኢና እምበሪ            Just because we have let our hearts grow in wisdom,
መዓሰ ተረስዑ                          We have not forgotten the inequity.

ሳላ ዝጸረቡ ብኢዶም                              Because of those who routed with their hands,
ውሻል ዘይብላ ነዊቶም                           With a plow shaft that does not have a wedge.
ስርናይ መሊኣ ግራቶም                           Their field is full of grain;
ማዕጺደ’የ ሕመረት ለዓታ                       The sickle depends on how one holds it.
‘ንታይ ተሪፉ ግርም ኣሳሊጣ                    Nothing is lacking — the task is done.

የማን ጸጋም ኩሉ ዓሚምክዮ                  Everything to the left and right, you ‘ve accomplished.
ኣይተረፈን ኩሉ ኣሳሊጥኪ ዕዮ                 Nothing has been left behind; everything has been done.
ቀቀሪሙስ ባዕልና ኣለናዮ                        And what is not yet ripe — we are here for it.

Justice: how are the weakest among us treated?

There is a well‑known variation of a saying attributed to Prophet Mohammed: when justice and equity prevail in a city, a person may walk from place to place carrying charity yet find no one willing to accept it. In other words, the true measure of justice is not how the privileged live, but how the most disadvantaged fare. Equity is always judged from the bottom up.

Wedi Gebru applies precisely this yardstick to Eritrea. For him, the condition of the nation is not reflected in the well‑fed, the comfortable, or those insulated by proximity to power. It is revealed in the emaciated—the neglected, the struggling, the ones whose hardship exposes the inequities and injustices embedded in the system. They are the moral barometer of the country.

By focusing on them, Wedi Gebru forces us to confront a simple truth: a society cannot claim justice when its most vulnerable are left behind. So much for the PFDJ: the People’s Front for Democracy and Justice.

ኣሳጉማይ ወሲኸሉ ዘብዘብ          To my strides, I have added jogging—
ዘብዘብ ዘብዘብ                         jogging, jogging.
ጌና ‘ለኹ ጌና፣ ዘሎ ይትዓዘብ       I’m still around, and let the one who is still around observe.

ሚዶ አንታይ የድሊ ንበርሓት?      What use is a hair pick to the bald?
ምኽሪ ኣይደልን ‘የ ካብ ፈርሓት    I don’t need advice from cowards.
ክቕጽል’የ ብዘለኒ ብልሓት            I’ll keep going with the ingenuity I have;
ዓባሮ እምበር ኣይርእን ስቡሓት   I’ll look for the emaciated, not the fatties.

ሕጂ ግዳ ሓሊፈዮ ስሳ                 Now that I am past sixty,
ካብ ቐደመይ ዘይብለይ ኣበሳ       From earlier days I never had blemishes.
‘ንታይ ዝፈልጦ ‘ለኒ በጀ ከኣ ንሳ? What do I know besides her?
ቖላ ዓደይ ‘ንተላይ ከበሳ፣           The lowland is my country as well as the highland,
ኤርትራ’ያ ንሳ                            That is Eritrea.

ከዕልለኩም ቀንዲ ሕመረቱ                       Let me tell you about the essential parts
ታሪኽ ኣለኒ ታሪኽ ዘዘንቱ                        I have a history that must be told
ሴፍ እንዳ ጉራደ ዘይኣቱ                           A sword cannot be held in a saber’s scabbard
ኣይህውትትን ምስቶም ዝሃውተቱ           I will not babble like those who babbled

Glad that I managed to See it All: ንኩሉ እንቋዕ ኣርከብኩሉ

Wedi Gebru understood the sorrowful state of the country and the suffering of its people, yet he urged patience and wisdom as the means to change the status quo and usher in a system worthy of Eritrea’s long‑held dream: a free, peaceful, prosperous, and democratic nation. He recognized a hard truth—when people demand immediate change without the necessary preparation, the very conditions they hope to improve often deteriorate further. Unplanned upheaval rarely produces justice; it more often deepens instability.

What Wedi Gebru advocated instead were changes that are manageable, deliberate, and rooted in the interests of the people—not in the ambitions of the few who hijacked a cause for which so many Eritreans sacrificed their lives. His voice is not one of resignation but of sagacity. He calls for transformation guided by prudence, grounded in principle, and protected from the recklessness that has repeatedly harmed Eritrea (ምስ ለባም መኺረ). In doing so, he reminds us that wisdom is not passivity; it is the discipline required to build a future worthy of the nation’s aspirations. Embedded in his counsel is a time‑tested, time‑honored truth: this, too, shall pass, ክሰግሮ እንድየ ክንደይ ዘይተሰግረ.

ንኩሉ እንቋዕ ኣርከብኩሉ            I’m glad that I managed to see everything.
ክገርመኩም ዘይጠባየይ ጌረ        You’ll wonder that I have changed my ways.
ዓብየ ‘የ መስለኒ ሸምጊለ             I think I have either grown up or become elderly.
ወይ ጎሪሐ ኣለኹ ልቢ ጌረ             or perhaps I have gotten sharper and became wise.
ፍሽኽ ይብል ወላ ተበዲለ            I smile even when I am wronged.

ፈይዳ የብሉን ሓሶት ተመቀረ       There is no use in falsehood, even when it turns sweet.
ሓቂ ይሓይሽ ዋላ እንተመረረ        Truth is better, even when it is bitter.
ክሰግሮ እንድየ ክንደይ ዘይተሰግረ I’ll manage to pass through this, as I have many times before.
እንታይ ከይኸውን ምስ ለባም መኺረ Nothing will happen to me as long as I consult with the wise.

Conclusion

In the end, Wedi Gebru’s legacy resists simplification. He was not merely a gifted artist, nor simply a principled patriot; he was a man who insisted that belief must be embodied, that conviction must be lived. His life traced a rare arc—from civilian to tegadalai, from exile to return, from hardship to renewal, from artistic expression to moral action. In an era when many in the Diaspora struggled to reconcile their love of country with the demands of daily life abroad, he chose the harder path and accepted its consequences without complaint. His music, his words, and his choices form a single, coherent testament: that dignity is earned through consistency between what one professes and what one practices.

By returning home with nothing, by rebuilding from the ground up, by serving during the 1998–2000 war, Wedi Gebru demonstrated that patriotism is not a sentiment but a discipline. His life challenges the comfortable narratives we often tell ourselves about commitment, sacrifice, and national belonging. And perhaps that is his greatest contribution: he forces us to confront the distance between aspiration and action.

As this series closes, one truth stands out. Wedi Gebru’s story is not only about the past; it is a mirror held up to the present. It asks each of us—artists, writers, veterans, and members of the Diaspora—what it means to live by the principles we claim to honor. His answer was simple, demanding, and enduring: ድሌት ’ዩ ወሳኒ ካብ መሰረቱ. Willpower is the foundation of all things.

And before we part from his story, pause for a moment—close your eyes—and let it sink in that Wedi Gebru, who lost his father at a very young age, had only a first‑grade education. He used to proudly tell people, according to his biographer, Fanuel Ogabamichael: “ኣብ ሓንቲ ዓመት፣ ሓንቲ ክፍሊ፣ ብሓደ መምህር ውልደገርግሽ፣ ኣብ ጣዕረሺ ተማሂረ.” In one year, a single class—guided by one teacher, Woldegergish—I was schooled in Ta’ershi.

That was the entirety of his formal education. Everything else, his art, his intellect, his moral clarity, his patriotism, was self‑made, self‑earned, and self‑disciplined. Wedi Gebru spoke out and spoke up because he believed in the imperative captured in his own words: ክንዛረብ ክንደይ ግዜ ኣሎ ትም—We must speak; how long can we remain silent. His life was a testament to that conviction. He understood that silence, especially in the face of injustice, is not neutrality but complicity.

Let us follow his example. Let us speak up and speak out. And let us reclaim the noble, demanding identity of the Eritrean patriot—not the easy nationalism of slogans, but the principled courage that insists on truth, accountability, and a future worthy of the sacrifices that built our nation.

To the children of Wedi Gebru—M’eray, Semhar, Adulis, Hager, Amanezgi, Nalay, Temesgen, and Yerusalem—I say this: your father, the favorite son of Una Nalay, the favorite son of Dembezan, the favorite son of Hamasien, the favorite son of Zoba Makel, the favorite son of Eritrea, has left you a proud legacy. It is a legacy that will only grow in stature, a legacy that a grateful nation will come to appreciate even more with time. His legacy is planted and it shall endure. Perhaps that is why he was named Teklenkiel.

To contact the author: weriz@yahoo.com

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