An almost childlike voice carries a haunting lament — a song both melancholic and relatable, eccentric yet painfully realistic. In his famous track Enate Sitwoldegn Mech Amakerchign (“Did My Mother Ask My Consent Before Giving Birth to Me?”), Muluken Melesse voices a sentiment as profound as it is unsettling: that none of us were consulted before being thrust into existence.

It is a poignant reminder of an existential truth — our arrival on this green earth was never our choice. We have no more say in our appearance on the cosmic tapestry than a shooting star has in deciding the brief moment it flares across the night sky. Yet, our sojourn on this planet is marred by trials and tribulations that make many wonder if there is ever a reprieve. Life hurls miseries at humanity so relentlessly that some come to regret their very existence. No one was invited to this gathering we call life — and none of us were given the chance to accept or decline.

The theme of Enate Sitwoldegn echoes eerily in Aliweledim (“I Refuse to Be Born”), a satirical novel by Abe Gubegna in which an unborn child converses with his mother, protesting his birth after learning of the corruption and cruelty that await him outside the womb. Muluken’s own early life was no less dramatic — nor less tragic — than the fictional characters portrayed in his song or Abe’s novel.

Born in Ethiopia’s Gojam province, Muluken’s childhood was marked by loneliness, hunger, and destitution — experiences that lent his music its raw emotional power. There were times he was forced to walk barefoot, for want of even the humblest pair of sandals. His suffering gave haunting credibility to his lyrics.

Muluken’s mother died when he was only five, leaving him inconsolable. His father, Tamir Tiruneh, a devout Orthodox priest, did what he could to raise him with kindness and faith, teaching him the hymns and rituals of the Church. But tragedy struck again when bandits raided their rural home, scattering the family and destroying their possessions. Eventually, Muluken was taken to Addis Ababa by his uncle, Melese Gesese, who adopted him and gave him his surname.

Life in his uncle’s household brought its own hardships. His uncle’s wife treated him harshly, and in his uncle’s frequent absence, the young boy endured abuse and neglect. Disillusioned, Muluken eventually fled and found refuge in an orphanage, where he first discovered music. Though instruments and lessons were abundant, he soon clashed with older boys whose cruelty made his life unbearable. After repeated conflicts, he was expelled — once again adrift and vulnerable on the streets of Addis Ababa.

One fateful day, a visit to a Shai Bet—a neighborhood tea house—introduced Muluken to a boy who played the harmonica. The two formed an unlikely duo: Muluken sang while his new friend accompanied him on the harmonica. Their collaboration quickly became a sensation, drawing crowds and boosting the tea house’s business. The owner, delighted by the attention and revenue, offered the young performers meals and a place to stay. For Muluken, this was not just a stroke of luck—it was a glimpse of the stardom that awaited him.

One evening, while walking through Addis Ababa, Muluken stumbled upon the glowing neon lights of the famed nightclub Patrice Lumumba, near Dejazmach Wube Sefer. Mesmerized by the dazzling nightlife, he felt a pull toward the stage. Inside, he discovered the house band, the “Fetan Band,” where future legends like Ayalew Mesfin, Getachew Kassa, and Teshome Mitiku were beginning their professional journeys. Muluken’s story would follow a similar path.

It didn’t take long for his natural talent to capture the attention of the band’s manager. The first order of business was transformation—turning the barefoot street boy into a stylish young performer. With a new wardrobe and a touch of flair, Muluken emerged as the dapper star audiences would come to adore.

Crowds flocked to the club, and with them came talent scouts eager to recruit the rising star. Soon, Muluken was performing with other prominent bands—Zula Band, Venus Club, and the Police Orchestra—each chapter propelling him further into musical acclaim. His growing fame led to his first vinyl recordings, and the rest, as they say, is history.

But success came with its own trials. Muluken was often deceived by exploitative contracts and false promises of pay. In one dispute, Asegedech Alamirew, the owner of Patrice Lumumba, sued him for breach of contract after he left her club. To her, Muluken was not merely an employee but a protégé—a young man she believed she had raised from the ashes and guided toward fame. His departure, though inevitable, felt to her like betrayal. Yet nothing could halt Muluken’s ascent. It was simply impossible to keep such talent confined to a third-rate band forever.

From those humble beginnings, Muluken’s rise was meteoric. He grew from a child performer into one of Ethiopia’s most enduring musical giants. Artist Alemtsehay Wodajo recalls how Lebo Ney stands as the pinnacle of his artistry—an exquisite blend of lyricism, melody, and emotional depth. Her eyes glisten with nostalgia as she speaks of their collaboration.

Muluken’s vast repertoire, spanning romantic ballads, social reflections, and spiritual anthems, remains unmatched. His brilliance seems almost otherworldly—his level of artistry nearly impossible to replicate. Yet, the shadows of his childhood miseries followed him into adulthood and across oceans. In his later years, living in the United States, he retreated into solitude, grappling with ill health and the weight of time. In interviews, he admitted that the last four decades of his life were spent largely in seclusion.

Driving through the quiet of night, as the soft, nostalgic bass of Lebo Ney plays through my car speakers, I can’t help but reflect on his legacy. In the song, the beloved is portrayed as a thief who has stolen the singer’s heart—a crime so absurd that Muluken calls for her imprisonment. As always, he dances along the edge of satire, romance, and philosophical reflection, pushing emotion and imagination to their limits.

And then I wonder: What if his mother had truly asked for his consent before giving birth to him? What if, like Abe Gubegna’s unborn child, Muluken had refused to be born? The thought is unbearable. For all the sorrow that marked his life, the world is infinitely richer for his existence.

We owe a quiet debt of gratitude to his mother, Enatnesh Getahun—and to providence—for never consulting him before bringing him into this world.

(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 Bbalcha5@yahoo.com)

Contributed by Bereket Balcha