The days after the circle's formation were quiet but rich with new meaning. Tafari had always walked with a certain stillness, but now that stillness had companions. Yonas, Gebremariam, Bekele, and Alemayehu each filled a different space in his world.
Yonas remained closest, a brother in all but blood. They shared whispered conversations during lessons, trading thoughts that no other boy would understand. Gebremariam, with his endless knowledge, challenged Tafari's thinking; he had already begun compiling lists of Ethiopia's rulers, cross-referenced with scripture, eager to preserve memory. Bekele brought laughter and mischief, boasting of hunts and practice duels, his energy filling the silences. And Alemayehu—ever silent, ever present—was like a shadow, watching, listening, carrying secrets Tafari entrusted to no one else.
It was not yet politics. It was friendship. But Tafari knew even friendship could be the seed of politics.
One evening, Ras Makonnen summoned his son privately. The governor sat in his study, a single oil lamp burning low, shadows dancing across the carved wooden walls. His eyes, usually so firm, were softened by memory.
"Tafari," he said, motioning for the boy to sit, "you are nearly sixteen now. A man's age. You have begun gathering companions, I see. That is good. No one rules alone."
Tafari lowered his gaze, wondering how much his father truly saw. "I only seek friends, Father."
Makonnen smiled faintly. "Yes, friends. That is what they are now. But one day, you will see that the friends you choose become the men who shape your fate."
The words carried weight, and Tafari felt them settle deep inside.
His father leaned back, his eyes distant. "Do you know why our people still honor my name, Tafari? It is not because I govern Harar, nor because I sit in Menelik's councils. It is because of Adwa."
Tafari leaned forward. "Tell me again, Father. Tell me how it was."
Makonnen's gaze grew sharper, and his voice lowered as if speaking to both his son and to the memory itself.
"The Italians believed we were weak. They thought their rifles, their cannons, their European ways would crush us. They underestimated Ethiopia — and they underestimated Menelik. At Adwa, they came with thirty thousand soldiers. We came with twice that. Not just men, but the will of a nation that refused to bow."
His hands tightened on the arm of his chair. "The battle raged across the hills and valleys. Their shells tore the earth, their bullets whistled like wasps. I remember the cries, the dust, the smell of blood. But our people fought with the fury of lions. I led men from Harar, and when the enemy faltered, we pressed harder. It was not courage alone — it was unity. Nobles and peasants, Muslims and Christians, shoulder to shoulder. Ethiopia stood as one."
He paused, his eyes glistening in the lamplight. "We crushed them, Tafari. Never forget this: at Adwa, we proved that an African nation could defeat a European empire. We proved we were not slaves, not colonies. We were sovereign."
Tafari remembered flashes of that time. He had been a small child in Harar when news of victory came. The church bells had rung through the night, women ululated in the streets, and men shouted songs of triumph.
Hearing his father's words, he felt the weight of it settle on his young shoulders. A sovereign nation, he thought. And yet, how fragile sovereignty can be. How easily pride becomes arrogance, and unity becomes division.
The historian within him stirred, remembering the years to come — years of weakness, coups, and foreign invasions. He clenched his fists. We must never forget Adwa. But memory is not enough. It must be guarded, strengthened, renewed.
Later that week, Tafari sat with his companions in the courtyard. The stars glittered above, sharp and endless. He told them what his father had said.
"At Adwa," Tafari said, his voice soft but firm, "our fathers and grandfathers fought to keep Ethiopia free. Do you know what that means?"
Bekele slapped his knee. "It means we can defeat any foreigner who dares to test us!"
Gebremariam shook his head. "It means we must remember why they fought, so we do not lose what they gained."
Yonas added quietly, "It means we must stand together, even when divided by birth or faith."
And Alemayehu, eyes lowered, murmured, "It means betrayal from within is as dangerous as enemies from without."
Tafari smiled faintly. "Each of you is right. And together, you are stronger than alone. That is the lesson of Adwa. One day, men will look to us to carry it forward."
For a moment, silence filled the courtyard. The boys were young, their futures uncertain. Yet in that silence, Tafari felt the invisible threads binding them tighter.
That night, he wrote in his leather-bound book,"Adwa was not just a battle. It was a lesson. Unity gives birth to strength. Division brings death. My father's victory must not become a memory only. It must be the seed of the future. And to guard that seed, I must build my circle — loyal, wise, and true".
He closed the book and blew out the lamp.
In the darkness, Tafari lay awake, thinking of battles yet to come — not just against foreign armies, but against betrayal, greed, and the slow rot that could eat away at Ethiopia's soul.