The rains had finally ended. Harar awoke to sunlight, its narrow streets steaming as puddles evaporated in the morning heat. The air smelled of damp earth and roasted coffee, mingled with the faint tang of smoke from cooking fires. To the people, the season's end meant markets opening, trade resuming, and harvests being tallied. To the nobility, it meant something else entirely: a feast to honor abundance, a stage to display loyalty and power.
Tafari, seventeen now, rode alongside his father, Ras Makonnen. His posture was upright, his eyes forward, though inside his mind was restless. He had grown used to these gatherings, but each one revealed more of the kingdom's truth. He knew enough of history to understand that what destroyed emperors was rarely open war, but the poison of whispers.
The feast hall in Harar was dressed in banners and flowers. Musicians plucked the krar and struck the kebero drums as nobles filed in, their robes of cotton and silk catching the golden light that streamed through the high windows. Servants poured honey wine into tall glasses, and platters of injera with spiced stews circulated the room.
Tafari kept close to his father but remained quiet, watching. Always watching.
He saw Ras Wolde, heavyset and broad-shouldered, whose laugh rang louder than the music whenever loyalty to Emperor Menelik was praised. It was too loud, too rehearsed, and Tafari marked it as insincere.
He noted Grazmach Tulu, lean and sharp-eyed, who drank glass after glass of tej as if he wished to wash something from his conscience.
He studied how men moved. Those who loved his father leaned toward him when they spoke, their bodies relaxed. Those who feared him kept their arms tight to their chests, words clipped, glances brief. And those tempted by Italian coin avoided Makonnen's gaze altogether.
At first, no one paid the boy much mind. But curiosity grew. The son of Makonnen was nearing manhood, and the nobles wanted to hear his voice.
Wolde was the first to press him.
"You are nearly a man now, young Tafari," he said with his booming laugh. "Soon you will carry your father's burden. Tell us, what do you dream for Ethiopia?"
The hall stilled. It was a challenge, though dressed in a smile. Tafari's heart quickened, but his face remained calm. He waited long enough to seem thoughtful, then replied, his voice low but firm.
"I dream of an Ethiopia that bows to no one. Not to the Italians. Not to the British. And not even to our own quarrels. A lion that guards itself with both claws and wisdom."
Silence followed. The boy's words hung in the air, sharper than any sword.
Some nobles nodded, murmuring approval. They saw promise, the echo of Ras Makonnen's strength. Others frowned, disturbed by the boldness of a child. To them, a boy speaking like a ruler was dangerous — a reminder that new blood would one day replace them.
Ras Makonnen's eyes betrayed nothing, but beneath the table his hand brushed lightly against Tafari's arm — a signal of approval mixed with caution.
The feast resumed, though the tone had shifted. Music played again, wine flowed, but Tafari could feel the eyes upon him, measuring, weighing.
Hours later, father and son rode back through the muddy streets of Harar, the night air cool and damp. The sound of frogs rose from the marshes, and the moon was a pale sliver above the horizon.
Makonnen broke the silence first.
"You spoke well, Tafari. Too well, perhaps." His voice was calm, but edged with warning.
Tafari glanced at him. "Should I have stayed silent, Father?"
"No. But you must remember: words are daggers. You showed them your sharpness. Some will admire you for it. Others will fear you. And fear, in politics, can grow into hatred."
Tafari thought of Wolde's forced laughter, of Tulu's restless drinking, of the frowns and nods. "Then let them hate," he said at last. "A lion is not loved by jackals."
Makonnen smiled faintly, though his eyes were weary. "Perhaps. But even lions are hunted if they roar too soon."
That night, Tafari lay awake on his thin mattress, staring at the ceiling beams. His mind replayed every gesture, every flicker of expression from the hall. He began to sort them into patterns: who might stand with him, who might oppose him, who might shift depending on the wind.
He realized something his father had not said aloud: Ethiopia's future would not be decided in grand battles alone. It would be decided in these rooms, in laughter that was too loud, in the tightening of a jaw, in the way a man poured his drink when foreign trade was mentioned.
The boy who once listened in silence was now a player, even if they did not yet know it.
And as he drifted finally into sleep, one thought burned in him: If they will one day test me, I will be ready. If they will hunt me, I will become the storm itself.
The weight of expectation pressed heavily upon his shoulders. But Tafari welcomed it. For he was no longer just Makonnen's son. He was Ethiopia's future, waiting for its hour.