Morning in Harar began with the cry of roosters and the smell of spiced coffee drifting from clay pots. Tafari rose early, his body restless after a night of uneasy dreams. He washed his face with cold water and dressed simply, not in the heavy robes of nobility but in lighter garb that allowed him to move freely. He was seventeen now, nearly grown, and yet his mind carried the burdens of two lives.
As he walked through the courtyard, he noticed the guards lounging by the gate. Their spears rested against the wall, and they laughed too easily, distracted. Tafari frowned. In his past life, he had studied how armies fell not on the battlefield but in the laziness of discipline, in the small cracks that widened into weakness. He made a mental note: Even a palace can rot from the inside if the guards grow comfortable.
Later that day, he accompanied his father to a council meeting in the city. The discussion was predictable — disputes over land, the collection of taxes, the endless balancing of noble pride. Tafari sat in silence, but within his mind he replayed lessons from books long gone: the rise of republics after monarchs failed their people, the fall of empires when corruption ate their core, the slow erosion of legitimacy when rulers ignored the cries of the hungry.
At one point, the council turned to the subject of trade with Europeans. An Italian delegation had offered reduced prices for weapons in exchange for "mutual friendship." Several nobles leaned toward the idea, tempted by the promise of rifles.
Tafari spoke suddenly, his voice cutting through the chamber.
"Cheap rifles today will cost us our independence tomorrow."
The hall grew still. Eyes turned to him. Ras Makonnen raised his brow, curious to hear his son.
Tafari continued, calm but deliberate.
"The Italians do not give without taking. They will arm us, yes. But they will demand contracts, concessions, and eventually obedience. Look at what happened to our neighbors. The Sudan fell under Anglo-Egyptian rule. Somalia bent to Italian hands. If we are not careful, Ethiopia will become no different — a lion tamed by chains of trade."
One noble scoffed. "And what does the boy propose? Shall we fight the world with spears?"
Tafari leaned forward. "No. We must learn from the world, but not become its servant. We need weapons, yes, but we also need discipline, schools, roads, and knowledge. The future belongs not only to armies but to nations that can feed their people and educate their sons. If Ethiopia stands strong within, no foreign power can break us from without."
The room stirred. Some murmured in agreement, others frowned at the arrogance of youth.
Ras Makonnen broke the tension with a laugh, though his eyes gleamed with approval. "My son speaks boldly. Perhaps too boldly. But boldness has its place."
That evening, as they returned home, Makonnen turned to him.
"Where do you learn these thoughts, Tafari? You speak like a man who has seen centuries."
Tafari met his father's gaze, the weight of his secret pressing on his chest. He could never reveal the truth — that he was Dawit Mekonnen reborn, a man who had witnessed Ethiopia's future of blood and betrayal. Instead, he said simply:
"I listen, Father. I watch. And I think of tomorrow."
Makonnen smiled faintly. "Then keep thinking. Ethiopia will need men who can see tomorrow, for too many live only in today."
That night, alone in his chamber, Tafari took a scrap of parchment and began to write. He listed the lessons he remembered from history:
The Derg will rise decades from now.
They will humiliate the Emperor and bring terror upon the land.
Revolutions eat their own children.
A nation that neglects its farmers and its schools will rot.
He stopped, his hand trembling. He was writing of events that had not yet happened, but he remembered them vividly from his past life. He could still see the face of the old Haile Selassie dragged before the Derg, the cries of the Red Terror, the famine that shamed Ethiopia in the eyes of the world. He felt the weight of his failure as Dawit — a historian who had only recorded but never acted.
But now, he had been given another chance.
He whispered into the night:
"This time, Ethiopia will not fall. Not while I breathe."
The rain began to fall again outside, soft against the tiled roof. Tafari sat by the window, the parchment before him, and for the first time he felt the enormity of his destiny. He was no longer only his father's son. He was a bridge between past and future, a child carrying the memory of Ethiopia's wounds, determined to heal them before they bled anew.