Addis Ababa, 1913. The Emperor Menelik II had passed, leaving behind a nation anxious and divided. His chosen heir, Lij Iyasu, assumed power with youthful vigor but little patience for restraint. For a time, there was hope—hope that a new era of vitality might follow the twilight of Menelik's reign.
Tafari, now in his twenties, stood among the senior nobles as the coronation rites were completed. The drums echoed through the hills, incense filled the air, and the clergy chanted ancient hymns. But to Tafari's ear, the melody was not triumph—it was the measured rhythm of uncertainty.
Lij Iyasu's early days were marked by impulsive decisions. He preferred feasts to councils, declarations to diplomacy. He dismissed seasoned advisors, replacing them with friends and flatterers.
At first, Tafari kept his distance, observing. He knew the boy's story before it unfolded—his curiosity about the outside world, his fascination with modernity, his eventual fall due to religious and political blunders. But watching it unfold in real time filled Tafari with unease.
Iyasu's ambitions were not without intelligence. He sought to modernize trade, strengthen ties with Muslim leaders, and open the empire to new influences. Yet his approach was reckless, unanchored by Ethiopia's fragile balance of religion and tradition.
Rumors began to swirl. Iyasu had visited Harar and appeared in Muslim attire. He had married the daughter of a prominent Muslim emir. He spoke openly about unity between Christians and Muslims—a noble idea in principle, but one that ignited old fears among the Orthodox nobility and the Church.
The Italians and the French whispered into ears on both sides, fanning distrust.
In the dim light of his private study, Tafari pored over letters and reports. His spies had intercepted Italian correspondence hinting that Rome favored Iyasu's rise. They saw him as a malleable ruler—one who might open Ethiopia's doors to foreign influence.
Tafari frowned over the parchment.
"They think him a fool," he muttered, "but fools who hold crowns are the most dangerous kind. They destroy without intent."
He wrote coded letters to loyal generals in the east, instructing them to keep their troops in readiness, "for the sake of stability."
He did not yet move against Iyasu. He understood too well that history's momentum could not be changed with open defiance—it must be redirected, like a river bending to a new course.
By 1915, Ethiopia's political fabric was fraying. Iyasu's actions alienated the Church and emboldened the Muslim aristocracy. Foreign powers circled like vultures—Britain, Italy, and France, each eager to secure influence over the Horn of Africa.
When World War I erupted, Iyasu flirted with the idea of siding with the Ottoman Empire and Germany, hoping to assert independence from British and French control. This alarmed the Allies and the Ethiopian nobility alike.
Tafari attended the councils where Iyasu's erratic foreign policy was discussed. He spoke little, but his presence carried weight. To the clergy, he was a symbol of Orthodoxy. To the nobles, he was a stabilizing force. To the common soldier, he was the prince who had modernized their rifles and ensured their pay.
"If he continues this path," Tafari warned quietly to Ras Mikael, Iyasu's father and powerful warlord of Wollo, "the empire may burn from within before any foreign army need march upon it."
Ras Mikael dismissed him with pride. "My son walks with destiny, Tafari. Do not stand in his way."
Tafari bowed, concealing his thoughts. Destiny, he mused bitterly. History called it arrogance.
By late 1916, Iyasu's downfall became inevitable. Reports reached the capital that he had converted to Islam—a charge never fully proven, but devastating in its effect.
The Church declared him apostate. The nobles met in secret, convening at dawn in a council that Tafari attended silently. They debated, argued, prayed—and finally agreed: Iyasu must be deposed for the safety of the empire.
A message was sent to Empress Zewditu, daughter of Menelik II, inviting her to ascend the throne.
The coup unfolded swiftly.
Iyasu was away from the capital, his forces scattered. The clergy read his excommunication in the cathedral, bells tolling like a death knell. The army declared loyalty to Zewditu.
Tafari moved with calm precision. His units secured the telegraph stations, the rail depots, and the armories. There was little bloodshed—only quiet inevitability.
When Iyasu attempted to rally forces in Wollo, Tafari's modern-trained troops intercepted his couriers, cut off his supplies, and surrounded his loyalists. Ras Mikael, stubborn and proud, raised his army in defense of his son—but was defeated at the Battle of Segale.
Tafari's strategy—swift mobilization, control of communication lines, and restraint in violence—became the talk of the empire. To many, he was the unseen architect of order amid chaos.
When the dust settled, Iyasu fled into hiding. Zewditu was crowned Empress, a symbol of restored legitimacy. Yet everyone knew where the true power was gravitating.
Tafari, now elevated to Ras Tafari Makonnen, became Regent and heir apparent.
In the palace courtyard, as priests sang hymns of thanksgiving, Tafari stood apart, silent beneath the morning sun. He had seen this moment before, in books and memories of a life long past. Yet living it—feeling the tremors of power beneath his feet—was something entirely different.
"So this is how it happens," he murmured to himself. "History repeats not by fate, but by the choices of men unwilling to learn."
He had prevented disaster, yes—but he also knew that Ethiopia's struggle was far from over. Foreign powers would never rest. The empire's wounds still bled.
As he turned from the cathedral, he looked east toward the horizon. "Now," he said softly, "the real work begins."
And with that, Ras Tafari Makonnen—the man who would one day become Emperor Haile Selassie—began shaping the modern Ethiopia he remembered only in fragments of a life once lived, and lost.