Zeila's salt wind carried a sting that woke the mind. Even from the deck of his new ship, Kafi felt it. The port city stretched across the coastline like a line of ancient teeth, old whitewashed houses pressing against the sea, traders moving between them like restless waves. Camels groaned somewhere inland, bells clinking, and the smell of incense clung to the morning air.
He had dreamed about this city in his past life. But standing here again, as an eleven-year-old heir with an empire's future stirring beneath his ribs, felt different. Realer. Sharper. Dangerous.
Behind him, Amir leaned over the railing. "If we die in this place, tell my mother I fought bravely."
"You'll die because you talk too much," Kafi muttered, sliding him a look. "Stay behind me and don't embarrass the dynasty."
Amir clutched his chest dramatically. "Ah, so that's the plan. Protect the heir and the empire. Easy."
Kafi ignored him and stepped onto the dock.
The people of Zeila were Somali like him, but not Ajuuran subjects yet. They followed their own elders, their own trade laws, their own pride. And if he wanted the city, he would need the people first.
But he wasn't here to conquer by force. Not yet.
He was here for something far more useful.
Trade.
A group of elders waited beneath a large shade canopy. Their robes were embroidered with the blue and red patterns Zeila was known for, and their eyes were sharp enough to see through any childish front. Perfect.
Kafi bowed respectfully, because old men with influence deserved courtesy even if they thought he was just a kid.
"Welcome, young heir of the Ajuuran," one elder said, voice deep and weathered. "Your father sends tribute?"
Kafi smiled. "He sends something better. Opportunity."
They exchanged glances. A boy offering opportunity. Interesting.
He gestured to the boxes being unloaded: frankincense from Puntland forests, myrrh resin, gum arabic, polished ivory, and sacks of black pepper and cloves acquired from merchants who'd passed through prior.
But the elders fell silent when the sailor opened the last crate.
Coffee beans.
Raw, green, unroasted. A treasure this early in history.
"You want to open the sea lanes," said Elder Jibril quietly. "You want Zeila."
"No," Kafi said calmly. "I want Zeila to open Africa."
That line—he had practiced it. It felt good hearing it out loud.
He continued, voice steady.
"Europe is busy with its own madness. The Ottomans cross the Gulf every season searching for new partners. Arabia wants incense like water. India wants spices. And Africa…" His jaw tightened. "Africa deserves to be the one offering, not begging."
A hum rippled through the elders.
Amir glanced at him sideways, whispering, "That was dramatic. You practiced that, didn't you?"
"Shut up."
The elders motioned for the boys to follow them into a nearby hall. The building was cool inside, shadows flickering where the sun leaked through wooden slats.
Elder Jibril sat first. "Speak, heir of Ajuuran. What do you propose?"
Kafi placed a map on the table. A rough thing, drawn by his own hand, but visionary.
Ajuuran at the top.
Zeila on the coast.
Gulf of Aden routes highlighted.
Lines stretching all the way to Arabia, Yemen, Oman, and the Red Sea toward the Ottomans.
"At the moment," Kafi said, "merchants travel at random. No structure. No management. No protection at sea. Frankincense is undervalued, coffee is unknown, and African goods are traded without African control."
He pointed to Zeila.
"This city can be the gateway. Trade leaves here. Wealth returns here. Influence grows here. A partnership. Not domination."
"You speak like a seasoned merchant," another elder muttered.
No.
He spoke like a man who had lived another life… but they didn't need to know that.
Kafi remained composed. "I want to build a trade hub. A port alliance. You maintain your elders and traditions, but join with Ajuuran fleets for protection and stability. You gain our ships and our wealth. We gain access to your sea routes."
"And what do you gain personally?" Jibril asked, eyes narrowing.
"I gain a future for Africa," Kafi said without flinching. "And for myself, enough wealth to build something bigger later."
The elders whispered among themselves, voices low and undecipherable.
Finally, Jibril stood.
"Your words show ambition. Your offer shows wisdom. We will test you. Can you provide consistent shipments for three months? Frankincense, coffee, ivory, spices?"
"Yes."
"Can you guarantee safe passage through Ajuuran waters?"
"Yes."
"And can your ships reach the Ottoman lanes without sinking?"
Kafi smirked. "My shipbuilders learned from the best. And I added some improvements."
Amir coughed. "Some? You redesigned half the ship, Kafi."
The elders stared.
Kafi cleared his throat. "Creative improvements."
"The boy is mad," one elder whispered.
"Madness is how empires rise," Jibril replied.
And then he extended his hand.
Kafi shook it firmly.
Zeila was theirs.
Not by conquest.
Not by blood.
By partnership, trade, and vision.
Somewhere inside, the fire of his reborn memories flickered.
This was only the beginning.
The Gulf of Aden.
The Ottoman trade routes.
The Swahili coast.
Ethiopia.
All of it was possible.
But for now…
Trade came first.
The empire could wait.