The cradle rocked gently, but Dawit's mind refused to rest. His infant body longed for sleep, for milk, for the simple comforts of a newborn. Yet behind his closed eyes, his mind raced with the burdens of eight decades. He could not stop remembering. He could not stop comparing.
Every sensation was strange. His hands, once calloused from turning endless pages in archives and libraries, were now soft and tiny, incapable of grasping even his mother's finger. His voice, which had thundered across lecture halls in defense of Ethiopia's forgotten greatness, now existed only as a helpless wail. To be an old man inside such weakness felt like a prison.
But the prison had windows.
From his mother's arms, Dawit—no, Tafari—saw the world of the late 19th century unfold before him. The air smelled of woodsmoke, leather, and earth. The clothes of his relatives were handwoven, their speech formal and proud. The house was simple, but there was dignity in its order. Servants moved with deference. His father, Makonnen Wolde Mikael, carried himself with authority, a noble of the realm and cousin to the Emperor himself.
Tafari's historian's mind recorded it all. This is the past I used to read about. Now I live inside it.
He tried to focus not only as a child but as a strategist. He remembered his country's timeline like a map etched in fire. The Italians were coming. The Europeans were dividing Africa, drawing lines across maps as though ancient peoples were cattle. Ethiopia's survival at Adwa in 1896 was near—but fragile. After victory, complacency would set in. Roads would not be built. Schools would remain too few. Armies would lag behind the weapons of modern nations.
He stared at the flickering lamplight and thought: I am Tafari Makonnen. I will not let my country sleep while the world sharpens its knives.
Yet his infant reality mocked him. He could not even form words. He could not sit upright without help. His dreams of modern Ethiopia—of railroads, factories, universities, newspapers—burned within him, but his body betrayed him at every turn.
Still, he observed.
He listened to the rhythm of prayers, to the way his father discussed politics with visitors, to the subtle tension in the voices of servants when foreign envoys were mentioned. He catalogued every detail, the way he once catalogued sources in dusty archives.
In moments of solitude, his mother sang to him, her lullabies weaving the old faith of Ethiopia into his heart. Dawit felt a pang of humility. For all his knowledge of history, he realized he had forgotten the intimacy of family, the foundation of any nation's strength. This, too, was a lesson.
And so, trapped in a child's body but armed with an old man's mind, he dreamed. He dreamed of an Ethiopia that could not be colonized, not only by sword but by ideas. He dreamed of a people educated and united, of industries that could feed and arm the nation, of diplomacy sharp enough to turn the ambitions of Europe against itself.
His infant eyes closed, but his vow burned stronger than ever:
I will wait. I will learn. And when the time comes, I will build the Ethiopia we were meant to be.