The sun had barely risen over the highlands when Tafari lay in his cradle, staring at the rough wooden beams of the ceiling. His tiny hands curled around the soft blanket, but inside, his mind was awake, alive with calculation. He had spent another night thinking—of Italy, of Menelik, of the precarious future of his country.
His mother entered the room, her voice soft but firm.
"Good morning, Tafari. Did you sleep well, little one?" she asked, gently brushing a lock of hair from his forehead.
Tafari let out a small whimper, aware that he could not yet speak the words he wanted. Soon, he thought. Soon, I will speak, and they will listen.
Ras Makonnen, his father, arrived shortly after, a tall man with the bearing of a soldier and the authority of a noble. He examined his son with a keen eye, and for a moment, Tafari's historian's heart noted the unspoken messages: the firmness of Makonnen's jaw, the subtle twitch in his eyes when foreign envoys were mentioned, the weight of responsibility he carried even at home.
"My boy," Ras Makonnen said, his voice low but commanding, "you must grow strong. Ethiopia will need strength in the years ahead. Every son of Ethiopia must be ready."
Tafari's tiny body could not respond with words, but in his mind he formulated his first "lesson plan." I will learn quickly. I will see everything. Every word, every glance, every decision—none must escape me.
Later that morning, the household received a visitor—a minister from Menelik's court. The man bowed deeply.
"Ras Makonnen, greetings. I bring news from the Emperor. There is concern in the southern provinces about the increasing Italian presence near our borders."
Ras Makonnen's brow furrowed. "Yes, I have heard reports. But what use is news without preparation? Our armies must be ready, our people united."
The minister hesitated, as if sensing the intensity of the man before him. Tafari, in his cradle, observed carefully. Even in his infant body, he recognized the tension of diplomacy—the words spoken and those left unspoken.
"The Emperor requests a full report of troop positions, Ras Makonnen. And… he asks that the young prince, Tafari, be kept safe. His safety is paramount," the minister added, glancing at the child.
Tafari's mind surged. He understood now the importance of even this small remark. His life was entwined with the survival of Ethiopia. Protecting him was not mere sentiment—it was political strategy.
That afternoon, Ras Makonnen held a private discussion with his advisors. Tafari was carried nearby in a servant's arms, but he listened as if he were an adult:
"Gentlemen, we cannot afford complacency. The Italians may respect treaties on paper, but we know their ambitions. We must strengthen our northern defenses. Roads, supplies, communications—all must be improved," Ras Makonnen said.
One older officer spoke cautiously: "Ras, our resources are limited. The Emperor's attention is divided, and the southern provinces remain volatile."
"Then we prioritize wisely," Ras Makonnen replied sharply. "We cannot fight every battle at once, but we must be prepared for the decisive one. Ethiopia cannot fail again."
Tafari's infant eyes followed every movement, storing every word. He did not yet understand the logistics of army movements, but he understood the principles: preparation, foresight, unity, and decisive action.
When evening came, Tafari was returned to his mother. She hummed softly, and he allowed himself a small comfort in her warmth. But even as he drifted toward sleep, his mind raced. He replayed the minister's words, his father's strategy, the officer's caution. He thought of treaties that would be broken, of soldiers untrained for modern warfare, of corruption that could undermine even the strongest army.
I will remember all of this. I will learn it faster than anyone. And one day, I will guide Ethiopia myself.
He closed his eyes and whispered, though no sound came out, "I will not fail you, my country. Not this time."