By the age of five, Tafari's mind had become a labyrinth of observation, knowledge, and foresight. Though his body was small, his intellect was that of a man who had lived decades, a mind sharpened by history itself. Each day brought lessons beyond what any tutor could teach, lessons written in the motions, words, and silences of those around him.
One morning, Tafari's mother carried him into the main hall. The household was unusually busy. Servants bustled, preparing tea and arranging cushions, while Ras Makonnen consulted with a small group of advisors. Tafari, nestled against his mother's shoulder, absorbed everything: the weight in his father's words, the hesitation in the advisors' tones, the subtle tension that ran like an invisible current across the room.
"Ras Makonnen," one of the younger officials began, "the southern provinces continue to resist our appointed chiefs. Some have even requested Italian assistance."
Ras Makonnen's eyes narrowed. "We will not allow foreign influence to divide Ethiopia again. But tell me, what of the local loyalty? Are the chiefs united among themselves?"
The advisor hesitated. "Not entirely, sir. Many are afraid, but others are ambitious. They may act independently."
Tafari's mind raced, connecting dots that the adults had not yet considered. Fear breeds betrayal. Ambition invites conflict. Loyalty can be bought with care, but only if guided wisely. His tiny fingers tightened around his mother's arm as though gripping a thread of power, connecting him to the room around him.
It was then that he noticed him—a young servant boy, barely ten years old, standing by the doorway. His eyes were sharp, alert, almost unnervingly so for a child. Tafari had seen many faces, but something about this boy struck him. He did not fidget. He did not avert his gaze. Instead, he watched, carefully noting every word, every gesture of the adults.
Tafari's historian's instincts recognized potential immediately. A mind like mine, even in part, can be an ally.
As the meeting concluded, the servant boy approached quietly, carrying a small tray of tea. "Prince Tafari," he said softly, bowing his head, "your mother asked me to bring your tea."
Tafari's infant body could not speak words of command, but he turned his gaze fully on the boy, locking eyes as he would with generals decades later. Something unspoken passed between them—a recognition of intelligence, of understanding.
You watch. You think. You may serve, but you may also follow.
The boy, sensing it, straightened his posture. "I understand, Your Highness," he whispered.
Ras Makonnen, noticing the exchange, smiled faintly. "It seems the boy has spirit. Take care of him, Tafari. He may serve you well one day."
Tafari's mind recorded it like a victory. First ally. Observant. Loyal. Discreet. I will teach him, guide him. Ethiopia's future will be safer with one more mind aligned with mine.
Over the next weeks, Tafari began to subtly communicate with the boy. He could not speak fully yet, but he had methods. A tilt of the head, a prolonged gaze, the way he reached for certain books or pointed to maps on the walls—each movement carried meaning. The boy learned quickly, understanding that Tafari's small gestures were instructions, not mere play.
One afternoon, the boy brought a small piece of parchment and a pencil. Tafari reached for it, carefully tracing crude shapes with his tiny hands. The boy watched intently and copied them, learning to write as Tafari indicated. Soon, the servant boy began recording observations, helping Tafari note details about visitors, political discussions, and even the behavior of neighboring chiefs' envoys.
It was subtle, quiet, but the seed of organization had been planted. Tafari had, for the first time, a follower—someone who would grow with him, learn from him, and eventually aid in shaping Ethiopia's destiny.
Ras Makonnen observed from a distance, noting the unusual partnership. "A keen eye," he said to Abba Tekle. "Even at this age, the prince has begun to teach. Perhaps the boy will learn as well as the man."
Abba Tekle, impressed, nodded. "Yes, sir. A mind like Tafari's attracts other minds. Even the youngest can sense it. But the child must not be overburdened—his influence is growing, yet he is still a boy."
Tafari's thoughts, however, were already far ahead. A follower is the first step. Influence does not come from fear, nor from orders alone. It comes from respect, from understanding, from shared vision. He had already begun imagining the network he would one day form—advisors, generals, diplomats—all aligned toward a single goal: a strong, independent Ethiopia, capable of resisting foreign powers and internal corruption alike.
Days turned into weeks, and Tafari's small interactions with the boy became lessons in mentorship, subtle command, and political observation. He would point at a guest and tilt his head; the boy would take note. He would reach for a map of the provinces; the boy would follow, learning geography, alliances, and weak points.
One evening, as the sun set over the highlands, casting a golden glow over the palace, Tafari's mother found the two boys quietly sitting on the floor, examining a small map together. "What are you doing, Tafari?" she asked gently.
Tafari reached toward the boy, who nodded, understanding the gesture. Though no words were spoken, the meaning was clear: We are learning. We are preparing. One day, Ethiopia will need us.
His mother smiled, sensing a change. "He grows fast, your mind is extraordinary, little one. But remember—patience is as important as knowledge."
Tafari's tiny hand pressed lightly against the boy's arm. His vow echoed silently in his mind: I will teach him, guide him, and together we will be ready. Ethiopia's destiny begins here, in these quiet rooms, before the world even knows we exist.
And so, in the nursery of Ras Makonnen's palace, the young prince who carried the soul of an old man had found his first follower—the first ally in a lifetime of preparation to reshape a nation.