The palace at Addis Ababa had grown quiet over the years—quieter, yet never more filled with whispers. Ever since Tafari Makonnen had taken on greater responsibility following the waning strength of the Emperor, Ethiopia stood at a crossroads. The nobles called him the young reformer, sometimes in admiration, often in contempt. To the priests, he was the prince who questions too much. But to the common people, Tafari had become something new entirely—a man of reason, of justice, and of vision.
It began with his first bold move: joining the League of Nations in 1923. The decision was nothing short of revolutionary. Ethiopia, a land of ancient kings and sacred altars, would now stand among the so-called "civilized nations" of Europe. Many of the nobles balked at the idea.
"This is a foreign man's council," one lord sneered in the royal meeting hall. "Why must we kneel before them, Tafari?"
Tafari's voice was calm but edged with iron.
"We do not kneel. We stand among them, so they may never again call us uncivilized."
He knew history well—the hypocrisy of empires that claimed to bring light while spreading chains. Yet he also knew that symbols mattered. If Ethiopia could stand as an equal among nations, it could never be colonized again.
In Geneva, Tafari presented himself not as a supplicant but as an equal to the world's great powers. His refined manner, his perfect command of French, and his speeches impressed even those who once dismissed his nation as backward. The Lion of Judah walks among wolves, he thought.
The League accepted Ethiopia's membership—an event that sent ripples of pride through the nation and fury through Italy. In Rome, the same generals who once tasted defeat at Adwa clenched their fists.
Upon his return, Tafari began a new series of reforms. He sought to modernize education, opening new schools where science and arithmetic were taught alongside scripture. He established schools for girls, defying centuries of tradition.
But this, more than anything, enraged the Church.
The Archbishop summoned Tafari to the great cathedral, the incense heavy in the air. "My son," the old cleric said gravely, "you seek to bring the ways of Europe into the heart of Zion. You will corrupt the soul of our people."
Tafari bowed respectfully. "Knowledge cannot corrupt, Father. Ignorance does."
The exchange spread through the city like wildfire. The priests saw him as a dangerous modernist. The nobles accused him of betraying their traditions. But the younger generation—the students, the soldiers, the merchants—saw hope in his defiance.
He also introduced a new taxation system, fairer and less burdensome to peasants but stricter on the nobles who owned vast lands. The reaction was swift and furious. Murmurs of plots returned.
The palace guards intercepted coded letters, foreign agents slipped into Harar and Dire Dawa, and rumors of noble meetings spread like fever. Tafari was no stranger to intrigue he had survived it since youth. But now the stakes were higher.
One night, as he looked over a map of the empire, an aide entered breathlessly.
"Your Highness two governors have refused your decrees. They rally the clergy behind them."
Tafari set down his pen, his face calm. "Then we remind them that the Emperor still lives and that I serve him."
Yet in private, he knew the truth: the Emperor's health was failing, and soon, the balance of power would tip. He would need to act—carefully, ruthlessly if necessary—to secure the reforms before the old world crushed them.
At the League of Nations, he had seen the power of words. Now, he used them at home. He called for public addresses, something unheard of before—a ruler speaking directly to the people, not through priests or lords.
"My countrymen," he said one evening, his voice echoing through a crowd of thousands in Addis Ababa's square, "Ethiopia must not fear the future. We shall not abandon our faith, but we must also not blind ourselves to progress. We can be both ancient and new."
The crowd roared. For the first time, ordinary Ethiopians began to see him not just as a nobleman or regent but as their leader.
By 1926, Tafari's power was unshakable, but his enemies had multiplied. The nobles whispered of rebellion, the Church prayed for divine retribution, and in Rome, Italian diplomats began drafting new strategies for revenge.
As Tafari stood on the balcony overlooking the growing lights of Addis Ababa—a city no longer medieval, but humming with factories, schools, and trade—he knew his struggle was far from over.
He whispered to himself, recalling words from a history book he once read as a boy from another time and world:
"Reformers are always at war—with the past, with ignorance, and sometimes, with their own people."
And as the wind carried the sound of distant church bells, he smiled faintly.
"Then let war come. I am ready."