Dawn of the Successful Coup
Four in the morning on the dawn of the coup's success. The night air in Addis Ababa is always this cold. The chill unique to the highlands seeps into the room along the palace stone walls at this hour—my favorite time, when no one disturbs me.
"…In the place you left behind, I'm the only one remaining…"
I hummed softly, my voice barely above a whisper. It was a song drilled into my ears in my past life, but now the singer's name and title had faded. Still, the lyrics and melody lingered etched into my bones.
I could only sing in Korean during these early hours.
"…Even waiting has grown weary, now I just…"
My fingers moved familiarly. I pushed out the takedown pin, retracted the slide, lifted out the barrel. Click, click, click. The parts lined up neatly on the cloth. Twelve times for full disassembly. Probably under ten now.
Model 1900. The little thing John Browning designed and FN produced. When I first held it, I was honestly moved. Touching a gun I'd only seen behind museum glass in my past life.
32 ACP rounds, slide, 7-round magazine. Small size, modest power by 21st-century standards—but in 1916 Ethiopia, it was quite the treasure.
I dipped a soft cloth in oil and started cleaning the barrel's interior. Ah, this feels like therapy. I never knew disassembling and reassembling firearms could calm the mind so much, even in my past life. If I'd been in modern times, I'd have done it plenty in the military with rifles, but for me now, it was pure entertainment.
How many in the palace even knew this thing? Abuna Mateos?Fitawrari Habte Giyorgis? Those old men wouldn't grasp an automatic pistol's mechanics. Even Tafari knew less about this model than I did. A kind of information asymmetry.
Oil smeared my fingers. I wiped it off on the cloth without a second thought.
"…I miss it."
The melody broke. "Gukbap."
The song was just an excuse. What I really craved was that.
The 24-hour pork soup joint near my old one-room apartment. Slipping in alone at five a.m., that warmth that came like pocket change with the steaming ttukbaegi pot. A bowl of pork gukbap, two chunks of pickled radish—no need for soju.
"I want gukbap."
The words slipped out—not in Amharic or English. I'd have to settle for injera and wat, but the first time I ate Ethiopia's staple—fermented teff dough baked flat—it was brutal. Now… I'm used to it. But it's no gukbap. Never gukbap.
I thought this while carefully cleaning the barrel. What day was it? 1916 Gregorian—or 1909 Ethiopian? Their calendar always confused me. Stick to Gregorian. September 12th… should be around today.
"…Are you calling to him?"
"No, isn't that the tongue of angels…?"
"The Princess is singing a song from her heavenly homeland. Hush."
The maids. Sound must have leaked despite my efforts; I swallowed a wry smile. Every time I muttered to myself in Korean, they called it the "language of angels" and swooned. The Saintess of Adwa image… not bad, but embarrassing since reality was a Korean history buff and mil-enthusiast reincarnated into an Ethiopian princess's body.
No one knew. No one ever would. This was a weight I'd carry alone to my grave.
Living as a princess born of imperial blood, with a little room in my soul housing a Seoulite who collapsed at a gukbap counter.
…It's fine. I'm used to it.
I reassembled the parts in reverse. Slide, barrel, recoil spring. The satisfying clicks transmitted through my palms. Finally, slid in the magazine, checked the hammer. Click. Seven rounds. I liked the weight fitting snugly in my hand.
Knock knock knock.
A knock at the door. Not the maids'. Lower, more cautious… with an odd pressure.
I wrapped the gun in cloth and slid it under my hand.
"Come in."
The door opened. Tafari Mekonnen. The man who, per history, would become Haile Selassie, Ethiopia's last emperor. His small stature felt odd at first glance, but the air shifted the moment he entered. I'd felt it since we met.
If a lion had a way of going silent, it'd look like that.
He scanned the dim room, eyed the cloth bundle under my hand, said nothing.
"Visiting personally at this hour."
I spoke first. "Some nights sleep evades me," Ras Tafari replied. Low, calm voice. Even angry, he kept that tone. As far as I knew, he'd never yelled.
"Sit."
"I'll stand."
As expected. He instinctively knew sitting would give me psychological high ground. His intuition scared me sometimes.
"You bring news."
"Yes."
Short answer. He met my eyes directly. Even in darkness, his gaze was sharp.
"Crown Prince Iyasu."
He paused for breath. "Will no longer be regent after today."
The room fell silent. I kept my expression neutral. Truth was, I'd known history would flow this way for ages.
September 27, 1916—Maskaram 17 Ethiopian calendar. Shoan nobles and church forces unite to depose Iyasu V. Elevate Zewditu, Menelik II's daughter, as empress; seat Ras Tafari as crown prince and regent. I'd read it dozens of times.
But now it had changed. Because of me.
"Abuna Mateos has declared excommunication," Tafari continued. "Fitawrari Habte Giyorgis secured the nobles' signatures. Ras Kassa Haile and Ras Lul Seged have joined. Iyasu's deposition as regent is declared for siding with Muslims."
"Where is Iyasu now?"
"Still outside Addis Ababa. He'll flee north soon. Ras Mikael hasn't withdrawn his forces yet."
Father. Ras Mikael. Iyasu's father, one of the empire's mightiest warlords alongside Ras Kassa Haile—and my father.
In original history, he'd marched south against the coup. Defeated at the Battle of Sagale, captured fighting for his son; that loss sealed Iyasu's fate.
"And Princess Zewditu?"
"She has been informed."
I closed my eyes briefly, then opened them. Menelik II's daughter, Zewditu. Ethiopia's first reigning empress. History should have made her the empire's face, Tafari pulling strings behind. Should have.
"What will the Princess do?"
Tafari's question lingered. In his eyes, I read two: Would I accept my brother's deposition? And sharper—what did I plan next?
He always asked two at once.
Instead of answering, I unfolded the cloth. The Model 1900 gleamed coldly in candlelight.
Tafari's gaze lingered on it. His expression flickered—briefly, subtly. I didn't miss it.
Yeah, see that? Your princess polishing a pistol at dawn. What does that mean?
"Iyasu is my brother," I said slowly. "I know he erred. Approaching Muslim chiefs, seeking ties with Germany and the Ottomans—worst timing with Britain and France as foes."
"Indeed."
"But."
I stood. 171 cm. Tall even for Ethiopian women. Tafari's 157 cm was no match.
"Spare my brother's life. That's all I ask."
Tafari was silent a moment. "No easy request."
"I know."
"If Ras Mikael raises arms, guaranteeing Iyasu on the battlefield—"
"That's why I ask."
I lowered my voice. "Ras Tafari."
Using his name directly was rare even among royals. He narrowed his eyes slightly.
"You want to modernize this country. So do I. We're essential to each other on that path. But."
I picked up the pistol. Twirled my wrist to check the empty chamber, engaged the safety.
"Don't give me reason to turn on you someday."
I slid it into the small leather holster sewn inside my silk robe's waistband. The shape vanished under the fabric.
Tafari watched every motion.
Long silence. "…Understood," he finally said. "I will ensure Crown Prince Iyasu's safety."
"Thank you."
I smiled. Beyond the dawn window, Addis Ababa's horizon lightened. A lion's roar echoed somewhere. Fitawrari's troops were already moving. Abuna Mateos was likely finalizing the excommunication decree. Nobles circulating signatures in the pre-dawn gloom.
History had shifted again. Same direction. Slightly different speed.
My role: create that difference. Starting today.
Tafari headed for the door, hand on the knob, paused.
"That song the Princess sings at dawn."
He didn't turn. "From which land?"
I chuckled. He was genuinely curious. He never let unknowns slide.
"A distant land."
"Translated to Amharic?"
"Can't be."
I added after a thought, "A song of homesickness."
Tafari nodded once. Seemed to want more, but didn't ask. The door closed, leaving me alone.
The candle flickered.
After a brief silence, I walked to the window, watched Addis Ababa awaken. Highland dawn air filled my lungs—cold, clear, oddly like Seoul's Han River breeze.
Iyasu.
I called inwardly. Sorry. Bro—…sis will keep you alive. So stay quiet.
The pistol's weight pressed at my waist.
Nineteen years. Until Italy's 1935 invasion. I had to change this country before then.
Lay railroads, build schools, forge a proper army. And crush Mussolini's ambitions beforehand.
Start anywhere—but start now. No later.
The horizon reddened like Adwa's dawn.