A Stroll Through the Living Market
Taking a brief respite—March 2, 1920, Menelik Palace in Addis Ababa.
I woke to the sound of a roar. Deep and heavy, a vibration rumbling from somewhere in my gut. For a noise you could hear in Addis Ababa, it was certainly unusual, but the palace actually kept real lions.
Tafari really does keep a real lion. I muttered to myself as I rubbed my eyes. The feel of silk sheets brushing my cheek had become familiar—who knew when that happened. In the early days of my reign, this bed, this room, everything had felt awkward. Now it was just mine.
Light filtered in through the window. A March morning in Addis Ababa had this kind of hue. Sunlight passing through the highland's thin air felt sharper than ordinary light, somehow more transparent. I lay there for a moment, letting it play across the ceiling. Then, as I rose, my body protested. Shoulders. Back. Neck. The result of maintaining posture on the throne all through last night's banquet.
An emperor doesn't lean back at banquets. Too many watching eyes. Fatigue could wait.
Ayenash had prepared the washbasin. I splashed water on my face right away, dried it with a towel, and glanced in the mirror.
...Ah, damn.
The face staring back was one I still sometimes found unfamiliar. At 171 cm tall. Distinct features typical of Ethiopians. Long, sweeping lashes. Skin plump and firm, as if infused with both the highland chill and sunlight.
I get where the nickname 'Saintess of Adwa' came from, I thought now and then, looking at that reflection. Of course, no one knew that inside this 'saintess' lurked a dead history major from some 21st-century Seoul studio apartment, missing the 24-hour pork soup joint nearby.
In my past life, I'd been an utterly average guy in looks. Average height, average face, nothing standout. But the one in the mirror now...
This is me. For real.
I set the towel down and quietly shelved the thought. I was used to it, sure. But even after 24 years, that fully 'natural' sensation hadn't come. Maybe it never would. A problem for later.
Work was piled up from early morning. Reports from Interior Minister Wolde Giyorgis on provincial administration. Finance Minister Gelgele Agidew's March budget execution status. Foreign Affairs Director Heruy Wolde Selassie's latest British intelligence. Rifle production figures from the armory for February. A copy of the diplomatic note Engineer Yeo Un-hyung sent to the Korean Empire's Foreign Ministry.
The time it took to process all this had shrunk dramatically since my early reign days. Experience was like that. What once took two hours now wrapped in one. Whether that efficiency was a point of pride or sadness, I couldn't say—but the mountain of papers dwindled one by one.
Wolde Giyorgis's report covered road repairs in the southern Sidamo region. The goal was completion before the rainy season, and at the current pace, it was feasible.
Gelgele's budget showed a surplus. Coffee exports were up, textile production was ramping in Selale and Gojjam, boosting domestic trade volumes. Early gold mine revenues were coming in ahead of schedule. One of those days where poring over numbers felt good.
Heruy's British report was brief. Consul Claude Russell had shown interest in recent movements near the Sudan border. And signals of intent to reestablish ties with Ethiopia post-Treaty of Versailles. Surface-level, it looked friendly.
Interest in the border area. The Blue Nile source debate's back on the table. I mulled it briefly, then jotted a note: Instruct Heruy to hold off on specifics and monitor for now.
The armory's February rifle output: 1,720 units, exceeding the 1,600 target. Thanks to skilled workers' rising proficiency lowering defect rates. I nearly scribbled 'Well done' in Korean beside the figure, then erased it. No one but the Korean advisors would see it anyway. Instead, the official summary: 'Monthly target met. Review maintenance and expansion.'
Engineer Yeo Un-hyung's note copy reported Phase 1 modernization completion to the Korean Empire's Foreign Ministry. It would also go to Marshal Park Young-ho. Reading it, I briefly recalled that small Versailles room. 1947. He was probably still buried in papers somewhere... grumbling in Seoul dialect.
Eh, he's fine.
I signed off the last approval and called to Ayenash.
"Summon Mayor Gebru Desta."
Mayor Gebru Desta of Addis Ababa arrived soon after. An intellectual with overseas study experience. He handled city administration and occasionally doubled on diplomatic delegations—rare in knowing both worlds. Always impeccably dressed.
"You summoned me, Your Majesty?"
"Sit."
As he settled, I got straight to it.
"I'm heading out this afternoon. To the market district. Casual attire."
"An incognito visit."
He caught on quick. Sharp people were the best.
"More a stroll than incognito. No big escort needed. Come with me. Three people total suffices."
Gebru Desta's eyes flickered thoughtfully, then he nodded.
"Understood. I'll prepare."
I sent brief notices to Tafari and the Ras es.
[This afternoon, outing via market district. Return before evening.]
Ten minutes later, a short reply from Tafari.
[Will add separate security detail.]
I pondered briefly, then replied.
[Three is enough.]
A moment later, Tafari's response: blank. Just a receipt mark.
Not objecting, then. I could now distinguish his silences perfectly. The one hunting counterarguments, and the one accepting. This was the latter. He probably wanted more guards inwardly, but knowing I didn't, he stopped here.
Anyway, I left the palace.
'Casual attire' had limits. Not imperial robes, but not commoner garb either. Somewhere in between—like a well-dressed merchant woman. Ayenash had agonized over the choice; I just wore it.
Gebru Desta walked beside me, two plainclothes guards a few steps behind.
Stepping out, March in Addis Ababa unfolded before us. Red dust swirled lightly over the earth, eucalyptus trees swaying in the breeze.
Entering the market district, human voices hit first. Amharic. Oromo. Occasional Arabic. Merchants' calls, children's running feet.
Ah, the sound of the living. I rolled the words in my mind. Inside the palace, every sound was controlled. Footsteps, voices, even laughter—restrained to a degree. That atmosphere had formed naturally since my ascension.
But the market was different. The market was just the market. Noisy, smelly, overflowing with people.
Gebru Desta explained quietly.
"Since this spring, more merchants from the south. Road repairs in Sidamo since last year have smoothed logistics."
"Mostly coffee?"
"Coffee, hides too. And Harar textiles trickling in lately."
Harar textiles. My Phase 1 industrialization push. Once looms scaled up this spring, this flow to Addis markets would swell.
Direction's right. Just needs more speed.
Mulling as I walked, the market center brimmed with goods. Grains, coffee beans, fabric scraps, pottery, metal farm tools. I eyed those tools. Once all handmade relics; now some were standardized. Not from armory designs, but provincial factories stamping them out.
Small difference. But real.
Strolling Addis Ababa's March afternoon, I confirmed those changes one by one with my eyes.
On one side, children played. Five- or six-year-olds, dust-caked, shrieking with laughter.
In my past life, I'd read this era's Ethiopian child mortality stats in history papers. Just numbers then. Seeing these kids now, those figures hit differently—what they truly meant.
Maybe that's why I kept at this work.
Sounds grandiose. But it's just... people need to keep living.
I quietly looked away.
Then.
"Um, excuse me."
A young man's voice. Early twenties, sharp Ethiopian features. Carrying merchant goods that shook like it might drop. Gebru Desta moved to block subtly, but I raised a hand to pause.
The young man looked at me. His face flushed.
"May I... ask your name?"
I knew what approaching a strange woman like that meant in Ethiopia. I glanced at him, then Gebru Desta. He kept a straight face, but his lip twitched faintly.
Amusing situation, Mayor?
...Guessing the gist, I replied politely but firmly.
"Keep walking."
He started to say more, caught my gaze, bowed meekly, and retreated.
Gebru Desta leaned in quietly.
"Third time, Your Majesty."
"...I know."
Third time. Yeah, the first two, Gebru Desta handled before I noticed. This one, I got directly.
Ah, total evanescence.
I grumbled inwardly but kept a neutral face and walked on. Honestly, this 'looks' issue remained awkward even post-ascension. Palace hierarchies prevented it inside, but out here? Different story.
I'd felt the impression my face and figure as Zenebework Mikael gave back in Versailles. Golden-ratio beauty, voluptuous curves visible even from behind... well, tall stunner anyway. When Brice relayed Paris press calling it 'exotic beauty,' how uncomfortable I'd been inside. From average past-life looks, I wondered if I'd ever fully relax into this.
I shelved the thought and kept walking the market.