Tafari Mekonnen's Recollection
March 2, 1933. Addis Ababa, Menelik Palace.
Lights flickered beyond the window. To the east of the palace lay the arsenal. And stretching further toward the Alesa district was the nightscape of the industrial zone. It was nearly one in the morning. The March night air in Addis Ababa carried the sharp chill unique to the highlands, and thick darkness pressed against the office window. But those lights never went out.
I, Tafari Mekonnen, stood with arms crossed, lightly resting my forehead against the window glass as I gazed at them. Reports had come in yesterday: another crash on the London Stock Exchange. A steel mill in Berlin had laid off half its workers and shut down its furnaces. In New York, banks were closing one by one, four years into the depression that began in 1929.
Yet those lights burned on. While the world dimmed, Ethiopia's smokestacks belched smoke ever higher. Her Majesty had poured half the imperial treasury into equipment before the crash hit, snapping up bargains now humming to life amid those very lights. Bankrupt German machine tools, Belgian chemical plants, and American and German engineers who had drifted here after losing their jobs. Her Majesty had bought when the world was selling.
And I had sat at the table where those decisions were reported.
I pulled my forehead from the window and stared at the faint fog it left behind. Yesterday's events lingered in my mind.
That day, there had been a meeting of the Ras Council. Not a regular session—this one had been specially convened. The night before, a missive had arrived for me.
Tomorrow morning, I have words to deliver at the Ras Council.
That was all. The stark brevity only heightened the unease. I knew from experience that when Her Majesty spoke briefly, immense weight followed.
The council chamber filled with the rases. Ras Mikael sat opposite me, Ras Kassa Haile beside him, Ras Hailu Tekle Haymanot at the end with arms crossed. Ras Seyum Mangasha, Ras Lul Seged, Minister Balcha Safo, and Foreign Minister Heruy as well. The atmosphere felt off. To an outsider, it might have seemed the usual pre-meeting quiet, but after more than a decade in these seats, I sensed the shift in the air. A silence heavy with foreboding.
Her Majesty entered right on time. No imperial robes—just house attire, which somehow made her seem even more composed. She always looks fiercer out of finery. Her authority comes from her eyes, not her clothes.
She took the head seat, scanned the room briefly, then cut to the chase.
"I called you here for one matter."
Her voice was low and even—not emotionless, but unburdened by the need to show it.
"The appointment of a crown prince."
The room fell quiet for a moment. Her Majesty knew this wouldn't shock the rases. The lack of a crown prince had long been a political void in the Ethiopian imperial house, whispered about among the nobles. But Her Majesty had refused all marriage, prolonging the gap.
Ras Kassa Haile raised a cautious hand.
"Your Majesty, appointing a crown prince means... from Your Majesty's bloodline...?"
"No."
Her Majesty cut him off sharply.
"Not my bloodline."
Silence descended again, thicker this time. Eyes darted. Ras Hailu Tekle Haymanot gripped his arms tighter. Ras Mikael's fingers on the armrest flexed slowly once.
Her Majesty continued.
"I will not marry. As I've said before. Political marriages to bind the realm end with me."
She paused, then added,
"Instead, I name Ras Tafari's eldest son, Asfaw Wossen Tafari, as crown prince."
In that instant, I kept my expression unchanged. That I could do so proved it wasn't a total surprise. Back on the night of the 1928 friendship treaty signing, on the balcony, Her Majesty had foreshadowed it: 'I'll live as a spinster. My successor will be your child.' But hearing it officially before the rases carried different weight.
Ras Seyum Mangasha reacted first.
"Your Majesty, you mean to pass the throne to the House of Mekonnen?"
His tone was flat, but edged.
Her Majesty met his gaze head-on.
"Ethiopia's throne belongs to the Solomonic line. That doesn't change. But there's no reason the crown prince must share my blood. Anyone who understands this nation, can protect it, and shares our vision is qualified to inherit."
Ras Kassa Haile spoke again.
"By that standard, what grounds do you have for deeming Ras Mekonnen's eldest son suitable?"
"Ras Tafari is suitable. His son will grow under him, so I can trust the boy."
As she spoke, Her Majesty glanced at me. Barely three seconds. But I knew what that look meant.
The rases grumbled but accepted. Ras Hailu never uncrossed his arms; Ras Seyum snorted softly. None openly defied her decision.
Finally, the Empress's father, Ras Mikael, spoke quietly.
"...Protect this empire."
It wasn't clear to whom.
The recollection ended there. I turned from the window and walked to my desk. Piles of documents awaited: the Bofors 105mm licensed production contract, February arsenal output reports, unofficial intel copies from spies in Italy. Everything pointed toward war.
Reports of Mussolini ramping up Ethiopian military intel two years ago. Signs of Italian buildup near the Eritrean border. Hardliner movements within Italy.
...And the 1928 friendship treaty. It named twenty years, but sitting here, I knew it meant far less. Her Majesty knew too. And I knew she knew.
That's why the arsenal lights burned at one a.m.
I sat, placing a hand on the papers. Crown prince. Asfaw Wossen Tafari. My son. His name was now in the official records.
Truth be told, an odd feeling lingered. It would be stranger not to wonder what calculations lay behind such a decision from her—but sensing those calculations hit home was one thing; seeing my child's name as their outcome on the throne was another weight entirely.
I tapped the document's edge lightly. Then came a knock. Familiar rhythm: two short, one long. From Yeo Unhyeong of the Korean Empire's legation.
"Come in."
The door opened. I watched Minister Yeo Unhyeong enter without rising—our rapport had long dispensed with such formality.
But he wasn't carrying papers. A cloth bundle, like something earthenware. And then I caught the scent. Meaty broth—rich, savory, with a hint of oil.
"...Minister, what is that?"
With his usual composed face cracking just a fraction—as if holding back a smile—he set it on the desk corner.
"From Her Majesty."
"...Her Majesty."
"Yes. She specially requested it from the kitchen today and had me deliver it."
I eyed the bundle.
"What exactly is it?"
"Sundae gukbap."
Silence.
I knew what sundae gukbap was—or rather, where it came from. Her Majesty sometimes sang softly alone at night, a song of longing for someone's homeland. And when she dipped bread in broth instead of wat, her distant gaze—I'd noted it long ago.
Made with ingredients from the Korean Empire, no doubt. Leftovers from what she'd eaten that morning, sent via the minister.
"And."
Minister Yeo continued.
"Her Majesty added a word."
"What?"
He paused, choosing his phrasing, then said lowly,
"'Good work.'"
That was it. I sat motionless, absorbing those brief words.
Good work.
At the Ras Council, as my son's name rose to crown prince, I'd kept my face impassive. Afterward, back here, reviewing papers, watching the lights. Not emotionless—just emotions needing processing.
Minister Yeo quietly pulled a chair and sat opposite.
"May I join you briefly?"
"Please, make yourself comfortable."
He unpacked the bundle: a bowl of rich broth and white rice. Rare in Ethiopia, but steam rose warmly from the hot soup.
I stared at the bowl.
"Minister."
"Yes."
"Why do you think Her Majesty sent this?"
He pondered briefly.
"She could have eaten it herself, but specified for Your Excellency today. Perhaps... a gesture of comfort."
"Comfort."
"Yes. She knows today wasn't easy for you."
I mulled it over. Her Majesty observes me. Has for years. My glances in certain moments, my silences. She reads them. She'd seen my steady face today—and what it concealed.
Minister Yeo peered into the broth, then said,
"If I may ask without offense, Your Excellency."
"Go ahead."
"You'd given no thought to the throne? Not at all?"
My answer took time. Lies weren't my way, nor was blunt honesty easy here.
"Not none."
He nodded, asking no more. I glanced out the window, then back.
"But the more I see, the less sure I am I could bear Her Majesty's mantle."
Saying it aloud, I felt its weight. I recalled first facing her as empress: 1916, dawn of Iyasu V's deposition. At four a.m., entering that room, she was cleaning her pistol. I knew then she was no ordinary soul. But how far she'd reach? I hadn't fathomed.
Rifle designs. Light machine guns. Anti-tank rifles. Anti-tank guns. Ras Council creation. Industrialization plans. Turning the depression to advantage. Geneva board. All from one mind.
And I'd executed beside her. What I do best: administration, organization, noble balances. She sets direction; I build the structure.
I'd wanted the throne. Long ago. But now, honestly? Was it the throne itself, or the ambition to steer the Ethiopia she was forging? The blur was answer enough.
"Her Majesty was too capable."
Minister Yeo said lowly.
"Yes."
I replied evenly.
"Standing where I must carry her achievements, I know their weight best from beside her. Whether I can bear it? I'm not certain."
He gently slid the bowl toward me.
"Eat while you think."
I looked down. Steam from the hot broth. With the bowl, I glanced once more at the arsenal lights.
Those lights weren't mine—they were hers.
Crown prince. My son. When his day came to lead, he'd need to know that weight. Not from imperial tutors, but growing at her side.
I took a spoon instead of chopsticks. Korean Empire utensil.
"Minister."
"Yes."
"Does Her Majesty enjoy this?"
"Kitchen staff said her face changed briefly the first time."
I didn't ask how. I'd caught that faraway look myself.
I sipped the broth. Rich and hot. A depth unlike Ethiopian wat.