The coronation of Empress Zewditu was meant to heal the empire's divisions. The churches rang with hymns, incense thickened the air, and the nobles swore loyalty once again to the Solomonic throne. Yet beneath the solemn chants, Ras Tafari felt the currents of unease.
He stood at the Empress's right hand, bowing respectfully as she was crowned, but even in that moment, he understood: she would be queen in name, and he—by necessity—would bear the burden of power.
The arrangement was precarious. Zewditu, pious and conservative, wished to restore the moral order and preserve the traditions of her father, Menelik II. The Church adored her. The priests called her the guardian of faith.
Tafari, in contrast, was the embodiment of modernity—a man who spoke of telegraphs, schools, and railways with the same reverence others reserved for scripture. The nobles distrusted him for his youth, and the clergy watched him with wary eyes, fearing that progress might erode faith.
But Tafari understood this tension was inevitable. "Change," he often told his confidants, "is like the flood that follows the first rain—it destroys old paths but gives new life to the soil."
He knew from history that resistance to reform would be fierce. Yet Ethiopia could no longer remain isolated, not while Europe was devouring Africa inch by inch.
Tafari began cautiously. He did not speak against the Church or the Empress. Instead, he worked in the quiet corners of governance—restructuring provincial councils, auditing trade routes, and strengthening the bureaucracy.
He encouraged the translation of foreign technical manuals into Amharic. He founded schools in Harar, Dire Dawa, and Addis Ababa, focusing on literacy, engineering, and administration.
When questioned by conservative nobles, he smiled disarmingly and said,
"A nation that cannot read cannot pray. A people that cannot build cannot serve the crown."
Gradually, he introduced modern police training, reorganized the treasury, and, in secret, expanded military workshops under the guise of maintenance.
Zewditu saw his actions with mixed emotions. She admired Tafari's loyalty and competence but was uneasy with his ambitions.
One afternoon, as they met in the garden pavilion, she spoke softly.
"Ras Tafari," she said, "your reforms bring prosperity, but the priests whisper that we are becoming too worldly. The Church fears that in your hands, Ethiopia may lose her soul."
Tafari bowed deeply. "Your Majesty, Ethiopia's soul lies not in isolation but in strength. Faith without progress is a candle burning in a storm."
The Empress sighed, turning away. "Strength is nothing if we lose Heaven's favor."
He said nothing more. He understood her fears—she had seen the chaos of Iyasu's rule, and now clung to tradition like a shield. But Tafari also knew that piety without foresight had doomed empires before.
Foreign diplomats watched the new arrangement with interest. The Italians saw Tafari as a dangerous obstacle—too intelligent, too pragmatic. The British, meanwhile, saw opportunity.
One British envoy, a certain Colonel Thorne, met Tafari in private. "Your Excellency," he said, "Her Majesty's government commends your restraint. You are a man of reason in a world of zealots. If ever Ethiopia seeks friendship, Britain would listen."
Tafari smiled. "Friendship," he said, "is built not on words but on equal footing. Ethiopia must stand before she shakes another's hand."
Still, he knew he needed allies. And Britain's recognition could be useful—so he played the long game, offering symbolic gestures of goodwill without surrendering sovereignty.
From the north came troubling reports: remnants of Lij Iyasu's supporters stirred rebellion in Wollo and the Afar lowlands. Tafari dispatched trusted generals—men trained under his modern doctrine—and within weeks, the uprisings were crushed.
Yet the ease of their victory disturbed him. Rebellion rarely dies so quietly. He sensed foreign influence once again—the Italians, perhaps, using exiled nobles to test the empire's resolve.
In response, Tafari expanded the intelligence bureau he had once used against spies in Harar. He appointed loyal men from his industrial corps to gather information, not only about foreign plots, but about domestic intrigue within the court itself.
"Information," he told his aides, "is more powerful than armies. A bullet kills once, but a whisper kills forever."
Years passed, and Ethiopia began to change. Telegraph poles stretched across valleys, linking distant provinces. Schools turned shepherds' sons into clerks, and soldiers drilled with rifles manufactured in Harar's workshops.
The Empress continued her devotions, retreating more and more into prayer. The clergy grew uneasy at Tafari's growing influence, but the people began to see him differently—not as a noble's son, but as the hand that held the empire together.
In 1923, when Tafari secured Ethiopia's admission into the League of Nations, crowds filled Addis Ababa, chanting his name. It was the first time Ethiopia had been recognized as an equal among modern nations.
From the balcony of the palace, Tafari watched the cheering citizens and whispered to himself,
"Once, I saw Ethiopia fall apart in my first life. Now, she begins to stand again."
Late that night, alone in his study, Tafari reread dispatches from his agents. Italian operatives were stirring trouble in Eritrea, and whispers of dissent spread through the priesthood.
He leaned back in his chair, the candlelight flickering against his face.
"Power," he mused, "is a dance between fear and vision. Too much fear, and a nation stagnates. Too much vision, and it burns itself alive."
He glanced toward the horizon—the dark silhouette of Addis Ababa sleeping under the stars.
He had become the regent, the guardian, the reformer—but the crown still belonged to another. And history, as he knew all too well, would one day demand that he step beyond the shadow.