**Addis Ababa, Ethiopia**

Yaqob had been with his mother for nearly an hour, sitting in silence until dawn filled the pale palace room with cold blue light. She hadn't lived a hard life by the standard of the common person - she had spent her years living in palaces, eating well and wearing nice clothes. Survival had never been a question for her, but her life had been hard all the same. Because so little had been required of her, she had lived her life exclusively for her family, and when that family had suffered, she had nothing to distract her. When her husband was assassinated, and when her eldest son disappeared, and when her youngest son came close to death from another would-be assassin, she was helpless to do anything but to wallow in her grief. A grief she chose to combat, according to some rumors, with medication. Years of mental anguish had finally taken their toll. She was in her late fifties, and she was already senile.

She sat next to her son, at the edge of her bed. Her eyes wandered as she cycled between confusion and stress. She had experienced one lucid moment, much earlier, when it was still dark, where she cried for her son and the coming loss of her home. It had been a powerful moment, but it had been a short one. As her mind slipped back into it's usual senile fugue, Yaqob realized that he had seen his mother for the last time. The rest of their time together had been silent, and somber.

"_There is violence to that phrase, 'Ruined Life'. We always forget this._" Yaqob heard the words of the old priest Zerihun repeating themselves in his mind. "_When you hear a phrase enough, repeated and repeated and repeated, it loses its meaning. That is why young people forget the wisdom that is in the bible, and start to see the Sermon on the Mount as platitudes and rambling. But there is horrible violence in saying that a life has been ruined. Life is all we ever have, and we spend all of our years building our own. It takes careful effort, and luck, to construct a life where you can be happy. Love, children, a place among your people, a relationship with God, these are things that take lifetimes to cultivate, and they are too easy to lose. It doesn't take much. An evil act can tear loved ones apart, and an unjust law can drive a person from their home, or from their lives. And with that, suddenly, dozens of years of work are lost in an instant. That is what sin is, really - acts that damage lives. Murder not only ends a life, but devastates the fathers, and mothers, and wives and husbands and children... and more, and more, so that they lose years dwelling on the evil that was done to them, when they should have been enjoying their lives. So war.... that is the biggest sin. You kill the men, and turn the women and children and parents out of their homes with fire and bombs, and then you deprive them of food. Their villages burn, their memories ache from the loss of their friends. Only the lucky ever get their lives back, and what they get back is always scarred. You multiply these experiences one million times, and you have a war._"

Zerihun had been the priest in charge of the Holy of Holies, the Ark of the Covenant, sent by the church to request protection it. When Yaqob assented, he requested that Zerihun be allowed to stay in the Imperial entourage as his spiritual adviser. It was a peculiar request - the duty of guarding the Ark was usually a lifelong one - but the church missed their role as the legitimizing force behind the crown, and they had no problem sacrificing a minor matter of protocol in order to get closer to the Emperor.

As the room slowly filled with light, its features became apparent. It was a large room - larger than the huts that many of his people lived in. Its walls were decorated in a way that was less eclectic than most of Yaqob's museum-like palace. In here, there were softly-colored paintings from around the world, and a native piece depicting angels - winged heads - surrounding Christ against a patterned background in vivid colors - reds and greens and yellows and blues and oranges. It was painted on a large patch of cowskin stretched taut across a pole frame. The room was filled with simple furniture - chairs, chests, and the massive pillowy bed that they were both sitting on. In the air, there was a lingering smell of incense.

"We need to get her ready." The voice was Azima's, and she was speaking in a soft whisper. Yaqob looked up from the miserable room and saw his wife leaning against the gold column-frame of the doorway. She wore a marble-white dress that hung loose from her shoulders and hugged her hips. A geometric pattern of gold and black crosses decorated its fringes, and a strip that ran across the front. Over her shoulders, she wore a cheetah pelt. Tewodros was dressed in white as well, and he also had a cheetah pelt across his shoulders - small enough that Yaqob reckoned it to be a cub. The pelts were ostentatiously African, at least in a way that others seen the continent. This was by design. A handful of Walinzi agents had been sent to prepare the airlift out of the country, and they had covered every detail - including the way the fleeing royal family would be presented. The sight of the exotic African Empress and her family would conjure romantic images - thoughts of Cleopatra, or the Noble Savage fleeing imperialist invaders. The Chinese would benefit from this image as well, helping them to see the Africans as a people suffering from colonization rather than another component in the damnable West.

Yaqob nodded and wrapped his arms around his mother. For the last time, he figured. Her age, and the doom that was coming to the African continent where Yaqob would be staying behind, seemed to promise to him that this would be their last meeting. But he had dwelled on these feeling long enough.

"Where is Taytu?" Yaqob asked. He had expected his sister to arrive earlier.

"She is coming." Azima said. "She waited until the last minute."

"She doesn't want to go." Yaqob nodded. His sister was angry at the thought of being sent away. He couldn't help but admit that he had reasons to want her to stay - she was useful, and retaining even just one member of his family would be a great comfort. But those reasons were selfish. She had a child. Besides that, she had more passion than the cold-minded Fulumirani, who's aloof nature had been well suited for keeping a steady relationship with the standoffish Chinese, but times had changed. China needed to be pushed, and Taytu would be the one to do the pushing.

"You know." Azima stifled a nervous laugh as she stood face to face with Yaqob. "I have to ask..."

Yaqob smiled somberly. She smelled like sandalwood and honey, and he realized he would miss the love that her scent gave to their home. "I can't." he said. "Africa needs its Emperor. It's like your father has said, i'm asking my people to die for this country. What would it look like if I left them behind?"

"Do not listen to my father." Azima warned. Yaqob knew that she had never liked her own father, even when she was little. "Hassan lives by a different code. He would accept your death if he thought it would somehow fit into his antique beliefs about... national honor, or whatever it is he values." She embraced him, and her warmth made him miss her already. "We can be together. In China. You can lead from there."

"I agree with your father in this." Yaqob replied "If my death helped this country, I would accept it." He could see immediately that his words had hurt her.

"Don't you say that." she said. "You are better alive. You can't do anything for anyone if you are dead."

"I still can't go." Yaqob said. "This is the way that it has to be."

There was a silence. Yaqob heard the scattered echo of many footsteps, of servants and guards moving from place to place throughout the palace. The silence was still there, though, and it was strongest between him and his sobered Queen.

She broke it with a nervous snicker. "I should be fighting you more on this." she said. "I should hit you."

"I wish I could let that work." Yaqob replied. "But I cannot change this."

"I know. I know that you are stubborn." she tried to smile. "That is why I am not fighting." she wiped a tear from her eye and stiffened her lip, and Yaqob remembered how strong his wife was. She looked down at Tewodros and scooped him up - barely out of infancy, he did not understand the events that were shaping his life around him. She handed him to Yaqob, and straightened the young child's cheetah pelt. "You will represent me in China now." Yaqob said to Tewodros, joking through the somber mood. Tewodros stared dumbly at his father. "I want you to let them know what is what there in China."

"He looks a little Chinese" Azima added, her smile bittersweet. 

"Yes. Those baby cheeks..." he squeezed Tewodros cheeks, "...those stubby legs." he squeezed Tewodros shins, "I think they will make him chairman." The boy looked confused, but smiled when he saw his father smiling. Yaqob realized how much comfort his son brought him, and it made him wonder what life would be like when they left him alone.

He thought back to the night before, when he had read at Tewodros bedside. He had read late into the night, well after the child went to sleep. The book he had chosen was hardly something a boy, who wasn't yet two years old, would have any interest in. It had been some older work of philosophy, chosen at what felt like random at the time. He had read through it, line after line, thinking of it as a lullaby. He remembered the last passage that he read.

'_What need is there of suspicious fear, since it is in thy power to inquire what ought to be done? And if thy seest clear, go by this way content, without turning back: but if thy dost not see clear, stop and take the best advisers. But if any other things oppose thee, go on according to thy powers with due consideration, keeping to that which appears to be just. For it is best to reach this object, and if thou dost fail, let thy failure be in attempting this. He who follows reason in all things is both tranquil and active at the same time, and also cheerful and collected..._'

That had been the last passage because it had stopped him. He realized that the lullaby wasn't for Tewodros, but for himself. He felt that he should have been ashamed by this. Instead, it scared him.

Now he was facing that fear, and he soaked in what happiness he still could. He didn't think about the future, or his wound. In the present, it was him, his wife, and his child. Together.

He heard Captain Mvulu approaching. Mvulu's approach was unique - a step, and then a click as his ivory peg-leg tapped the floor. Mvulu had been maimed in multiple ways during the Katanga Rebellion, where he earned his fame leading his men from the jungles of the south, through the heart of the enemies territory, to safety in the north. His leg wasn't the only thing he lost - the jungle had also taken an eye.

Yaqob watched Mvulu turn a corner down the hall. The morning light glinted off the gold-leaf inlay on his false leg - Gorillas in a forest, a tribute to the beast that had maimed him. His lost eye was hidden with a gold-white patch, and his scarred, ink-colored body was covered with the pompous cream uniform of his station.

"The Princess Taytu has arrived, with her adopted child." Mvulu announced with all the dramatic flair of an ancient herald. "She wishes to talk to her Emperor, alone."

Yaqob lost his good spirits. When his sister wanted his time alone, there was most often an argument involved. He accepted and handed Tewodros to Azima.

Yaqob found Taytu in a small room - one he had dedicated to a suit of armor once owned by Emperor Yohannes IV in the nineteenth century - a rust hauberk trimmed with leather and decorated with ostrich feathers. There was nothing else in the room but dim lighting. His sister stood in place, her gawky, gaunt frame haloed by the soft light of the floor lamps. She looked both patient and nervous, and Yaqob couldn't help but notice that her eyes were bloodshot. 

"Did you bring your son?" he asked at once, noticing Olivier's absence.

"Yes. He is ready for China." she said. He sensed double meaning in her words and understood what this conversation was going to be about. He felt his chest scar tighten.

"Are you ready for China?" He asked tentatively. Her lips tightened. It was time for the argument.

"My job is here." she began to ramble breathlessly. "This is where I work. My people, this... entire work that I have spent all of my time doing for the last five years is all here! I can't leave! I would be impotent in China! There would be nothing to do but sit and sit and think about everything that I failed to do here, everything I failed to be. There are... dangers... there are dangers you don't understand! I would be impotent there! I would be completely useless! I would be..." she took a breath. "I don't understand... what I have to say to show you."

"I do not know why you feel like this." Yaqob replied dutifully. He hated this. His scar was throbbing as if it were a fresh wound. "I need experience in China. Someone who can put Pressure on the Third International..."

"You need me away from here because you don't think I can work with Hassan." she responded. He could smell the liquor on her breath. 

"You don't want to work with Hassan"

"No." she replied. "Nobody should work with him. He is a danger and you cannot see it."

"He is the most capable man for his job. There is no changing that."

"Maybe not... but leaving you here, alone in his power..."

"You have lost your mind." Yaqob frowned. He could feel the burning pain of his chest wound throbbing in his head now. "And you are drunk."

She recoiled at that. "I have other reasons not to leave the continent. I want to coordinate our offices personally. Direct contact with China will be cut off. There is no doubting this. Once that happens, I will be a refugee. If I stay here, I will be who I am meant to be."

"Dead" Yaqob scoffed.

"Useful." Taytu replied. "Meaningful. I watched a war between my family once before. Do you know what it was like, sitting with our mother, hearing the news about this city falling or that village burning? It was so strange that my brothers were fighting each other with armies, but not know how it would end... I thought that one of you would be dead. Every day. And I felt like a little girl. The people in Austria knew, too. They would stare, but they wouldn't say anything. I don't want that again! I want to do something!"

"Chinese diplomacy is something." Yaqob assured. He was in pain now, and part of him loathed his sister for it.

"Chinese diplomacy is nothing at all! I've read all of Fulumirani's dispatches. You have tea with this officer, or lunch with that party member. Then you watch the cherry trees grow." She paused for a moment. "The cherry trees are lovely this season, the city is lovely at night. Have you read one of Fulumirani's dispatches? He begins every one of them like that. This is lovely or that is lovely. But the rest of what is happening there, you can see it. You chat with people, and then you wait for them to wake up all the old men that run that fucking country and let them have all their tea and brunches so that they can all decide to be prudent and do nothing."

"That is Fulumirani." Yaqob replied. "That is why I am sending you. Change them."

"I won't change them and you know that." she replied. "I would be a curiosity there, nothing else. They would listen, wonder at the amazing talking African woman, lament how awful the situation in Africa is, and then call for more fucking tea."

It was too hard to argue on this point. "You have a son..." Yaqob said wearily.

"And your wife can take care of him. Olivier would be in good hands with Azima."

"You don't want to be with him?"

"I have faith that he will be alright in the Queen's hands." Taytu replied resolutely.

"I cannot help it. I cannot keep you here."

"If you need a diplomat." she started to think "What if... What if I visit the southern countries instead?"

"Southern?" Yaqob answered. Was this it? The light at the end of the tunnel? The end of this painful conversation? "Like Tanganyika?"

"Tanganyika, South Africa, Botswana. All of them. Shore up any support we can."

Yaqob thought a moment. "I will allow it." he surrendered. It wasn't what he wanted, but this was not a day to argue, Imperial primacy be damned. "You have my blessing."

Content, They rejoined the rest of the family.

They left the palace in a somber mood, knowing that they would not all be returning as a family. The weather picked up on the royal gloom, and a wet wind was blowing in from the northwest. On the horizon, grey clouds. Yaqob held tightly to his Queen's hand, his only thoughts being about the desperate gap that divided their parting from any chance of reunion in the future. A gap that would be filled with war, and fear, and what would undoubtedly be the worst days he would ever see. It was hard to imagine a scenario where he lived. What would Sotelo do, if he got his hands on a living Emperor? The public perception of the man was one of a politician driven to anger over his warped concepts of justice. What would justice be, for the Emperor that Sotelo considered a force of imminent evil? And if the rumors that surrounded the Spanish Prime Minister were true...

Yaqob doubted his ability to survive the war. It was a doubt he could not reason himself away from.

They packed into long, black sedan. Silence. Yaqob took a deep breath, and sat Tewodros on his lap.

-

By the time they had reached the airport the clouds had grown greyer. Scarce drops of rain were being whipped around by the wind. Yaqob worried about the weather. There was already an air of danger about the flight of his family, and the promise of turbulence did not help. He had asked the pilot about the what seemed like a coming storm, but the man hadn't seemed worried. "It's hardly weather at all, your majesty." he had replied. "Might not even follow us to the Red Sea." Yaqob prayed that the man was right, but he could not help but fret.

They were standing on the tarmac, near the humming airplane at the center of his worries. It was larger than the aircraft he was accustomed to flying, but not so large as the common sort of commercial airliner that was becoming more and more common in Africa. Though much smaller than a military cargo plane, it shared a similar feature - a hatch in the back that allowed cargo into its heart. It was necessary for the consignment that the Church had put on Yaqob's government. An object that they - The Emperor, his family, the priest Zerihun, and the small host of diplomats and government employees - waited for in the wind.

The Ark of the Covenant, and the priests claimed that their cargo was indeed the original Ark, was so venerated by the priests that they insist nobody see it. It was for this purpose that the Ark, an object built to hold the Tablets of Moses, would now itself be put in a larger container. It seemed ridiculous to Yaqob that the Ark needed an Ark, but he had no reason to deny the Church their request. 

It was an gaudy box, nearly as large as a small room. It consisted of polished wooden panels held between solid gold beams. Several long, decorated sheets were draped over the box, layered white, then red, then purple. The younger priests wore white caps on their heads and carried traditional Shotel swords hanging from sheaths on their belts. They carried the box like a liter, holding its handles at waist height, while the older priests prayed, swung censers filled with burning incense, and sung hymns in droning harmony. 

Their hymning was drowned out by the chopping rumble of four fighters landing on a nearby strip. Yaqob watched the fighters, curious about what they were doing landing in the Capitol's main airport. They had upturned noses behind their propellers, further obscuring the cockpits nestled between their wings, and a strip along their fuselages were painted with the green-yellow-red colors of Ethiopia. On their wings were painted crowned lions in red squares. Yaqob watched as a tanker truck rushed along the strip to meet them, and understood that they had landed here to, simply, refuel.

He turned his attention back to the priests and their Ark of the Ark. They loaded it on to the plane, walking the ramp slowly and methodically as not to risk any injury to the sacred vessel it contained. As Yaqob watched, a thought struck him. He leaned in to Zerihun.

"How many priests are going with it?" he asked.

"Four." the old priest replied. 

"I thought there was only one guardian?"

The priest smiled behind his beard. "Yes. Traditionally. But what we are doing here isn't... traditional."

"And their swords? Is that... are they going to need those in China?"

The priest chuckled dryly. "Diplomacy plays a second part to God. They will wear those swords to defend the Holy tabot."

"If anybody wanted to steal it, I don't think swords are going to do anything."

"Yes." the priest paused. "But you have not seen what these men can do with their swords." 

When the Ark's Ark had been lifted completely into the plane, they knew the time had come. There, on the windy runway with rare drops of rainwater whipping at their faces, Yaqob said goodbye to his family. His mother was first, small and frail from her years. He kissed her on the cheek, and she smiled. "I'm going to say hello to your father for you." she said. It was the words of a woman lost in her own mind, but they sounded so prophetic as to send a chill across Yaqob body. Taytu took her, arm and arm, and helped her to board the plane, and it pained Yaqob to accept that he was saying goodbye to his mother for good. Somber, Yaqob was left alone with his wife and child.

Azima's hair had taken a life of its own in the wind. It danced in her face as she stood their, teary eyed, holding their child in her arms. It was a bittersweet moment for Yaqob. He had expected to feel worse, but they had been preparing for this moment for a while. Part of him felt relieved that they would be safe, and that all he would need to worry about was himself and the country he would be leading into war. 

"This is it." he said. He reached up and wiped a tear from Azima's face. "You will be safe."

She smiled. "You will be too." she replied. She lifted Tewodros toward his father. "Say goodbye to abba" she cooed. Tewodros held up his hand. Yaqob smiled. "Be a strong boy." Yaqob said. Taytu brought Olivier, and he knew that they could not put it off any longer

He watched as his wife took Olivier by his only hand. Azima seemed to move slow as Yaqob felt his entire lifetime culminate in the moment. Sh waved goodbye before disappearing into the plane with the two boys. Yaqob stood and watched as the aircraft crept across the runway, speeding away from the ground. He watched until it disappeared somewhere in the eastern sky. It was done. As Yaqob stood in personal silence, the priests and their retainers melted away one by one. Eventually, Yaqob stood alone, with his sister, Zerihun, and their security entourage.

"What do I do now?" Taytu asked.

"Inform Dar es Salaam about the change of plans." he replied. "Through the Walinzi, not through regular channels. The enemy will be here soon, and I want you out of the country when that happens."

"I understand." she said. 

He grabbed her by the hand. "I don't mean to be cold." he said. "But we should not be in the same place at the same time. Each member of our family free from enemy hands is a poke in the eye to the legitimacy of their invasion. I just want you to be safe."

She smiled. "I understand." she repeated. 

He returned to the cars with Zerihun, his thoughts with his family flying toward the Red Sea. The priest said nothing, and took the seat next to the driver, allowing Yaqob to be alone with his thoughts. The Emperor had the back seat to himself. As he entered the car, the pressure of the war and the loss of his family hit him all at once. The car started to move, and Yaqob started to cry.

-

Hours had passed since he watched that little airplane fade into the east, but it still weighed heavy on his mind. But there was work to do. He arrived at the Addis Ababa Press Club at hour after noon to give his announcement on the coming war. It had been at noon when the nation's Parliament officialized an amended declaration of war that would expand the scope of the conflict, and give liberties to the Emperor and the Military to take any act they deemed necessary in the expulsion of Spain. At the moment, it was a hollow move - Spain had the upper-hand. If the situation changed, however, than they would be able to act quickly in ways that could cripple more than the Spanish war effort - they could cripple Spain itself. 

It was easy to get caught up in glorious dreams, though. Yaqob had just been forced to send his family away into safety, and his fear of Spanish power was quickly turning into hatred. He had always imagined himself quieting the jingoistic Empire that straddled their northern border, bringing it to heel through diplomacy rather than the brutalities of war. When he had came to his throne, he had imagined himself doing the same for every problem that faced him, but the Yaqob that was facing this invasion was different from the boy who came to power four years ago. He had faced the truth of Empire, and the irrationality that governed humanity. The Spanish question would be answered in the trenches. 

The Addis Ababa Press Club wasn't an impressive place. It was a small office suit situated in a comfortable corner on the edge of the capitol's confused central sprawl. The Emperor was politely led down thin halls covered by an uneven carpeted floor and wood-panel walls. On the walls were photographs, hung like trophies, depicting major news stories of the last twenty or so years. In some of them, Yaqob saw photos of himself, depicting the ups and downs of his reign. Seeing them gave him a strange feeling. They showed events that had immense personal meaning to him, but they showed them in a way that was as dispassionate as a history. 

"You have reviewed your speech?" his secretary asked. He was a stenographer first and foremost, and a man who's name Yaqob did not even know, but the Emperor appreciated his professionalism. 

"I have." Yaqob replied tersely. "I've made adjustments."

"Of course." the man replied. "Le'elt Taytu will be sending the text of your speech to all available foreign offices of state and primary media sources. I was told that there will not be time for editing."

"We have to be dramatic now." Yaqob replied. "It will be sent out immediately." he paused. "It shouldn't matter. The speech will be broadcasted as well."

"Of course." the secretary replied. "I'm just making sure our protocols will be different." he smiled. "Good luck, your Highness. Don't mess up."

Yaqob nearly laughed. Instead, he just grinned. "You don't mess up either."

He arrived at his podium, in a small room filled with a diversity of newsmen and reporters. Most were professionals, men with notepads and recording devices, standing up as the Emperor entered the room, but hardly looking at him as they adjusted their tools and equipment. There were others who did not seem to fit in - women writing on scrap paper, young children with aging pens writing on their own arms, and men from other parts of the African nation. These were people who had bribed their way in. Yaqob did not doubt that the Press Club had, in order to make a profit, taken every step they could think of short of selling tickets at the door.

"Can I have your attention." his secretary said, tapping his palm against the mic to quiet the room with its muffled noise. "You can all sit down." he said. They sat. "Prepare to be addressed by his Imperial Majesty, Emperor Yaqob II of Ethiopia and the Pan-African Union." There was an air of professional silence. Everybody listened.

Yaqob took to the podium. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and began to speak.

"Yesterday I received confirmation that the Naval Forces of the Spanish Republic passed into the Suez Canal. As of this moment they are expected to be entering the Red Sea on a trajectory for our coastal waters, where they will begin the invasion of our sovereignty which they recently planned and announced. Our government has worked to keep this invasion from happening, both through political and extra-political means. A detachment of dedicated Africans, made up of soldiers and government agents, was dispatched to the Suez Canal to bar it from the Spanish. Their mission succeeded only for a short time, but we should not consider the lives that were sacrificed there to be lost to futility. The time they bought our military has allowed us to prepare a defense formidable enough to repay their suffering threefold upon the horror invaders."

"It is important that we do not lose hope in the face of the coming attack. Our enemies underestimate us, expecting to find the same untested peoples who lived blissfully in these lands before the coming of the European in the last century. We have since those initial invaders, and all invaders who came after them. The Spanish are included in this number. An invasion by the prior Spanish government failed in an embarrassment at Coquilhatville along the Congo river, in  place we now call Mbandaka. It is an embarrassment they will repeat. This is a war they cannot win, because it is a war that they do not understand. They look at us as a people built to be conquered, a cultural blank slate where their political wishes can play out without consequence. They don't see the heart of our people, and they have denied our humanity. For us this is a tragic reality of the world. For them, it is a tactical disaster. They will fall into a trap of their own making, and we will ruin them."

"For the rest of the world, the lies told by the Spanish government must be understood to be nothing more than that - lies. Intelligent people will see their rancid mythology, where Africa is cast as a demonic evil, as a ridiculous set of fantasies that would be unworthy for even the worst whorehouse gossip. The story of Africa and its relationship with the Spanish Republic is the story of an abusive aggressor with colonial ambitions against an entire people. It is the story of the greatest crime of our age - the expression of a hegemony based on race and culture that by its nature creates a friction between peoples, and through this friction creates violence. Until this hegemony is toppled, and all people live as equals in the greater fellowship of man, this violence will continue. My father recognized this, and dedicated his life to the uplifting of the African people and the abolishment of colonial hegemony. The circumstances of our era require me to do the same."

"So let it be known that this is not simple a war where our nation defends its borders. My brothers in humanity, the people of the Sahara, of North Africa, and the Ivory Coast, live in a state of subhuman bondage and lamentable servitude to a Spanish government that bleeds them of everything they can give. We will drive the enemy from these lands, inch by bloody inch if needed, until the taint of Colonialism is washed clean from our shores. To the people of Spanish Africa, I say look to your own capacity for violence and rise up to destroy your oppressors. To the people of the world, know that this fight is not just a fight for the people of Africa, but rather this is a war to be fought by the forces of humanity against the forces of inhumanity."

His inflection change, and his voice filled with passion.
 
"And to my countrymen, my people, as you prepare for this war, remember this: your families will be with you, your neighbors will be with you, I will be with you, and the whole world will be with you, and we will completely exterminate those who dared call themselves invaders!"