[u][b]Beijing[/b][/u]

[indent][indent][indent][i]
Chairman Hou Sai Tang,

The proletariat of all Africa cries out for justice. 
There are capitalists and Kings in our land, and 
we suffer terribly underneath them.
[/i][/indent][/indent][/indent]

Azima dropped the letter and pressed her hand up over her mouth. Her body was numb with anger. She looked up at Fulumirani, who sat quite unaffected on the other side of a table heaped with correspondence. The ambassador supped at a steaming cup of coffee while Azima's went cold in the outdoor air. Birds chirped in trees whose leaf-heavy branches hung over a thick cobblestone wall, and wind-chimes rang softly in the breeze. 

"How many has he sent?" Azima asked, glancing in disgust at letters. After her time in China, she had secured the opportunity to speak in the Chinese National Congress, and the news of this letter made her feel as if her speech had already failed. 

The heat of his drink had made Fulumirani's nose run, and he sniffed sharply before he spoke. "Four, perhaps? At least in the time I have been been here. Lutalo has been sending letters to Hou since the reign of Yohannes. At least that is what I have been told, but I haven't been here that long. You would have to ask our Prime Minister about the rest." It was easy to forget that Akanni had been the Ambassador to China before he was Prime Minister. When Yaqob constructed the Constitutional Parliament in 1976, he appointed Akanni to be his Prime Minister and the man had held the office ever since, long becoming identified with it.

"And do you suppose Hou has his copy already?" she grabbed the letter as if to read it, but it was too disgusting to read, so she only waved it at Fulumirani and threw it back on the table.

"Yes. Most probably. Lutalo publishes these things after he sends them, so even if Hou's copy hasn't arrived, he will hear about it. If nothing else, the IB most likely intercepted this one before it was delivered" 

Azima's mouth fell open. "The IB read embassy mail?"

"I suspect. I have no proof." Fulumirani sniffed. "But nobody has accused me of being a suspicious man."

"No they don't." she agreed. She had heard the ambassador called indifferent, lazy, and aloof, but never suspicious. "But how would they do this without you knowing?"

"Do they steam the envelope?" he smiled a slight smile. "I don't know. Espionage is not my forte I fear. But there are things that have made me suspicious. Sometimes the mail seems to come in... themes, as if a selection had been contrasted by agents before being sent along. And sometimes... I don't know, I suppose sometimes the mail I receive seems like it has been tampered with."

"Well, that's not evidence." Azima said. "But the entire idea unsettles me. Our countries are allies and they snoop through our mail? That seems hard to accept."

Fulumirani shrugged and put his coffee down. "If I may say, your majesty, I don't find it too out of character for the Chinese to do something like that. We are their only true ally, in the sense we are the only nation they deal with squarely without any sort of ideological or political control on their part. The way this relationship truly works is this; Hou trusts Yaqob, but China does not trust Ethiopia, and the IB trusts nobody."

She nodded glumly. China was such a big and unfriendly place, and it had swallowed her whole. It was not the people - they were distant, but not unkind. And it was not Hou. The Chairman had been especially welcoming, and she had to admit she liked the old man. She even felt comfortable leaving the children with him. When she left his home in the rural coastline north of Tianjin, he had been watching the children playing alongside the beach. But safety was not what she felt she lacked. It was control over her own destiny, and that of the children. She felt hopelessly without power, and it ate at her like there were insects nibbling at her heart.

"Look at this." Fulumirani picked up the Lutalo letter and read from it. "[i]It is the expulsion of undue influences which we seek. Ethiopia is a foreigner to most of Africa, leaching from it's people and tarnishing the traditions and values of the non-Ethiopian peoples of this our continent.[/i]" He looked up at her. She did not understand what he was getting at. "This is pure Houism if I can identify it." the Ambassador said, tapping the page with his index finger. 

"He's wooing Hou." she stated, processing the strategy.

"More then that." he replied. "Listen to this. '[i]Africa can be a single confederation, equal but independent, of tribes and disparate people banded together for a mutual defense against outside forces while not turned against each other. Many communes, one proletariat.[/i]' That, your majesty, is Chifundist Communism on display. You might recognize it, Chifundo influenced the ideas of both the Rouge General and your own husband. And read this, '[i]The monocrats of Africa have fallen for capitalist traps, sold to them by the fevered binary fallacy which says if you find a way to succeed, then all other ways must lead to failure. Capitalists would have us believe that no economy can function without the bourgeois, and the puny evidence they present is that the capitalist nations of the world thrive, therefore the evils presented by that system must be swallowed because they can surely be the only way to thrive. They say there is only one road to success, and it must be paved in horrors. No other option is accepted.[/i]' That last bit... I don't even know where that comes from. That's more ideology than I know how to swallow."

"He's a Communist. I think we know that." Azima replied.

"Yes, but he was never a very good one before." Fulumirani said, talking slow as if the idea was still forming on his tongue. "In the first two letters Lutalo sent Hou while I was in Beijing, he referred to him as 'His Proletarian Majesty'. That's the type of thing Lutalo is about - dramatic flourishes. Communism for him is an excuse for vainglory. Perhaps he has changed or grown up, but..." he paused for emphasis.

"No." she said. "This is the same Lutalo who proposed in Parliament to rename Yaqob's birthday as 'Communism Day'. He is a blunt man. But what does this mean?"

"I think it means he has a real movement now." Fulumirani explained. "He has people around him that can temper the vainglory and direct him toward a real goal. I think, your majesty, that there is a real communist revolution going on in Uganda."

Azima sunk. "That is what we need. Revolutions."

"Well, if it helps, we can say for certain that this revolution isn't going to be friendly to Spain. I think it is fitting that, when the Spanish invaded to liberate us from imagined communists, they made real ones."

She stood up and went to the edge of the deck, looking out at the ancient stonework of the embassy's walls, and the wizened trees and slanted rooftops of suburban Beijing that showed above those walls. The tree-tops were a vivid and powerful green. Heavy grey clouds were rolling in from the northwest, and the leaves in the trees rattled in a cool wind, accented by the growing franticness of the wind-chimes. The scene was perfectly calm, but Azima could not absorb it.

"This is the news then; my husband is standing against an invasion. My sister-in-law is facing what looks like imprisonment in Tanganyika because of an accusation of alliance breaking, and in all of this a real Communist revolution is fomenting. Our ally in this country is Hou, isn't it? If so that cannot be good. He is not a healthy man. He can barely walk, and he is giving his power away because of it." she stopped when she realized she had started to pace. She looked Fulumirani straight in the eye. "What are our chances with his successors?" 

"They haven't chose a successor yet." Fulumirani explained. "The Chinese have this way of playing at an election. The Party chooses some candidates they can accept, powerful party members trade deals and make alliances in the background to determine who has a chance and who does not, and then when all is said and done they let the people vote for one of their choices, even though there really isn't a choice per see and the entire thing is to make them feel progressive of democratic. At least in theory this is how it works. This is the first time their system has been put to the test. At this point, there are many candidates for the position, but the only ones with any significant inter-party support seems to be Zhang Auyi and Mang Xhu. Now Auyi, he's young, he was just a foot soldier during the revolution, and what little rhetoric I've heard from him suggests he'd follow in Hou's footsteps. But this Xhu, he's something else. A to-the-letter Marxist, hardliner, one of Hou's generation. I don't think he could, begging your pardon, choke down monarchy as easily as Hou or Auyi."

She bristled at the words [i]'Choke down monarchy'[/i], but she said nothing about. "Mang Xhu. If there were a way to neutralize him politically..."

Fulumirani cocked his eyebrows. "For Africans? No, we are just visitors in this country."

"Rhetorically even. Could I speak against him tomorrow?"

"No, your majesty." Fulumirani explained calmly. "This is not Africa. Here the word of a Queen means nothing. If a foreign visitor started complaining about Chinese politicians, all that would come of it is distrust of the foreigner. But there is a political tool." The ambassador pulled a piece of paper from the middle of the pile and gracefully handed it to her. She read it, and her eyes went wide as she scanned the page.

"Portugal has declared war on Ethiopia." the words fell out of her mouth.

"This is a good thing."

"No no." she waved him off. "I see it. Another European power goes to Africa. The third one this year. Portugal gave us the pattern." the word they both had in mind was on her lips, but she left it unspoken.

Fulumirani nodded slowly. "This will be to your advantage when you meet with the National Congress tomorrow. You can't speak directly about their political processes, but you can paint the picture of resurgent colonialism." he said the word, and she felt the weight of it take its place between them. "Remind them the Portuguese still refuse to recognize Chinese sovereignty in Macau."

"We should work on a speech." she said. In her mind, she was secretly thanking the Portuguese. 

--

She rode in the back of a tasteful black four-door sedan, with tinted windows so nobody could see inside. Fulumirani drove, and the taciturn ambassador said little, leaving the Queen to lean her head against the window and stare out at the Chinese capital.

There were some things about Beijing that made the national matron in her jealous. It was a city of tightly compacted and neatly stacked neighborhoods. They were cut by a grid of wide avenues, along which were the offices and small shops where the people in the housing blocks were employed. It had surprised Azima to find active shops in a nation she had been told practiced communism, and it took a person no less than Hou to straighten out the embarrassed Queen on how commerce worked in the Red empire. "[i]A worker selling his production, or a merchant who purchases the production of a worker wholesale and then resells it, are not against the philosophy of communism. It is the ownership of the means of production by the bosses that we forbid.[/i]" She had to admit that, despite how anxious her exile in this place felt, she could see the charm which had made Yaqob the sinophile that he was. Life here was so clean and certain. It had none of the flash and brilliance of the European civilization she had seen glances of from her homeland, and the people lived humbler lives than even some of the capitalist middle class in Addis Ababa, but Hou had managed to secure them a peace and stability that was certainly missing in the rest of the world.

They reached the widest avenue in the city. It was lined with pruned trees and wide enough for six cars, three going east and three going west, to fit parallel on the street at once. The streetlights wore long orange banners with red stars at their center. The architecture along this route was the traditional slanted roofs with shining red or blue tiles, and the paint on the walls made many look like they were made from playfully glossed clay. There was a modernity to them as well, present in the proud cement columns and glass windows which had spread from the west and conquered all the world's style. 

She watched the Chinese cars go by. These things she did not envy. People who have an interest in cars often pointed to the Polish automobiles, with their utilitarian designs and clunky potato-like styles, as the worst the world had to offer. China was not far behind them in this. They preferred the small and the sharp-edged over the more gaudy styles of the western capitalists. But the traffic in the Chinese capital was much greater than what she had seen at home, and soon even their ugly cars become a detail to envy due to their number.

Off of the main avenue was a complex of some political pomp. A series of buildings in a more exaggerated Chinese style dominated several blocks, and at its core was an especially large horseshoe structure wrapped around a stone-brick plaza. The car was greeted by a guard who had been expecting them, and he let them pass. They sunk into the dark bowels of the garage. A valet met them at the elevator and took their car to park it. She felt a twinge of nerves when the door to the elevator began its ascent into the congressional hall.

Fulumirani glanced at her. "You look nervous, your majesty."

"This is a new experience for me." she said.

Fulumirani looked forward and nodded. "These men might hold the greatest power on our earth, but most of them are toothless when you meet them face to face. Some are literally toothless."

"There is a lot at stake." she replied, keeping her calm.

The elevator opened to a bevy of Chinese politicians in a hallway with red cedar paneling and a red carpet. The ceiling and trim was ornate and reminded her of flowers. Of the politicians, there were men and women, young and old, all dressed conservatively and smiling. She guessed twenty or so were gathered here, but she did not stop to count. There was a man leading the rest. He was older, with a sparse hairline receded to the back of his head and skin textured like old leather. Azima caught herself peaking into his smiling mouth to see if he had any teeth.

"Comrade Azima, I have the pleasure to be Wen Xiaogang, Secretary of Congress." the old man said, following up with a stiff Asian bow. "Congress had anticipated your visit all week."

She put on a smile. "I am honored by the opportunity." she said. It would be politics from now on until she left the building.

"These are the friends of Africa." Xiaogang motioned to the politicians gathered around him. "They represent a bloc in congress that supports your country's war effort..." she felt instantly grateful for those friendly faces when she learned who they were, and it magnified the shame she felt when the Secretary began naming them. They had names that sounded like the sound bullets make when they ricochet off of water. She couldn't remember so many fed to her at once, and the bitter thought crossed her mind that her husband wouldn't have any trouble with it. If he were here, he would remember each one in turn and greet them each by name with a soft voice and a hand shake. All Azima could do is acknowledge as each politician bowed when the Secretary named them.

"And this man is Ma Jingsong. He is the leader of the Intervention faction." Xiaogang motioned to a happy man with charcoal-grey hair and a small pair of glasses hanging on his nose. 

"A pleasure to meet all of you." she said, and when Jingsong bowed his bow, she responded with an accepting nod.

"We have been speaking about the Portuguese declaration of war." Jingsong said. He had a hoarse, airy voice that did not fit his friendly disposition. "They have not yet declared war on China, but things are moving quickly here despite this."

The group moved through the halls like a blood clot with Azima at its core. "Then a declaration of war against Portugal is already in the works?" she asked.

Xiaogang responded this time. "It looks like it will happen today. But you will have to excuse me now. I must make it to the chamber to prepare for your arrival." he gave another bow and power-walked down the corridor, leaving Azima with Fulumirani, Jingsong, and a bunch of names she couldn't remember.

"Ambassador Fulumirani and I think that Portugal will add weight to the argument that this is a war of colonialism." the Queen said.

"Yes. Yes." Jingsong repeated. "We have came to the same conclusion. That argument will have weight, but we have been using it since the war began. It is a tired line. We have found it only truly effects the nations of Indochina, and the places once occupied by Japan. To someone not from the coast, Colonialism is a matter of academic opinion." his eyes lit up and he blurted out. "Ah! Here we are."

They stopped in front of a double door guarded by two men in the outfit of Beijing's police. "This is the entrance to our section of the congressional floor. Before we go through, I want to know if you are ready."

She took a focused breath. Here it was, the moment of reckoning. "Lead, Mr. Ma" she said. He did as he was bid, and the sound of the room came tumbling from the door as soon as it was opened. It was the proud drone of orchestral music accompanied by the proud voices of a men's choir. As they proceeded, Azima noticed a few things all at once. They were flanked on all sides by seated politicians. She had been taken in the back-way, which partially offended her at first, but the circumstances were too overwhelming for that feeling to stick. She also noticed that there was no band, and the music being played came from speakers on walls all across the room. At the far end, Xiaogang was enthroned upon the Dais at a desk. Orange and red curtains hung nobly at the back wall. As they found seats, she noticed a second story gallery above them that was also filled with politicians. At first she assumed one of the congressmen had given her a seat, but as she looked over the room she realized there was more seating than there was people.

When the martial music died, the room began to stir. Every sound in the room was pronounced, echoing as if they were in a cave or a great marble tomb. Congressional Secretary Xiaogang pounded a gavel and its snaps quieted the human tumult. He only spoke once they were silent.

"Before we continue our business, Congress will hear the Embassy from the Pan-African Empire." he finally said in a blunt, stately manner. Everything focused on her in a moment, and she found herself crossing the red-carpeted floor to the polite applause of a room half-full of foreigners unknown to her. She kept her poise and tried not to let herself be visibly overawed. Out of the corner of her eye, she could tell that Fulumirani had no such qualms. He walked as relaxed as if this were a morning stroll in the forest. When she reached the podium, she could feel all of the eyes and cameras focused on her. The applause continued, and she used it as an opportunity to take all of her natural doubts and bury them within. On the outside, she looked comfortable playing her part. She waited for the polite applause to subside, and then she spoke.

"Today I stand before a body that brought revolution to the oppressed peoples of Asia, and I praise you for that contribution. Your historic struggle against foreign oppressors inspires the educated men and women of Africa to emulate you. This is true for Ethiopia, and for South Africa, and soon it will be true for Mozambique and Angola as Portugal joins in on the division of a free continent. New European powers approach Africa every month to steal its resources, and they embolden the colonizing spirit of the old masters of the globe. Belgium, in 1970, fought a desperate war against the native peoples of the Congo that left one million casualties on the Congolese side. In 1974 Germany took the torch of that colonizing spirit on behalf of Belgium and attempted to resteal this land. It was the government of my husband, Yaqob, who prevented this evil. The spirit of the colonizers are held back by brave men such as him, and much like those who sit here in congress and recall their service to the Revolution that saved China."

Public speaking wasn't in her blood like it was for her husband, and she began to read the words from the paper without committing them. She spoke of the history of Africa, and recounted reports from the war. Tunnel vision developed. When she finally reached the last paragraph, the light at the end of the tunnel became apparent, and her voice picked up.

"What I urge now, for the health of my people and for the entire world that has known the touch of the colonizing spirit, is intervention with no delay. Every moment the European armies have to establish themselves represents the blood of suffering Africans, and future blood and suffering for those nations that have decided to face this issue with arms. There is no time. You can ask the Tuaregs of the Sahara, or the people of Djibouti, what happens when you wait and debate while the colonizing spirit advances and entrenched. You can ask the victims of Unit 731. They will give you the same answer. Action, not caution, is needed in times of immediate danger. I leave you today with an omen; if this congress fails to act now, the revolution started by its distinguished members will be brought down by the colonizing spirit of Spain, Portugal, Britain, and all the nations that join them."

She stepped down from the dais to the sound of a scattered applause, but there was an accompanying stir that made her feel uncertain. When she reached her seat, a congressman scuttled over and handed Fulumirani a note. He read it and cocked an eyebrow before turning it over to her.

"Auyi." she said.

"Interesting." Fulumirani answered.