--------------------------- [b]May 5th, Rhodesia[/b] --------------------------- The Ethiopian delegation landed on a dusty airstrip near Fort Victoria, a colonial town in southern Rhodesia inhabited mostly by the white interlopers whose arrival was still within living memory. The Ethiopians made quite a show in the eyes of the men manning the caravan of dirt-splattered land-rovers waiting to welcome them. Though the Ethiopian ambassador wore his customary western suit, the others were decked out in cream colored shirts and robes with intricate embroidery. Their guards wore uniforms of the same color, complimented by pith helmets and sashes in their national colors; red, yellow, and green. A man held a frilly parasol over the youngest member of the group, making redundant the young man's wide brimmed hat perched on his almost perfectly round afro like a hat on top of another hat. The greetings between the two parties were terse and to the point. There would be time for talk later down the road, when they reached their destination. The Landrovers took them on a rough ride down red dirt farm roads. Here the acacias and aloes of African stereotype grew thick, broken up by rocky knolls and massive rounded boulders, and the occasional stone farmhouse clinging close to the road amidst fields of corn and tobacco. The further they went, the rougher the road got, until they were in an uninhabited valley who's only man-made landmark was the ruins of an ancient stone castle. It was here, in front of Great Zimbabwe, that the formal meeting between nations was to take place. A larger party awaited them in front of the cyclopean walls. The men, both guards and politicians, wore the natural dress of the white man in Africa; wide brimmed bush hats, pith helmets, baggy safari shirts and pants, and the occasional pair of shorts. The guards could be told from the rest by the presence of holstered guns and back-strapped assault rifles. As the Ethiopians crawled out from their vehicles, a flustered looked man approached them with his hand outstretched. "Mr Abraham" the white man took off his sunglasses and shook hands with the Ethiopian ambassador. He looked at the younger Ethiopian and waited politely. Ambassador Abraham gestured to the young man, "President Chapell, this is Crown Prince Yaqob, youngest brother to his majesty the Emperor." "Ah!" Chapell offered his hand to the young man, "You can call me Paul." The President looked up at the fringed parasol hovering over Yaqob's head like a particularly garish lamp shade. "I think you have the right idea, Prince Yaqob. It is a scorcher." "Thank you, Paul" Yaqob replied slowly, in the voice of a student recalling how to speak a new language. "Ah, you know English!" Chapell said, "I admit, I was worried that, ah, age might be a problem, but I think we will get along." "It is true that Yaqob is only seventeen." Ambassador Solomon Abaraham said, "But he is heir to the throne, and his brother the Emperor wants him to learn about the world and how it is run." "Well welcome to Rhodesia then." Chapell said with a smile, "Come, let's sit down to tea. We have a table set up in the shade." They approached the old castle in single file. Yaqob looked at the rough stone in its circular walls, and he let his imagination go wild. He knew from his reading that these people hadn't left any writing. Archeology could tell very little, especially under the racially nervous eye of the white regime. But other cultures throughout the world had filled the historical record with stories of their ancient glories, and Yaqob used their themes to fill in the blanks. He imagined a Trojan War played out with black skinned men draped in rough animal hides. The fire, the ladders, the drama of a hundred long perished tribes, all of it danced in his mind where others might only see some old stones in the bush. "Brilliant, isn't it? I heard you like the antiquities" the blotchy-faced President said, looking directly at Yaqob. "It seems so out of place here. Was it Phoenicians who built it? Arabs? Of course, there is a lot of theories, I've heard... I've heard several. It's all a mystery." "We might know some day." Yaqob replied. "True." Chapell said, slapping a mosquito against his neck. "Ah, here we go, we have tea. And lemonade, if you prefer." They all sat down together, under the shade of a wide-canopied camel thorn tree. Yaqob held an ostrich feather fan in his hand, and gently waved it in his face to keep the bugs away as he sipped his drink. The lemonade was sour, but the ice made it cold and refreshing. "Well then, there is no need to beat around the bush. Rhodesia wishes to enter the Congress of African States." Chapell said. The ambassador moved to respond, but Yaqob spoke first. "We worry about your black citizens." he said, "Will they have a say in your government if you enter the Congress?" "Our internal political issue are [i]our[/i] concern" Chapell replied slowly, picking his words. "The white people are Africans too. I was born on this soil, and so was my father. Whites also worry about this continent, from an insiders point of view, and we want to participate side by side with the black nations. All we ask is that our sovereignty be recognized." "This is an issue for the congress to decide." The Ambassador spoke quickly this time, making sure Yaqob couldn't get a word in. "I can say that the Emperor is less worried about how you govern your people, and would be willing to sponsor Rhodesia's entrance, with a few conditions, none of which has to do with the laws of your country..." Yaqob zoned out as the older men talked. He stared at the walls and imagined the drums that echoes between these rocky hills so many centuries ago. -- They parted ways, and the landrovers took them back to the airport. Yaqob sat dreamily at a window seat and watched as the plane rattled down the red-dirt strip and took to the air. The vast savanna decreased beneath them until they were in the cloud-pocked African sky. "I do not think he was too offended." Mr Abraham said as he slid into the chair next to Yaqob. "I don't care if I offended him. His way of seeing things offended me." "That's neither here nor there." Abraham replied, "Diplomacy means meeting the others in the middle." "The middle ground between good and evil is still halfway evil." "Then what can a diplomat do?" "That is not my problem." "It will be your problem, if your brother needs you. You are not a priest, Yaqob. You cannot be entertaining yourself with these childish ideas. The world is not an easy place, and you have to know that, or else you will be useless." "I want to see the world get better." Yaqob replied, "It can't if people don't live up to their morals." "What about the consequences?" "I can't predict the future. I won't try." The frustrated Ambassador sat back and tried to catch a nap. They landed in Salisbury. Whereas Fort Victoria had been a frontier backwater, Salisbury was a real town, its paved streets tread by automobiles and a small cluster of tall buildings in its center. The airport was paved as well, making for a smooth landing. Yaqob saw all this from the sky, but he did not depart the plane. They dropped off Mr Abraham, refueled, and took off, back in the air almost as quick as they had arrived. The vastness of Africa visible below the clouds awed Yaqob. He wanted to see this entire continent, to know everything there was to know. In a strange way, he wanted to be like the European explorers who trekked Africa in the last century. They had not only seen Africa, they had seen it primal, an endless wilderness inhabited by a patchwork of edenic peoples. This dream was not impossible; he was only the Emperors brother, backed by royal wealth and not burdened with an official post. He wished to be created as an ambassador of the African Congress, supported in crisscrossing the continent with a mission to improve and conserve it. "We're going of course." one of the pilots came back to inform them, "It will be radio silence from now on." The land beneath them gave way to a massive expanse of water, and Yaqob knew without asking that they were above Lake Victoria, the sun setting over the shadowy lands on the western horizon of its waters. A web of lights appeared, growing closer, marking the northern coast of the lake. They began to circle a peninsula jutting out south of the large town. An airstrip was lit up among a smaller but brighter set of lights. Yaqob knew where he was. This was Mjiwamapinduzi - Revolution Town. They were greeted on the ground my an imposing number of armed men. They waited around the stumps of recently cleared trees, spotlights lighting up the sky behind their backs. The red flag of International Communism flew from a nearby pole. Yaqob exited along with a few guards. He brought a heavy bag with him. "Yaqob." one of the men greeted him brusquely. Their faces eclipsed the bright lights behind them, making it hard to see their features. "I assumed I was going to meet Lutalo." Yaqob replied. "Chairman Lutalo is in Addis Ababa for a meeting of the Congress. I am Paulo Madada, Treasurer of the Party." The two men shook hands. "Fitting." Yaqob smiled. "They told me you had a message." Madada's expression remained stoic. "I do." this was Yaqob's moment, and he had been practicing it in the plane as they approached. "I'm here to tell you that you still have friends in Ethiopia." He opened his bag to reveal three solid gold bricks. Madada smiled.