Free Beneath the Lion's Gaze by Maaza Mengiste

time she’d ever spoken of her life before coming to live with them. “They’re my people.”
    Sara rushed to her side. “Bizuye, Bizu, let’s go into the kitchen.” She took the tiny woman in her arms and tried to lead her out of the room. Bizu resisted, her sobs growing louder.
    “I can’t leave,” Bizu said. “Did you see them? I can’t leave.” She stayed by the doorway, Sara helplessly rubbing her back.
    “He couldn’t have known how bad it was,” Yonas said. “There’s no way.”
    “How could he ignore this?” Dawit asked. He was standing again, pointing towards the television, his eyes on his brother. “All those ministers he made rich should be charged with a crime! That’s what a new government will fix. These rich elites are nothing but traitors to their people, and until we get rid of all of them, nothing will change!” He spoke with such force that a vein throbbed in his forehead.
    Hailu’s eyes were fixed on the screen and the rolling credits. “It’s true,” he whispered.
    “What’s true?” Dawit sat down again with some effort.
    Hailu turned, snapping out of his reverie. “Does it matter?” he said. “All your protesting and marching will do nothing for these people. You want to call the ministers traitors, you want another new prime minister, a new constitution? What happens in the meantime? The problem is too big. We need help immediately, not a new government and more disruption.” He wound his prayer beads around his wrist.
    Outside their window came a rising tide of voices. A young man shouted in the distance, followed by an answering yell, then a responding howl. Women called to each other in high-pitched tones. Families had already stepped into the courtyard of Hailu’s compound, their murmurs growing louder to rise above the noises beyond the gate. Heavy footsteps pounded down the road. A sharp rock crashed against the gate. Cars sped by, loud music blaring. No one would be locked in their homes that night. It seemed the entire city was slowly opening their doors and windows, their surprise and stunned anger too volatile to be contained within four walls.

12.
    THERE WERE FIVE of them and they smelled of fresh sweat and gunpowder. They came to him in the dead hours of the morning, speaking in whispered tones. He was waiting, his back to the door, a Bible under his pillow, prayers for the hungry spilling from his lips. He didn’t move when the doorknob twisted, pliant and well oiled. He pretended not to hear the first shuffle of hesitant feet into his bedroom.
    “Emperor Haile Selassie,” one of them said, his tone as solemn as a prayer, “please get up.”
    The emperor forced his legs straight and smoothed his military uniform, the rows of shining medals swaying against his chest. He held out his hand for his coat and waited calmly. The day had finally come.
    The man who spoke coughed softly. “Get your coat and come with us, please. Your Majesty.”
    The emperor squared his shoulders and raised his eyes to look into the shadowed faces of the five. His advisors. Fully molded bodies in army fatigues, with sharp eyes and teeth, strong hands and firm feet. They could not meet his gaze, and he realized he could not remember their names. Only the man furthest to the left, shorter and darker than the rest, dared to glance in his direction once. An unfamiliar face, the emperor thought, but the look of him, that haughty defiance of a caged animal, he’d seen in some of his fiercest generals, and it was then that the emperor understood.
    “Our era is over,” he said. “Yes.” He stared into the dark, his back rigid. He let his eyes linger on each of the officers until they shifted uncomfortably and one of them sneezed. He noticed that all of them kept their heads bowed, maintained a respectful distance from him, his subjects once more. “There’s no use fighting the Almighty. Let us go,” he said, and led them out of his room and into the wide marble hallway, their