Beneath the Jugol Walls: A Forbidden Love Amidst Empire’s Shadow

Prologue: The City of Saints and Shadows

Harar, 1886. The old Jugol walls stood strong, aged and faded like dried blood, resisting the threats of war. Within the winding streets of Harar, a city rich in Islamic culture, Sufi mystics chanted softly, their voices rising and falling like the desert breeze. Women in bright veils traded spices in the lively Merkato, the sound of their silver bracelets jangling. The air was thick with the fragrances of frankincense and myrrh, buzzing with the spirit of a city at a turning point. Outside the walls, the Oromo clans, once fierce rivals with a history of battles and changing alliances, now formed uneasy partnerships with Emperor Menelik II, gathering like dark clouds on the horizon, a constant reminder of the fragile peace.

For centuries, Harar shone as a center of Islam in the Horn of Africa. It was a place of learning and trade, where mosques and shrines welcomed pilgrims from places like Aden and Timbuktu. Scholars well-versed in the Quran and Hadith debated theology in the cool shade of ancient madrasas. Merchants with caravans full of coffee, textiles, and gems linked Harar to the vast Indian Ocean and Sahara. But now, Menelik's dreams for a united Ethiopia cast a shadow over Harar. His smooth-talking emissaries, bearing gifts of silk and rifles, spoke of unity under the Ethiopian crown. At the same time, his cannons, smuggled from French traders in Djibouti, hinted at invasion.

In this tense mix of empires and beliefs, where old customs faced the winds of change, a Harari merchant’s daughter fell in love with an Oromo warrior. Their story, delicate against the backdrop of history, lives on in fragments—letters tucked inside worn Qurans, diary entries stained with kohl and tears, and the haunting songs sung by night watchmen at Hyena Gate, their voices drifting through the quiet streets.

Chapter 1: The Spice Merchant’s Daughter

Excerpt from her diary, 1885

12th Dhul-Qi'dah, 1302 AH

My father warns me that the Oromo are like jackals circling our city, waiting for a chance to strike. He tells me to stay inside the walls, to avoid the berberi outside. Yet today, I saw one who resembled a lion.

He stood in the Merkato, towering over sacks of saffron like a guard, his gabi cloak casually draped over one shoulder. His hair was thick and coiled, adorned with obsidian beads that sparkled like stars. But it was his eyes that captured me—amber and bright like resin kissed by the sunrise, filled with a mix of intensity and charm. My brother, Khalid, noticed my gaze and frowned. “That’s Desta Hailu,” he said disdainfully. “A mercenary. They say he took down three Harla raiders before they even hit the ground.”

Khalid's warning only intensified my interest. I felt drawn to Desta, so different from the familiar faces of merchants and scholars around us. He moved gracefully, strong and lean, with an air of quiet power. When he turned, our eyes met, and for a moment, the fierce look softened, replaced by what I thought might be kindness. He bowed his head, a gesture out of place for Oromo warriors, and pressed a hand to his chest, a silent greeting. My cheeks flushed with heat, and I stumbled with my jilbab, spilling a basket of cardamom pods onto the dusty ground. His laughter held a warmth that made my heart race.

Chapter 2: The Warrior’s Oath

Letter to his brother, never sent

By Waaq, Who Guards the Living and the Dead

Brother,

The gadaa council was filled with the strong scent of tella and heavy decisions. Menelik’s envoys arrived at dawn, their faces reflecting the power of the emperor. They carried rifles—sharp and lethal—and sweet tej honey-wine, hiding the bitterness of betrayal, along with promises: “Join us, and the rich pastures of Harar will be yours.” The gadaa elders, marked by age and wisdom, nodded, their eyes sharp like hyenas on a hunt. They forget, or choose to overlook, how the Harari welcomed our starving clans during the Great Drought, sharing their scarce resources without hesitation. They forget the bonds formed in tough times. They forget the girl.

Amina. Her name lingers on my lips like a soft prayer.

I saw her again today—by the Erer River. She washed her mother’s silk veils, their bright colors dancing in the water. She wore a simple cotton dirac, stained pink by the sunset, clinging to her slim figure, without the usual jilbab. When our eyes met, her surprise quickly turned to recognition or curiosity. She didn’t flee, unlike other Harari women who might fear Oromo warriors. Instead, she recited a verse, her voice gentle and sweet: “Love is the water of life. Drink it down with heart and soul.” Rumi, she said, her eyes bright. His words struck a chord deep within me.

We talked until the muezzin called Maghrib, his voice resounding through the valley, marking the day’s end. Our conversation crossed the barriers of language and culture. She knows the Oromo tales of Waaq and the sacred odaa tree, its branches reaching for the skies like prayerful arms. I know the Harari stories of Aw Ansar, the saint who tamed hyenas, his spirit protecting the city. She believes we’re not so different, her voice steady and sure. Our shared humanity, she argues, is more powerful than the divisions between us.

But when I touched her scar—the gentle arc on her cheek from a Shoan raid—she recoiled, suspicion darkening her eyes. “Your people ride with Menelik now,” she whispered. “Will you break our walls too?”

I had no answer, only the painful realization that my loyalty to my clan and my feelings for Amina were on a crash course, threatening the fragile peace within me.

Chapter 3: The First Letter

Amina to Desta

In the Name of Allah, the Most Merciful

Dearest Desta,

The elders say Menelik’s cannons will roar by the next moon, breaking the long silence over Harar. My father, worry etched on his face, has sold our camels to buy rifles from the Turks. It’s a desperate move to protect our family and city. Even the hyenas at Sanga Gate howl warnings, their cries echoing through the empty streets, a sign of the bloodshed to come.

Yet when I close my eyes to block the sounds of war, I do not see battles or gunfire. I see you, your image vivid in my mind: your hands, rough yet tender, braiding my hair under the ancient qolo tree, its twisted branches shielding us from the heat. You laughed deeply when I called you “hedo”—fool—for trusting Menelik and believing in his promises of peace. “I trust nothing but the wind and your heart,” you replied, your eyes showing emotions that mirrored my own.

Do you remember the khat leaves we shared, their bitter taste lingering on our tongues