A FEW MONTHS BEFORE WORLD WAR III.
Oromia, Ethiopia.
Before the sirens.
Before the missiles.
Before the borders began collapsing.
Before humanity gave another generation a reason to ask why history had taught them nothing...
there was a young Oromo man who had a much more important problem.
At least...
he thought it was important.
He had finally saved enough money.
Not for land.
Not for a house.
Not for some grand luxury.
For his absolute dream.
A brand-new...
shiny...
red...
Bajaj.
A Tuk-Tuk.
He stood in front of it with both hands on his hips.
Beautiful.
Three wheels.
A small engine.
A bright red body that reflected the afternoon sun.
To anyone else...
it was transportation.
To him?
It was a business.
Independence.
Money.
Possibility.
He walked around it one more time.
Then again.
Then one more time just to make sure nobody had somehow scratched it during the previous ten seconds.
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Perfect.
He climbed inside.
The engine started.
And the young man smiled.
He knew exactly where he was going first.
Home.
He drove the Bajaj all the way back toward his village.
Dust rose behind its wheels as he crossed the rough roads.
People turned their heads when they heard him approaching.
Children ran after the vehicle.
Some laughed.
Others shouted.
The young man sat straighter behind the handlebars.
He had imagined this moment many times.
But there was one thing he wanted before he truly began his transport business.
The elders' blessing.
So he drove directly toward the village square.
Under the wide shade of the great Odaa tree, elders of the Gadaa council were gathered.
Conversation slowly stopped.
One elder looked toward the approaching red machine.
Then another.
Then another.
The Bajaj rolled into the square.
The young man stopped the engine.
Silence.
He stepped out proudly.
The elders approached.
They examined the vehicle with the seriousness of men inspecting something that might determine the future of the entire community.
One walked around it.
Another leaned closer to the front.
A third inspected the passenger seat.
Several stroked their long white beards.
Finally...
they nodded.
Deep approval.
The young man's smile grew.
Then the senior Abbaa Gadaa stepped forward.
The others gave him room.
He approached the Bajaj.
Placed one hand firmly on its hood.
Looked at the young man.
And spoke in a deep, wise voice.
"My son."
The young man immediately stood straighter.
"This is a magnificent machine."
His smile nearly reached his ears.
"But..."
The smile weakened.
The elder continued.
"As you know, in our culture, everything is governed by the laws of the Gadaa system."
The young man nodded eagerly.
"Of course, Abbaa."
"Discipline."
The elder raised one finger.
"Order."
A second.
"And strict eight-year cycles."
The young man nodded again.
"Of course."
The other elders remained completely serious.
The Abbaa Gadaa slowly looked back at the red Bajaj.
"Therefore..."
He paused.
"We must apply the Gadaa rule to this new temptation of yours."
The young man's eyebrows moved.
"Temptation?"
"You may drive this machine for exactly eight years."
Silence.
"After that..."
The elder gently patted the hood.
"...according to tradition, you must hand over the keys to the next age-grade."
The young man stared at him.
Then at the other elders.
Then back at him.
The elder finished calmly.
"Which happens to be us."
The young man's face went pale.
"What?"
Nobody laughed.
That somehow made it worse.
"But... Abbaa..."
He looked around desperately.
"It's a Tuk-Tuk!"
The elder nodded.
"Yes."
"Not tribal leadership!"
Another elder coughed into his hand.
The young man pointed at the group.
"And you're all over seventy!"
Several elders immediately looked offended.
"How are you going to drive a taxi on these roads?!"
He pointed toward the rough dirt road behind them.
One elder quietly examined his own knees.
Another looked toward the passenger seat again.
The senior Abbaa Gadaa remained completely composed.
Then...
slowly...
a sly smile appeared across his face.
He patted the comfortable passenger seat.
"My son..."
The young man waited.
"The temptation of not walking on foot for the next eight years..."
The elder leaned slightly closer.
"...is the only tradition we are willing to rewrite the Gadaa laws for."
Silence.
The young man stared at him.
The elder stared back.
Then one of the old men laughed.
Another followed.
Within seconds, the entire group erupted.
The young man finally understood.
He looked at his beautiful red Bajaj.
Then at the elders.
"You almost killed me."
That made them laugh harder.
One of them was already trying to climb into the passenger seat.
"Wait—"
Another opened the other side.
"Abbaa!"
A third called out that he wanted the first ride.
"Nobody is taking my Bajaj!"
The village square filled with laughter.
Children surrounded the vehicle.
The elders argued over who deserved the most comfortable seat.
And beneath the Odaa tree...
for a little while...
the world felt ordinary.
No monsters.
No System.
No impossible powers.
No ruined cities.
No nuclear fire.
Just people.
A village.
An old tree.
And a young man desperately trying to stop a group of elders from stealing the first ride in his brand-new red Bajaj.
He didn't know what was coming.
None of them did.
They didn't know that somewhere beyond their village...
governments were making decisions.
Armies were moving.
Warnings were being ignored.
Old tensions were becoming new threats.
And the world was approaching a line it would never be able to uncross.
A few months.
That was all that separated this afternoon...
from World War III.
The young man finally managed to reclaim the driver's seat.
One elder remained comfortably seated behind him.
"I said nobody was getting a ride."
The elder smiled.
"Eight years begin today."
The young man looked forward.
Then laughed.
The Bajaj engine started.
And beneath the shade of the Odaa tree...
Jalatta drove.
Not knowing that the world he was driving through...
was almost out of time.
JALATTA.
A FEW MONTHS BEFORE WORLD WAR III.