The Gulf of Aden opened like a vast blue mirror, stretching endlessly toward Arabia. The ship cut through the waves at a steady rhythm, the sails full and confident. For most of the crew, this was a routine route with uncertain profit.
For Kafi, it was history in the making.
He stood at the front of the ship while the ocean wind whipped at his clothes. The air smelled of salt and faraway cities. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay Aden, a port that connected half the known world: Ottoman traders, Yemeni merchants, Indian ships, all weaving through one passage.
If he could plant Ajuuran trade there, even as a whisper, the rest of the world would be forced to listen.
Amir stumbled beside him, hair a mess and face pale.
"You know… the world looks nice and all… but I'm suffering."
"You're fine. You've survived worse."
"What's worse than the sea shaking me like a stolen drum?"
Kafi didn't bother answering. The ship slowed as they approached the outskirts of Aden. Stone towers watched silently from the coastline. Wooden dhows floated near the docks. Market voices carried faintly across the water, mixing Arabic with Turkish and Somali.
Captain Warsame raised the Ajuuran banner. Not a sign of conquest, but of intention.
By the time Kafi and Amir stepped onto the bustling dock, they were swallowed by sound and color. Strings of spices hung from shop roofs. Silver trays glinted in the sun. Merchants argued in voices that rose and fell like water.
A man in Ottoman-style robes approached, tall and sharp-eyed, with a trimmed beard and a scar cutting across his cheek.
"Welcome, travelers," he said in accented Somali. "I am Farhat ibn Rashid, manager of the foreign trade office. Your banner is new here."
Kafi bowed politely. "Kafi, representing Ajuuran. We bring goods to trade."
Farhat's eyebrows lifted slightly when he realized the speaker was a boy. But he didn't laugh or dismiss him. Ottoman traders respected confidence more than age.
"And what does Ajuuran bring?" Farhat asked.
Kafi gestured toward Warsame. The captain opened a crate, letting the scent pour out.
Frankincense. Pure, rich, untouched by foreign hands.
Farhat inhaled slowly. "This is high quality… better than the last shipments from the north."
Kafi nodded. "Our trees are well-tended."
Next came the spices. Cloves and pepper. A small luxury, but valuable enough to turn heads in the market.
Then Warsame opened the coffee crates.
Farhat froze. A merchant behind him whispered, "Is that… qahwa seeds?"
Kafi kept his expression calm even though he knew exactly what he was doing. Coffee was becoming popular across the Arabian Peninsula. Quietly famous. People drank it in small gatherings, religious courts, merchant guild halls. But supply was limited, fragile, inconsistent.
They wanted more.
They didn't have enough.
And here stood an eleven-year-old Somali heir with sacks of it.
Farhat leaned closer, studying the beans with practiced expertise. "Where did you get these?"
"We cultivate them," Kafi said simply.
Farhat straightened, surprised. "Africa grows them?"
"Now it does."
Amir whispered, "You like showing off, don't you?"
Kafi ignored him.
They followed Farhat into a trade hall decorated with blue tiles and brass lamps. The atmosphere changed instantly. Men sat behind tables with ledgers open, calculating values and taxes. Guards stood by the walls, alert. This was where real business happened.
Farhat motioned toward a long table. "Show me your offers."
Kafi laid out a simple plan:
• Zeila as a reliable supplier of incense.
• Ajuuran as the primary exporter of coffee.
• Spices as seasonal additions.
• In return: silver, fabrics, metalwork, and political connections with Ottoman merchants.
Farhat folded his arms. "You speak like someone older than you are."
"My vision is older," Kafi said.
Farhat's lips twitched. "And what do you want in return besides trade? Young men rarely seek only profit."
Kafi took a breath. "I want recognition. Ajuuran wants to stand among great trading powers. We want partners, not superiors. Africa has its own wealth. Its own dignity."
Farhat's face softened at the unexpected confidence. "You speak of Africa like it's a nation."
"One day, it can be."
Silence settled around the table for a moment.
Then Farhat nodded once. A slow, respectful nod.
"We will buy your incense. All of it. And a portion of the coffee. More as the supply increases."
Kafi didn't celebrate. This was expected.
But what he didn't expect was Farhat lowering his voice and saying:
"There is an Ottoman fleet arriving next month. High officials. If you continue trading at this quality… they will request an audience."
Kafi felt something spark inside him. A quiet fire, steady and slow.
An audience with Ottoman envoys.
Not for war.
Not for tribute.
For business.
Amir leaned in. "This… is huge, isn't it?"
"It's only the beginning," Kafi murmured.
Trade agreements were signed. Payments were arranged. The crates were carried to Ottoman storage houses with an official stamp marking the new partnership.
As the ship prepared to return to Zeila, Farhat told him, "You are young, but you see clearly. If you keep this path, your name will reach Constantinople itself."
Kafi simply bowed. "Then let it reach them through our goods, not our ego."
Warsame laughed proudly. Amir nearly fainted from the amount of walking they'd done. The crew buzzed with excitement.
When the ship pushed away from Aden's docks, Kafi watched the city shrink from view.
He didn't feel like a child.
He didn't feel like a prince.
He felt like someone building something no one else could see yet.
Trade routes weren't just business.
They were power.
They were influence.
They were the foundation of his future.
"Next," he whispered to himself, "is expanding our fleet."
Africa's rise was already underway.