I have noticed, in the time since, that the Emperor and the country he ruled—the country he made—look different depending where you stand. Everyone who was present in Addis Ababa at that time has a story of Haile Selassie, and their story is the only one they believe truly reflects the man. Many of these stories are said to be firsthand and yet each of them is quite like the others, and if the Emperor had spent even a fraction of the time required to perform all these similar actions, he would have done nothing else for a year. Old Ethiopia hands—and old Ethiopians—will tell you that the Polish journalist Kapuściński was quite wrong. Many will say, indeed, that he was a fabricator. But then they will turn around and tell you by way of proof some tall tale of Imperial legerdemain or mercy or love, or tyranny or excess, that could be straight from the odd pages of his book, and then they will say: "You see? That was the Emperor, as I knew him!" as if they have refuted some calumny against their own house. Between then and now, Haile Selassie has become impossible to describe. He is perhaps what mathematicians call fractal: surprisingly for so small a fellow, he is infinite, and the more you explore him the more of him there is, so the best anyone can offer of him—or of my birthplace and its history in those days—is a single slice.