Eighteenth-century Slave Market

The Chief Eunuch of the Palace had been captured and castrated by Egyptian Christians when he was a five-year-old boy in the Sudan. Thirty-five years later he had risen to one of the highest positions in the Ottoman Empire. This morning his white, tubular hat that added fourteen inches to his inconsiderable height, his sumptuous indigo robes that padded out his already rotund shape, his entourage of servants and officials, his sullen obduracy and chilling power, were rewarded with the parting of the crowds on his periodic visit to the slave market.

He had come to view a handsome, dark-skinned Abyssinian boy, who, he had been told, would be a perfect addition to the seraglio.

Stanley had exited the Great Market at Nuruosmaniye Gate and charged on until he ended up at Constantine’s Column, where he found himself attending a real live slave market.

‘What is your name?’ the Chief Eunuch demanded of the boy.

‘Menelik,’ he replied.

The Chief Eunuch slapped the boy in the face. He did not budge or cry.

‘Your name is Ibrahim. Do not forget it. What is your name?’

‘Menelik,’ the boy repeated and, very slowly, rotated his head until his defiant glare landed on Stanley, who was so shocked that he froze. Before his eyes the boy then metamorphosed into an imposing man in military uniform, several medals pinned to his chest, thick, black hair combed flat upon his head but left to curl up over his ears. He was so commanding that Stanley almost felt obliged to attempt an amateurish salute.

‘Not a man to mess with,’ said a voice behind him. Stanley spun around. ‘Hard as nails, that one.’

The owner of the voice was a short man with frizzy hair, olive skin and blue eyes. There was a noticeable moulding of the map of Africa in his rodent-like features, which were encroached upon by bushy sideburns. Leaning against a pillar, he looked debonair and cocky rather than handsome. Out of his black frock coat peeked a white collar, like little wings.

Stanley did not know which one to look at when Menelik/ Ibrahim walked swiftly towards him, chest thrust out, back erect as that of an army officer.

‘While you have little else to do with your time, time waits for no man,’ he said on his approach. ‘I suggest you seize this opportunity to join me on a tour of the seraglio, so that your visit to Constantinople will have been worth while.’

He stood before Stanley with his hands behind his back, feet planted solidly on the ground.

‘Major-General Ibrahim Gannibal,’ he said, introducing himself, extending a hand; Stanley all but wilted under its iron grip. ‘So named by my godfather Tsar Peter the Great, after Hannibal, the Carthaginian general.’