Statues of orisha line the main hall of the kraal. The orisha were another brand of religious stories you had to develop patience for. All stories memorialized, reminding people of their journeys together, Xola taught. Stories created a new culture, defined a culture, its shared history, formed and shaped its people with a path forward for learning. People were collections of stories you needed to learn to read. And respect.

“Peace, brothers and sisters.” Wearing his formal white robes accented in kente cloth, Bayard addresses a half dozen holovid projections. A couple of the figures you recognize. Geoboe of the Oyigiyigi mining outpost, both overweight and with a perpetual facial squint makes him appear constantly spiteful. The mayor of Bronzeville with his wintry smile, three-button jacket, thin tie, and astrakhan hat.

“We appreciate you. Especially during the dark days ahead.” Though you’d never met the woman, from her intricately layered, long, emerald robe with gold trim and full sleeves, you guess her to be a ranking scientist of Titan.

“We hope to hear more from you soon,” the ranking Yar’adua says. The others of the Yar’adua order remain stoic.

With only a slight nod does Bayard acknowledge you. The holovids shut off.

You needed to find your place to belong.

When you first found your way to Bayard’s Ubuntu kraal, you hesitated. Welcoming you, he said the kraal was the base of operations for those looking to find themselves or figure out where they belonged.

Your mother never saw you.

In her heart, she was constrained by the system of the Yo, defined by how others saw her. Labeled, diagnosed, packaged, and relegated. The only place she found peace was in their state-sponsored religion. Chosen for her by her geography. Always up in church, amen-ing and hallelujah-ing and Holy Ghost–ing her way to a better life. Trying to be the best model of herself possible—she spoke so well; she wasn’t like those others—but that didn’t change how anyone on Yo saw her. The effort of maintaining that projection of herself broke her. Ever since then, you were on your own.

You traveled from aunt to aunt, with whoever would put you up (considering your “wild” ways) or could put you up (considering the restrictions LISC placed on movement or housing or food or employment). All the while, you dreamt of Muungano. Knowing even as you left—rejecting the Yo and its way of life and thought—no one knew who you’d be if you ever returned. You hadn’t set foot on the Yo since you first escaped their streets.

“I see you, Amachi. I suspect I know what brings you here.” Bayard turns to you. Reading your expression, he lowers his gaze as if contrite. Paradox is his gift.

“You once told me that the lost were always welcome here. Anytime.”

“True. And many are lost in these dark hours. Or at least uncertain.”