“My role is to help whomever, yourself included, find their way during those dark times.” There it is. The slight inflection, the steely determination in his tone signaling that he wants to determine the next voice of the people. Be the main one whispering in their ear. You doubt he was aware such ambition was in him. “What role will you play as Muungano moves forward?”

“I’ll have to pray about that and get back to you.”

The full view of the Dreaming City’s layout was visible in your mind as if you watched it from an overhead window. The elaborate buildings, the enmeshed courtyards, the hanging gardens. The air bridges of glass and steel, overhead walkways joining the floating kraals. Sticking to the shadowed walkways of the Dreaming City, the ones diverting from the main path, you avoid the rush of condolences. Each one, on their own, a straw of hay; once piled high enough, threaten to bury you. You make your way to outside of Selamault’s rondavel. Unable to announce yourself, you lean against the wall. The section of wall next to you dissolves as an entrance opens.

“Come in, child.” Selamault carries herself back to a couch she had fashioned. Each step in her golden slippers a majestic and calculated regal stride. She peruses reports, from the current events on the Yo to Bronzeville. All projected about her in holovids, her two spheres spin about her. Busywork to keep her sane.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” You nearly stammer. Leaning against the wall and holding yourself up the way an awkward teenager would at their first dance.

“You can always come here.” She waves you over to her. Though she pets the seat next to her, you keep standing. Selamault has a way about her, a gravitas and grace to her movements—and her character—radiating power from within that you find yourself wanting to emulate. “This is your home.”

“I didn’t…”

“Your. Home. If I’ve ever given you a reason to think otherwise, I apologize.” Reaching for your hand, she gently clasps it.

Your legs buckling, you nearly collapse onto the seat. You don’t want to and never admitted it, even to yourself, how much you respect her and crave her approval. “I just … I didn’t want to intrude on your grief.”

“It’s our grief.” Turning her head to the side, she coughs. A soft rattle catches in her throat.

Something about the tenor of her cough bothers you. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I am on the mend.” She scoots over to allow you more room. “Now, what’s really bothering you?”

Your head finds her shoulder. She runs her fingers along your temple and hums a tune she makes up on the spot. Peace is her gift. You relax, and the words spill from your trembling lips. “They won’t let me see him.”