Oyigiyigi is their world. No one mills about. Everyone stays busy doing the work of the community, without coercion or compulsion, simply doing what they love with the people they love. Miners master their crafts, extracting ore yet leaving art where they worked. The refinement work falls to their scientists.

“The Ngwenya Mine takes its name from the oldest mine in Alkebulan. On O.E. period.” Geoboe barely contains his pride. He pauses as if allowing you the opportunity to genuflect or something. Once he sees that you won’t, he issues a dismissive snort and moves on. “That mine contained hematite ore and later iron used during the middle stone age. This one also extracts all manner of ore, but mostly refines raw kheprw crystals until they look like beetles, which was why they were given the name of the Kemetic deity that symbolizes transformation, rebirth, and renewal in the first place. The mine also functions as a manufacturing plant for carbon nanotubes. In this outer outpost, the work can be done free of all trace impurities.”

“The mines are magnificent,” you say. You sense him warm to you at the compliment.

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” Geoboe slows down as you near a grand hall. “I took the liberty of assuming you might want to join our banquet after so long a journey.”

“I could eat.” You can barely contain your grin, knowing the Nguni’s reputation for fine dining.

The wall section dissolves to reveal a great dining hall made up of several circular tables. A series of suspended glowing spheres illuminate the room. The amber glow deepens the shadows but also leaves the impression of the room being lit by campfire. Geoboe pauses in the entranceway to approve the final arrangements. Large basins offer water at the entryway. Heavy wooden chairs arranged in precise patterns around the tables, an overly formal picnic while the ornamentation along the wall harkens back to an earlier age, as if you have stepped into an interactive museum. You are about to comment as such to Ishant when a guard holds up a hand to bar him.

“He cannot go inside,” Geoboe says.

“Why not?” you ask.

“He’s an outsider.”

“He’s no outsider. He’s my guest. My cultural attaché.”

“Who you choose to consort with does not concern us. Permitting an outsider entry to our most sacred of dealings does. By my and the Queen Mother’s decree.”

Before you can protest further—ready to respond to the consort’s insinuation with all due aggression—Ishant steps near enough to draw everyone’s attention.

“That’s fine, Amachi. I have many reports to study.” Ishant bends at the waist in a quarter bow, playing up the idea of him as an outsider, and departs.