Too easily, you decide. He could have casually mentioned being the personal aide to Jaha or having been assigned by the Ijo, which would have overridden most standing orders. You have the unsettling impression that with security so intense surrounding this dinner, he’s about to exploit its laxness elsewhere.

A large, older woman, whose complexion and features favor Geoboe, enters. Purple-and-white robes drape her. Gold jewelry adorns her neck, ears, and wrists. Perhaps his mother, the Queen Mother he mentioned. A small ceramic plate protrudes from her lower lip. Her entourage clears a path, walking in front of her, escorting her to her seat. No one else dares sit before Geoboe does. Another couple enters, and Geoboe extends his hand. A young woman, who also favors him, takes it. He directs her to her place. A young man you don’t recognize trails her. He seems familiar, and you wish you’d let Ishant fully review the protocols with you.

The rest of the people were lost on her, a sea of faces. Geoboe studies the clusters of guests, all too pleased with himself.

“May I introduce our Queen Mother, Itoro. She can trace her lineage back through King Sobhuza II.”

“I see you, Itoro.” You bow your head in deference, though in truth such a diarchy emulates an old way left behind on O.E.

“I see you, child.” A smirk crosses her lips slyly at my pronunciation. Maya may translate for us, but they cannot disguise accent or enunciation. There is a way people who have traveled to Muungano and return speak of it. You remember how your aunties spoke of your country cousins after they’d been to the city. They were struck, changed, as is something about their previous life was now small. You wanted to prove that you belonged by learning some of the Muungano native tongues, so that you wouldn’t have to need Maya to translate. The Queen Mother reminds you of that aunt on O.E., who corrects you while dismissing you as inauthentic at the same time.

“My daughter, Khuma,” Geoboe continues. “And, as this seems to be the day of entertaining important guests, allow me to present her companion, Lebna of the Dimka family.”

The young man must be Jaha’s grandnephew or some such. His face contorts into an unreadable scowl.

You return their arm grasps. A steward pours tjwala, a home-brewed beer one glass of which is enough to send your head spinning with the vertigo of being caught between gravitational fields. The Queen Mother dabs a measure of ginger into her cup. It goes down better this way, her wink suggests. The taste would linger for hours.

A parade of men in full ceremonial gear marked with the sacred triangles of Alkebulan, armed with traditional weapons of ancient Alkebulan, arrange themselves in a bullhorn formation. An acrobatic drumline joins them. The drummers strike up a rhythm as the men begin to dance.