“As you know, we were saddened to learn of your father’s death.” Geoboe gulps down his carafe of tjwala in a demonstration of his capacity.

You squirm with unease but keep yourself from reflexively clarifying of your and Xola’s relationship. “We still mourn his loss and reel from his absence.”

“As do we all. It’s difficult to imagine charting Muungano’s path forward without his keen insight.”

The Queen Mother levels her gaze on you. A mix of curiosity and confusion clouds her eyes. “You have been visited by dreams.” She quickly raises her hand to cut you off even though you weren’t about to say anything. “No need to tell me what they were. They are an early agoze trial.”

“How do you know?” You’d been trained early on how to read people. How to be aware of their energy, their emi. Xola believed every person had the ability, but few paid attention to such matters of the spirit, leaving only those who follow the ways of the Iyami Aje to pursue such training. The Queen Mother shimmers, her spirit a heat shimmer you can’t quite get in focus.

“It’s my job to know. It’s how the mystics choose their disciples.” She smirks. “Now is the time of portents. We approach a crossroads. Uncertain times lie ahead.”

“Your title intrigues me. A Queen Mother implies a king.” You allow your words to trail off before they edge over an uncertain line you fear may be a cliff’s edge.

“Do you imply criticism of our customs?” Geoboe cuts his eyes toward you as he drinks. A steward refills his cup. For the second time.

“Absolutely not. Rituals provide structure for our stories to be remembered. It’s just”—you consider your words carefully—“perhaps some ways of governance were best left to the past.”

“Perhaps. Just as perhaps it is also time for the old ways to rekindle a path for new ways to be done.” An oily tone slickened his words.

You realize a trap has been set. You can only wait to see how it will spring shut. You were his guest, which, to the more suspicious, might feel a lot like a potential captive. Your father’s death. Implying you could be a child from one court being traded as a bargaining chip to force an alliance. A political pawn in the game of expedience.

A series of stewards bring out the dishes. A hovering, wood-fueled braai grills meat as it floats to a halt in front of your table. Trailing it, stewards carry trays of boerewors, sosaties, and kreef, though the crayfish in particular catch your eye. The thick pap porridge of finely ground corn has its smell buried under the heavy aroma of tomatoes and onions reduced in a sauce beside it. The smell of umbidvo wetint sanga, cooked pumpkin leaves and peanuts, proves equally heady.