“Certainly the more outdated ones. For example, you are correct, we once performed the reed dance, parading our unpartnered and childless women arranged in age regiments. But at the heart of the ceremony was the desire to promote respect for women while showing off our cultural heritage.” A grim, satisfied smile played across his lips. “As you say, their time has passed. The young always know best.”

Your O.E. aunties used to say something similar whenever they believed your ideas and ways were too radical. Their way of criticizing—shaming you—was by claiming that you had no sense of those who came before you. On the other hand, Xola used to remind you that an antiestablishment mind-set was a delicate dance with power since you couldn’t always just spit on them. Though there were times for that, too.

You swallow. Hard.

A member of Geoboe’s guard approaches and bends low to whisper into the chieftain’s ear. Geoboe’s eyes widen for an instant before he composes himself. Dabbing his mouth with a sani-wipe, he stands. “Please excuse me.”

“Is everything all right?” you ask.

“Yes, yes, continue eating. There is simply a security matter for me to attend to. Perhaps you’ll accompany us to a salon later.”

“A poetry slam?” Having not attended one in ages, the prospect of a Nguni spin on a slam sent your heart racing. You might be a little rusty, but you know you’d warm up to the mic like it wasn’t a thing. A green dot lights up on your wrist screen. A communication notice from Ishant. You can’t scramble the signal or otherwise secure the channel. “I’d be delighted. However, would you also excuse me? I just need to go to the bathroom.”

“I’ll have my guards escort you,” Geoboe says.

“That won’t be necessary. I entrust myself to your people’s hospitality.”

“And Lady Adisa can certainly handle herself,” the Queen Mother says with a voice that does not invite dispute.

You incline your head toward her, suppressing a pleased smile. When you step into the hallway, there are few people moving about. Many attend to the feast, lingering about, curious to observe the proceedings. This ceremony doesn’t have the celebratory, inclusive vibe of a typical Muungano event. This feels exclusive and self-important. Leaving a bad taste in your mouth. You barely make it around the corner from the dining hall when you bump into Ishant.

“What couldn’t wait for me to finish dinner?” You press him away from the hallway, scuttling him out of sight. “You’re the one always going on about matters of diplomacy and protocols.”

“I was going through the security files…” Ishant clutches his arm, slightly favoring it. His pupils wide like he’s been drugged. You recognize the signs, fearing that he might have indulged jacking in and going full sensate on her. There is nothing worse than working with addicts.