“That’s a gambit. And more of a long game than I think he’s capable of pulling off.” Jaha crossed her arms so hard, like she was determined to build a wall around herself. “No, say what you want about the man, but he puts community first.”

So much intrigue. Thinking this was about our own exhausted us on a spiritual level. The long, yellowish spathes of peace lilies protruded, curious to sense the world about them. The red, pink, and orange arrangements of Barberton daisies lay out like a lush field on the other side of the path. The colors of the garden soothed us, allowed us to lose ourselves in our thoughts.

“That wasn’t the only thing we had questions about.”

“What is it, baby?” Jaha’s grandmotherly drawl thickened.

“We have need of your wisdom.” We bent down to cradle a flower. To brush against its feathery petal to be reminded of how delicate our creations were. “There’s been a shift in Muungano. A change in its energy.”

“I’ve felt it, too,” Jaha said. “Let me ask, is it the energy you are trying to speak to?”

“What do you mean?”

“You have this burning in your belly to lead now. And to lead, you have to sway the people. And right now, a part of you fears you might not be the best voice to speak to the mood of the people.”

“You think I’m afraid of Maulana.”

“I didn’t say that. But you know he’s a strong, competing voice.”

“Bayard would make a fine Camara.”

“You must really not want Maulana.” Jaha patted our wrist.

“You’re right. His way makes us wary. It’s angry. It’s … vengeful, in the name of vigilance.”

“And you want … what?” Jaha asked.

“We don’t want it confused with justice.”

Raised voices drew our attention. The open courtyard was the public space for art creation. Many spoken word poets “battled” there, pitting their verses against another. The timbre of the voices alarmed us. Jaha perked up also—slipping her arm from ours—already marching toward the disturbance before we even interpreted it as a potential problem. She shifted her pehla stick without unholstering it.

The Griot Circle were the village memory and oral historians, keepers of the nyama. Those entrusted with reciting poems or singing or telling stories that transmitted the cultural inheritance of Muungano. The record keepers, storytellers, and entertainers, the jeli tradition evolved into crisis intervention specialists, an emergency response team preferable to maintaining an investigative force, even the Science Police of First World.

The raised voices led to a shove, which was when Jaha stepped between them. The pair took quick note of her Eshu colors, recognized her as a senior jeli, and stepped away from her to their neutral corners.

“What’s your name?” Jaha said.