The device sparks to life, and he drops it. Light sweeps the room; its directed beams trace the space. The scent of ozone soon follows. With a chime, another set of lights cascades the room. Tracing an image that seals the room until it appears as if you stand within an empty office. You begin to question several of your recent life choices, not the least of which is allowing yourself to be pressured into coming to Oyigiyigi in the first place. You’d rather be … and it strikes you that you don’t know what you actually want to be doing instead. You don’t pursue anything in particular in your life. No hobbies. No particular interests. You drift from project to project, buffeted by the desires of those around you and the path of least resistance. You started and stopped numerous things along the way—poetry, acting, singing—but latched on to nothing. Still, captured and locked in a room isn’t on your list either.

“No chairs?” you ask.

“They must plan on a short meeting,” Ishant paces the room. “It’s like being summoned before the griot magistrates. Making people stand at times of occasion demonstrates power. I suspect that’s also why our host keeps us waiting.”

“Must you always be so cynical, Ishant?” a familiar voice says from behind them. When you turn, the image of Maulana greets you. He appears larger than usual, but it might be the projection or your angle. His face graver with the severe set of his jawline. Impeccably dressed, yet with eyes that haven’t slept in days. His forehead knots into something inscrutable. His presence sends a shiver of relief through you.

“I see you, Maulana.”

“I see you, Amachi. Ishant.” Maulana eyes each of you in turn, though his gaze doesn’t linger on Ishant for too long.

Ishant nods in response. You notice that he never relaxes his guard, even in the presence of a recognizable figure.

“Did you have the Niyabinghi kidnap us?” you ask. “This is more dramatic than I’m used to you being.”

“Kidnap? No. Escort you to a secure room so that we could talk? Yes.”

“Talk? About what?” You circle Maulana. His gaze tracks you from the periphery of his vision.

“The future.” Maulana spreads his hands out. “What do you know of the Niyabinghi?”

“They are the personal guards of the Ijo.” Your mind wants to say the official royal guard because the old ways die slower than anyone thought.