“Don’t act innocent now. We know you plot with the aliens. You may have stopped me, but you can’t stop us all.” He fidgets, a performer buying time to remember his next lines. No matter, I have what I need.

Night Train are here.

“Take him into custody. We’ll deal with him and his brethren later.”

News of the attack on me circulates. Selamault meets me at the chamber entrance. “Are you harmed?”

“No, though it wrinkled my outfit more than I would have liked for a state occasion.”

She is not amused. “You know what you need to do.”

I nod. I need to call an emergency meeting of the security council.

28 WACHIRU ADISA
The Dreaming City

Maulana had not been Camara for an hour—the sounds of the feast still in full roar—before he summoned us to the Ijo table. By the time we reached him, he sat at the head of the table. Veiled by the mask he refused to remove, a faceless judge. The full Ijo had been assembled.

“Muungano is impacted by the perception that we’re engaged in conflict.” Maulana’s voice strained with a thin melody because of the veil, as if he spoke through a reed. Only he could pull off such an outfit. Because while it stayed this side of pompous, each piece was a dedication to the story of his people. He felt and lived that shit to his bones.

“Perhaps we should adjourn to a more private space,” we suggested.

“We shouldn’t start the habit of hiding uncomfortable words from each other. We’ll all be the stronger for it. Hard words were exchanged between us. Before anything festers between us, let us get all lingering matters out in the open so that we can deal with them. Let us begin our conflict transformation.”