Even the hallways of the Dreaming City were an encounter with art. All ornamented surfaces and relief carvings along the walls. Colored tiles lighting in a kaleidoscopic play of crisscrossing panels, lighting to mark our steps. The thin background hum of a stellar chorus chimed as ambiance. Most of the family rondavel weren’t awake yet for the day cycle, allowing us to stalk the Dreaming City alone with our thoughts. Winding down a back stairwell, we followed the walkways networking the vertical kraal. Individual rondavel units within the kraal were open, and children and adults alike drifted from home to home, staying where they felt most comfortable. People had to be given room to find their place to belong.

At the center of the circle of rondavels forming the kraal was a library, the heart of the Dreaming City. A shared space where tools to create art could be utilized by anyone. Visitors. Curious children eager to experiment with new forms. Traveling artists searching for collaboration partners. At dusk, neighboring kraals gathered in the common area to share meals and the details of their day with one another. Our “dessert” was any contribution to the public space: discussion, dance, or other presentations of art. A space to celebrate and enjoy one another. It was where we first met her. We didn’t necessarily choose the thoughts that came to us, but we did choose whether or not to act on them.

The sound of familiar raised voices of Camara Xola and Jaha drew us from the hole of despair we almost tumbled into. Windows about the central chamber allowed any to peer in, though few dared if these elders in particular squared off against each other. We slipped into the room.