Jaha Dimka rarely appeared outside of her kraal chambers without a hat or other covering. The front curls of her hair dangled in a series of braids from her wrap. The rear of her skull had been fitted with an implant: the crown of griots. A neurological implant that allowed her to access the downloaded memories of her predecessors. Her mind was a complicated space, a community of voices distilled by her will. Centuries of lived history, another in the long chain of living story. She moved slower and more cautiously, though her rising air of defiant petulance attempted to mask it. Only a slight limp betrayed any injury. Knowing her, she refused any walking assist device. She still favored her left arm. No doubt the bombing, hospitalization, subsequent space travel, and our own healers’ ministrations took their toll on her. The last med-report we saw listed Jaha as having taken some shrapnel to the eye. Removing it required the reconstruction of the whole side of her face. In her convalescence instructions, medical staff asked her to rest after such an arduous procedure. She agreed. However, a situation must’ve arisen that she decided required her personal attention. Or at least that was what she must have told herself.

“Are you seriously back in your kraal?” The rare note of sternness filled Camara Xola’s voice. She was shorter than the Camara by nearly a head, yet somehow, he seemed to be always looking up to her.

“I keep telling you, I’m good. Baby boy you only funky as your last cut. Focus on the past your ass’ll be a has what.” We stifled a snort. The griot knew her share of the ancient lyrics also.

Her short sleeves draped like spilled sheets, revealing aged but toned arms. Arms that had raised children and lost husbands yet remained fit and vital. Bedecked in golden jewelry, her red robes flared with each step, her stride reminiscent of a stalking flame, one that seemed primed to roast Camara Xola on a spit.

“The question isn’t ‘Are you good?’ It’s ‘How good are the rest of us?’”

As if she’d run out of fuel, she collapsed into a chair across from Camara Xola. Folding her arms in front of her, she braced herself, determined to wait out the impending storm front of his commentary. Her eyes—now mismatched, one no longer the deep brown of her birth but shimmering with more of a golden hue—a remnant of her recent procedures. Large hoop earrings coordinated with the gold disk about her neck. All Niyabinghi, current or retired, wore collapsible chakram. Both elegant as an accessory and practical as a weapon. “Here we go.”

“‘Here we go’ nothing,” Xola began. “As elders, we set the tone. We lead by example. For you to not provide us a voice in decisions about your health is…”