“Sometimes love isn’t enough.” Bayard paused to reconsider. “Sometimes the love of others isn’t enough, not if you’re not in a place to receive it. To be transformed by it. Some of us can’t escape the gravity well of our own history of hurts. Each of us are worthy of dignity and divinity. Hear that. Remember that. Act like that until you can feel that.”

We had no room for any of his platitudes, no matter the truth to them. We never escaped grief’s shadow. Saying nothing, we stood and departed.

Despite the early hour, many already gathered—though more probably, were still up—scattered about Ezeji’s porch eating. Gathered from the evening party, a place where bodies gathered to learn and love one another. Whoever they were, however they were, as they were. Carving out a sacred space of being with and serving one another. Some read from the book Freedom of Thought, the biography of a classic prophet, which had become all the rage among neoniks. The book whispered of street knowledge and secret wisdom, informing the work of many poets. Cementing a culture of free-styling lyrics and poems as greetings, Ezeji refurbished his rondavel as a music studio. Music was our portal between worlds, our golden chord from our inner world to the outer world so others could access our interior. Listening to what the Universe was saying in the moment, understanding that allowed us to be free. Though now we started to sound a lot like the Aje.

Ezeji rose from the circle he sat in. His easy grin revealed three silver strips on three of his teeth. Embedded data strips, an AI virus key card, the kind of gear Yo hackers employed. Between those and his ocular display unit, constant information bombarding his front lobe, streaming data as a way to get his head up. His dreads had wound together in the shape of a cone extending from the back of his head. Wearing only a nightshirt and shorts, with his snug hat drawn down low on his head, his light complexion showing that melanin only barely hit him. The upside was that his color highlighted the scarification along his body.

“We see you, Ezeji.” We extended our hand to arm clasp our cousin.

“I see you still about that third person as part of your CAP.” CAP, current aspirational phase. Part of the slang he’d come up with to brand himself. The third-born in a family of brilliant children, Ezeji grew up knowing only competition. Always about carving himself out from a crowd. “Come on in. It’s just you and me right now. Got a new track to run by you.”

Clapping our back, he steered us away from the crowd. As soon as we crossed his threshold, the beat hit. The deep pulse of a dying star, the bass chord struck at our depths. Music was a vibration, the frequency that resonated with people. It bound us in something greater than ourselves, unified us, and touched us on a primal level. It was the vision of wholeness, complex as the universe and as simple as feelings. Music was power.