When he returned, he had difficulty settling back in Muungano. Toxicity has a way of clinging to and seeping in where it was never expected. As a champion pyr ball player, Ezeji spent a lot of time on, and being courted by, Yo investors. Some mentalities weren’t easily left behind. In his role as chief poetry liaison, dealing with the messaging for the media, he wasn’t used to checking with, much less running his lyrics by, an elder. That wasn’t how he worked. Words, the flow, the rhythm, the stories were his expertise. The idea of running his work by them, either for their approval or their suggestions, chafed at him. He remained dogged by the me, the my, the I.

Standing, we struck a note on the nearby clavioline. “You feel that? I mean really feel it?”

“Like a vibration in the back of my head.” Ezeji scratched the nape of his neck.

“Every time that note is struck, you’ll feel it. That’s the keynote. All things have one, even the kheprw crystals. That’s how they are charged. Though the note resonates deep within you, you can’t just play that one note over and over.” Our fingers danced along the clavioline to measure our point. “If it’s struck slow and smooth, allowing the sound to build and rest, the music can restore health.”

“Is the reverse true?”

“Thinking with a military mind-set is more of that leftover O.E. thinking.”

“After I was done playing pyr ball professionally, I was trying to figure out what to do next. Thought possibly the Yo military was the route. But I couldn’t leave everyone behind.”

Becoming HOVA was not a light sacrifice to ask. It meant giving up community, though you still lived in community. It meant giving up a portion of oneself, sometimes down to the genomic level. Muungano wasn’t so different from Yo when it came to how we treated our gbeto. We went back to playing on the clavioline. “Yes, if the note is struck in a dominant way, harsh and long, it could destroy.”

The wall behind us began to dissolve. We turned. Maya gave no warning that someone approached, much less was entering. We could have been mixing, so the entrance was usually locked. It would take a security override—either a griot or Niyabinghi—to just barge in.

Jaha stormed in, her complexion drained of all color, wearing an anguished expression we’d seen on her only once before. The day her husband died.

“What is it?” Reading her emi, the pain, the sadness, the utter brokenness, made us lose our equilibrium. We collapsed into a barely fashioned chair. Ezeji rushed to our side, before she even uttered the words.

“It’s your father.”

07 STACIA CHIKEKE
The Cypher (Returning to Titan)

Reports. This was how a dream became reality.