“Allow me a moment.” At the sound of his voice, her twin spheres—Taiwo and Kehinde—rose from the folds of her robes and circled overhead. They jammed all signals, creating a space about her ensuring her Code Black / Eyes Only–level privacy at all times. They also served as her eyes and ears, their sensors fed directly back to her neural links. Surveillance was a way of life. When one was constantly observed, conversations monitored—if only by Maya, so that they could respond to people’s needs—privacy was a luxury. The people of Muungano incorporated a posture of openness, making the exaggerated need for privacy moot. People’s “business” passed about not as gossip but as information of care. What they needed to know in order to best support and caretake one another. It took some getting used to, especially for obroni or anyone not raised in the culture. Selamault, however, valued a special measure of privacy. More the need to be with and guard her thoughts. To better attune to the Universe. As bagirwa of the Niyabinghi, she guarded stories and secrets as matter of security, because some stories needed to be held close.

“Habari gana?” Drawing her shoulders back, Selamault straightened in her seat. She tugged at the cuffs of her robes, the adinkra pattern aligning down her front. She oriented herself toward the center of the room and gestured for him to approach.

“Ujima.” Lij Matata managed to meet her without any social gaffes, political errors, or international incidents on the way. Such was his reputation within community. A funny one, that one. When she focused her emi on him, he blurred into a series of impressions, a man in flux. On his own journey. He flashed a smile before fixing his face to the business at hand. “I’m afraid I have no good news to report. No news on the embassy bombing. O.E. is debating about sealing its borders.”

“Again. It’s like it’s the only move they know to make in time of crisis.” She always had a soft spot for Lij Matata. She’d known him for most of his life. Lij Matata grew up in and around the Dreaming City. One of the youngest Master Poets to make a mark on the scene. But though he had a gift, one the elders often pointed out to him, his restless emi longed for the ritual and responsibility of the Niyabinghi. A shame really, he was such a gifted poet. So intelligent, so inquisitive … so inelegant when it came to community, he was like a wandering toddler. Always wanting to do right by it, but always coming at it on an attack vector. She and Xola had many arguments over his place in the community. His rampaging ways—all enthusiasm and heart without grace—she found endearing.

“Any word from your jelis?” he asked.

“They are still collecting stories.”