“I said I love it … about you. Not necessarily you.” Camara Xola opened one eye. It sparkled with the mischievous glee of a trickster.

“That’s not what I heard.” She leaned over and kissed him gently on the forehead. “Clear your mind. We’ll practice the Uponyaji.”

To most minds, the Uponyaji was the time of healing Muungano underwent after the Lunar Ukombozi War, which freed First World from O.E. A time for the weusi, no matter where they came from, to come to terms with their history and its traumas. The Maafa not only physically separated the Ugenini from Alkebulan, their Motherland, but did so psychologically. It created new narratives, shared stories, but also left scars from their journey on their way to Muungano. Intense psychological trauma could have a genetic impact. Life experiences impacted DNA, a people with a shared story, needing to adapt and change. Trauma passed down, a baton in an epigenetic relay.

Realizing that they would never be free of the constructs and injury of history. Since trauma not transformed is transferred, the people who would rename their world Muungano created space and room to dream about what could be. To create a culture, a way of being and doing, together. Bring all of their histories and cultures to create a new culture, an overarching wellspring they could all draw from. And in so doing, open up space for the ones to come after them. Pass down traditions with story. The Uponyaji was this time and space, which healed much, but there remained wounds from the legacy of colonization that required further healing. The renewal of Uponyaji became Selamault’s personal meditative practice.

“I can dig it,” Xola said. “In the present moment, morphic resonance is a tangible way for folks to develop new regular approaches, to see the unknown.”

“I have my own way of tapping into it. The magic of ancestors. Nyame. Connecting the dots of the universe in a variety of ways. It’s all tied to awareness.” Selamault opened her eyes, giving up on listening to the stillness of the cosmos. Meditations never lasted long with Xola beside her. He rarely could only enjoy a good silence for long. “I wonder if we’ve done enough to prepare the young people for what’s to come.”

“I was just having the same conversation with Wachiru.”

“The interconnectivity of all things,” she said.

“Morphic resonance. Past, present, and future collide in unexpected ways.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true,” Xola said.

“Because you want it to be true.” Selamault stood up, straightening her robes. “You feeling better?”

“Much.”

“Would you like some tea?”

“I’d prefer whiskey.” Xola held his thumb and index finger about ten centimeters apart.

“Not too much.”

He closed the gap in his fingers to about two centimeters. “Never do.”

“You may want to look up the definition of never,” Selamault said.