"... My people are not known for longevity and I wish to spend what time I have left in peace.”

Ayanda paused to consider the pygmy's words before responding, her tone full of warm understanding. "I am neither a messiah nor a prophet, despite what you may presume. When I invited you I did not intend to enunciate dogma and have you take up arms with us. No, my friend, you are a gentle soul who has seen much sorrow."

The rim of the largest vitrified pools widened to accommodate Ayanda as she sat at the water's edge. Her hand passed over its surface and in its wake the crystalline surface became multifaceted, each division depicting scenes playing out across Africa. She beckoned Ndakala closer with a gesture as the images congealed into one, that of an arboreal city bustling with life. 

"My ambition in inviting you here is twofold; first, to be able to speak in the simple language of facts and clarity on behalf of my people, the people of Africa who resist Xanathan's tyranny, and secondly, to be able to express in my own way, the feelings of that mass of people who are disinherited—those who belong to that group maliciously dubbed "mutants"—and to state, even if I cannot make them understood, the reasons that have led us to rise up, all of which explains our interest in the Comte Foundation, the demands of our rights drawing strength in the clear awareness of our duties."

Ndakala approached the elevated rim and peered over it, unable to contain his wonder at such casual use of the supernatural. The image of the verdant cityscape gave way to its canals crowded with dhows crammed to nearly sinking with dried mitmita, baobab bulbs and casks of tigray white honey, their psychedelic sails reflected in Ndakala’s astonished gaze.

"Our duties to buttress against the tragic background of events which are sadly undermining the foundations of our world. Creating one of chaos in which the human race is tom apart by struggles between the great and the not-so-great, attacked by armed bands and subjected to violence and plunder. It is a world in which Xanathan, eluding international jurisdiction, command groups beyond the law, which with gun in hand live by preying on others and organizing the most despicable kinds of trafficking.

We feel on our cheek every blow struck against every other man. Until recently, we have turned the other cheek. Xanathan have felt no tenderness in their hearts. They have trampled on the truth of the just. We can no longer afford inaction. Our eyes have been opened to Xanathan's cruelty and there will be no more blows dealt against us. It must be proclaimed that there will be no salvation for our people unless we reject completely all the models that all the charlatans have tried to sell us for millennia."

She stopped, her words taking root while his eyes flooded with tears. With a shimmer the image of the colorful canals was replaced with that of children laughing as they played outside of large classrooms, the patient and mindful eyes of elders watching over them. A heavy sigh from Ndakala brought about a comforting hand on his shoulder as Ayanda continued.

"That cannot be accomplished through force alone, and not all of those who I call my people are capable of defending themselves from such violence. Like you, many of them yearn to walk upon the earth, not lie beneath it. They busy themselves with the health of their community and themselves. It would do me a great honor if you would join them at Mzinde we Mitengo.”

“She’s right, we’d be damned pleased to have you with us. Anyone patient enough to deal with ‘Ms. Benson’ for longer than five minutes without strangling her would be great minding little ones.” Khethiwe approached the two, obviously staring at Ndakala in rapt anticipation. Ayanda turned away to peer at the Kichaka Siri, the idyllic image dissipating with the slightest of trembles. 

"Mzinde we Mitengo is something I would very much enjoy to see in person," Ndakala's words were cut short when a deep rumble sent him stumbling off the pool's edge.

The tremors had gone unnoticed at first; the subtlest of vibrations passing through Marange’s substrata. But as Ayanda’s attention was drawn further north and her breathing began to grow strained, the shocks began to multiply in strength and volume before, with a sickening groan the mycological morass outside the Kichaka Siri was thrown into upheaval. Her limbs grew rigid as she was pulled by a riptide of alien life and human misery into a sea of psychic pain. 

A viridescent grove manifested visually in her psyche, and with it came the sobs of a crowd standing in a light rain. Their torches hissed as they gathered around the bloated and ravaged corpse of a child and its killer, a monstrous crocodile that still shuddered as blood flowed from its wounds. A woman wails while struggling to pull her son's form from the beast's maw, the others stunned into silence until with one final snap the reptile bit through the spine and sent the woman tumbling. 

The raw grief of the woman's screams sent Ayanda's mind fleeing into the burning waters of the Mediterranean Sea as galleys rained a firey death upon the fleeing fishermen of Leptis Magna. The heavy beating of war drums bludgeoned the inside of Ayanda's skull as the thick boot of a Vandal raider smashed against the skull of a crimson-robed patrician. Flecks of brain and bone marred pristine marble as the chorus of the dead and dying swelled to a mind-breaking crescendo.

The bile that rose in her throat was felt a dozen times over as Janissaries opened fire on a throng of Christians protesting the Sultan's devshirme. Their children wept as they were tied together then crammed into the enclosed back of a wagon. Ayanda fell to her knees in crude imitation of those shot, her eyes transfixed on the sunlight reflected off a Janissary's bhok.

A defiling beam had torn loose eons of empathic trauma and as her throat grew hoarse with her yells, so too did the continent scream in agony. Her mind recoiled and as it hastily fled to return to her body, Ayanda was overwhelmed by a maleficent presence that was festering within Marange. She had not felt anything like it's kind since she had first come to the mine, when it had served as a killing grounds.

The celadon moss of her imibhaco quivered erratically as she struck the floor in a crumpled heap. Ayanda expended the last of her energy sealing off Marange's barracks and training colosseum as the crystalline tunnels of the Kichaka Siri slammed shut into a sanctified cloister with an ethereal tinkling. Consciousness slipping from her grasp, she saw a shapeless pygmy walking asleep through mist, searching for his own awakening.