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THE DOOR OF RETURN


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Maurice Broaddus and Rodney Carlstrom



War Is Over in Europe

Berlin, Germany (AP)—Stymied by the Eastern Russian–Chinese Allies, the American Renaissance Movement (ARM) ended their foray into the European Commonwealth. The cessation of aggression brought the Third World War in Europe to a formal end after three years of hostile nationalistic aggression, starting when ARM summoned their “Old Gods” for use as weapons of mass destruction. Even as they surrendered, ARM has vowed to rise again. The Allies have gathered under the Charter of the United Nations to begin their African Accords.


Kobla Annan had under three minutes if his crew was to complete their sweep of the Oldfields Museum and get out before ARM military security arrived. Like most museums, the exhibits failed the Diaspora. He entered the ReLume, which took up the entire fourth floor and once housed the museum’s collection of contemporary art. Now it showcased an “art experiential space,” allowing its patrons to stride through digital projections of art from their canon of masters. Degas. Van Gogh. Renoir. Monet. And a beer garden—art appreciation by way of tourist attraction. Kobla didn’t feel the slightest guilt about his team’s mission.

Making his way through the galleries, a few large-scale light sculptures still functioned, casting dramatic shadows across the pavilion. Kobla stopped in front of one of his targeted acquisitions, a Benin bronze plaque. According to records, it had been looted from Benin City, Nigeria during an 1897 naval attack. Yet here it was, on display as if nothing has remained of his culture but the preserved ghosts from an archaeological dig. Moving from exhibit to exhibit, he checked his time.

Two minutes to complete his portion of the acquisition mission.

However, unlike the rest of his team, the Bureau had given him an additional assignment. Or two.

Kobla’s face reflected along the cold glass of the partition, hovering over a metal grimace set in relief against the wooden mask. Misclassified as a waniugo mask, its placard described it as an animal head. Its features almost echoed a human with an oblong face and curved, downcast eyes above a rectangular mouth. The mask had trimmed wings on each side of the head, surmounted by a large plank-shaped headpiece made to mimic hornlike protuberances. It was one of a hundred thousand pieces of his Ghanaian people, enshrined in an ether of synthetic preservatives behind pressurized glass. In handwritten uncial script, the placard proclaimed the proud donor who “gifted” the piece, an offering for a populace too fortunate to understand or appreciate the sweat and blood and sacred ritual that had forged the mask.

Reaching into his backpack, Kobla removed the digital clips. He attached them to the partition. They deactivated the magnetic seal and freed the glass. He swapped the mask for an identical replica. Replacing the glass, he resealed and repressurized the chamber, so the museum’s security would think he ran out of time to relieve the museum of this particular item. His padded footfalls the only sound, he swept the remaining wall for other antiquities to liberate.

In 2004, Edvard Munch’s The Scream and Madonna were simply taken off the wall of the Munch Museum in Oslo. Proving that no matter what the redundant alarm technology, on-the-ground human surveillance, complex laser detectors securing entire walls, wireless vibration sensors, or any number of cameras a museum had, no alarm system was sophisticated or fast enough to defeat human intelligence from an inside source. Especially when combined with the Bureau of State Acquisitions’ sacred science.

One minute left.

As he inspected the last piece, he caught a shadow out of the corner of his eye.

Kobla smiled.

He feigned not hearing the curator long enough to finish appreciating the bright pattern of the kente cloth display in front of him. In one fluid motion he turned and reared to his full height just as the shadow cleared her throat.

“Hello, Morgan,” Kobla whispered.

A thin smile splayed across Morgan Kelly’s face. Fingers interlaced in front of her, she jerked back in surprise. Her head shaved, the large gold earrings framed the dark shine of her face, creating another piece of art. “Marvelous collection, isn’t it?”

She hid the tremor in her voice well even as she studied him, her wan grin fixed in place.

“There’s no reason to be scared or nervous, Morgan. You did the best you could putting this collection together. I enjoyed the loose narrative you’ve established between the items.” He nodded to the Robert H. Colescott painting, Knowledge of the Past is Key to the Future (St. Sebastian), the image of a stylized lynching in an artistic conversation alongside the stolen relics. The Diaspora united with their homeland. “You should be proud. You and your work here will not go uncelebrated. However, the authorities will suspect you immediately.”

“I knew the choice I was making when I agreed to help you. And I’m prepared to accept the consequences.”

“Would you like to accompany us? See what you have sacrificed so much for?”

“I think I’d like that.” Her voice broke with relief at the offer. “There’s nothing for me here.”

“For your protection.” Kobla reached into his backpack and withdrew a thin plastic mask. He checked the time.

Ten seconds.

“You knew what my answer would be?” She examined the proffered face shield.

“I suspected. Besides, I like to be prepared.”

Morgan slipped the unit over her shaved head. Kobla motioned an invitation with his hands to approach the woman as she struggled to secure it into place. She nodded. Kobla ran his hands along its length to make sure everything was in its proper place, deftly flicking a recessed button along the jawline to seal the mask. He produced a similar one from within the folds of his scarf.

Zero. Time was up.

A thin crackle of light pierced the air. It carved an illuminated circle, a shimmering portal. The hole grew until it expanded large enough to step into. Kobla bowed and gestured with an exaggerated flourish toward it. The curator hesitated. Kobla wrapped his hand around hers, as if to say, “Trust me.” He stretched his other one out, reaching into the hole. His arm disappeared within it, up to where he slipped it in. A sensation of cool washed over his invisible limb, without pain. A portal into a tunnel, a long, glowing corridor, whose sides glimmered, distending into the distance. Kobla hopped through. A heartbeat later, Morgan followed.


Beyond the Year of Return

Accra, Elmina—In 2019, Elmina, then known as Ghana, called for the return of the African Diaspora to encourage resettlement in the African homeland. The year marked the 400th anniversary of the Dutch ship White Lion arriving in Jamestown in what would become Virginia. It carried about twenty proud men and women from highly civilized and accomplished African kingdoms . . . now enslaved. The beginning of the holocaust known as the Maafa. The delegates from the Pan-African Coordination Committee (PACC) have called to continue that homecoming conversation and engage in a closer collaboration between the countries on the African continent as well as the communities of the Diaspora.


The shadows swirled about, a spinning unreality. Kobla fell backward into the yawning night. The darkness shifted against itself with an absolute silence. A curious lack of sensation swept over him, like nothing marked his passage, leaving him feeling like a disembodied spirit. Even time seemed to cease. The corridor shifted again. Light and color exploded into view. Air whistled past as the portal opened and bright lights blared around him. Despite the impression of falling, he stepped out to stand on new ground. The curator soon landed next to him with an awkward stumbling like someone not ready to step off an escalator. With an inchoate groan, a small vibrational shudder, the corridor collapsed into nothing. Just like that, reality had healed itself.

A stone courtyard of whitewashed walls surrounded them. The ruins of the bastions were like a shattered jawline. A tower, with a lone window, loomed above them like a blind eye. Several portals flashed open, and the teams reported in. Elmina scientists—in their green-patterned, polybarrier coveralls—met them. They separated the recovered art from marked artifacts handed to them by a lead agent from each crew. A scientist approached Kobla. He handed over the sacred mask, which the scientist inspected before nodding and scuttling off.

“How . . . did we get here?” Morgan asked.

“A tunnel through space and time.”

“You say that pretty casually.” Morgan spun in place. “Where are we?”

Kobla spread his arms out. “The powers that be would have us call this the Republic of Elmina, what was once called Ghana. We are in the remains of the Castelo de São Jorge da Mina. Originally constructed in 1481, it was later rechristened Elmina Castle. Does that name ring a bell?”

“No.”

“I suppose not. Much is not taught in the deficient American school system. Only what they want you to know in order to buy into the mythology of their nation.”

“Isn’t that true of all countries?” Morgan asked with a sardonic drop to her voice. Her doctorate was in Afro-American Studies with an additional degree in Public History and Museum Studies, not to mention her being fluent in a half dozen languages. Her qualifications were part of what drew him to risk reaching out to her as an intelligence asset in the first place.

“No.” After consideration, Kobla half turned back to her. “Well . . . maybe. Anyway, from this slave fort and many like it, millions of our people were shipped off around the world. The last glimpse of their homeland was the prison fort. Once they went through that entrance,” he pointed to a restored red door, “they were loaded into a cargo hold and shipped off with no chance of returning home.”

“Wait, the country was renamed for the fort. That’s . . . pouring salt into a historic wound.” Morgan took a few tentative steps toward it.

“A debt to be repaid. Which is why we made it our headquarters.” Kobla’s eyes grew distant. The door had the gravity and repulsion of the weight of history. Much like how his father was taken from him when he was ten years old for speaking out against Ghana’s renaming. Those in power—those with the power to name—noting the political winds fomented by ARM and their sympathizers, chose to jail their harshest critics. Kobla remembered the last time he saw his father. His aunt had just come over to visit. When the government vehicles pulled up, she herded them into the house. His father held his ground. Soldiers surrounded him, one jammed him in the belly with the butt of his rifle, attempting to drop his father to his knees. His father refused to fall. “If you are old enough to form a sentence, you are old enough to speak out,” were his father’s last words. The soldiers cuffed him and dragged him off. He died five years later. Kobla never knew what had happened to his father, only that he had never laid eyes on the man again. Knowing he had to join the fight, the struggle for their liberation, Kobla became a member of PACC a year later. He quickly rose among their ranks until he was recruited by the Bureau of State Acquisitions. “Now the door symbolizes our commitment to resistance and struggle, answering our ancestors’ quest for freedom. Be it by rebellion, sabotage, revolts, escape . . .”

“Theft?” Morgan asked.

“By any means necessary.” Kobla admired her ability to not stay mired in the trauma of history. Fighting his instinct to rush her though her orientation, Kobla stepped to the side to allow her room, to absorb all of the information. While she explored the ruins of the castle. Time was of the essence, true, but gaining the trust of a human asset could not be rushed. He’d spent months building the trust between them, before he broached her about the idea of the museum’s security. The newfound depth and breadth of her situation would upend her idea of how reality worked. She would need time to absorb it all. If the timing of the rest of the BSA’s plans allowed.

Morgan halted to examine the area where the portal had closed, as if searching for an invisible seam. “The technology required to create that tunnel . . .”

“Technology is what they depend on.” Kobla spat off to the side. ARM’s physicists punched holes in reality with their dimensional toys with no regard for the natural order or consequences. His country, the motherland, paid the price. But Kobla was willing to sacrifice whatever, even whomever, it took to make sure it never happened again. “Can I tell you a story?”

“Are there any monsters?”

“Definitely. History is littered with them. When our people were originally brought to this fort, among them were a small number of oso. The closest translation of the word would be ‘sorcerers,’ people skilled in the old ways. For them calling on magic was no harder than turning on a faucet or connecting to the internet. When our elders realized the scale of what was going on with the Maafa—keep in mind, chattel slavery was not like anything our people had encountered before—some oso allowed themselves to be captured. Their plan was to use the sacred science to protect as many as they could through the harrowing journey.”

“This already sounds like the beginning of a bad plan,” she said.

“I’ll admit, there was a fair amount of arrogance to their thinking. Once they arrived in the new land, the oso planned to use their magics to create holes through the fabric of space, the Odede, leading back home, to the motherland. They weren’t ready to languish in dungeons.” Kobla pointed to the remains of the prison. “Their food passed through iron gates. No toilets. No bed berths. Little fresh air. Things began to unravel soon after as the conditions of the slave ships—being kept naked, in chains, in cargo holds maybe three feet high—didn’t allow them much room to practice their craft.”

“Wait, the Odede? As in the golden chain the orisha Obatala used to travel from the sky to earth?” Morgan arched a knowing eyebrow. “Perhaps our schools aren’t as deficient as you believe them. Still, that is the stuff of creation myths.”

“And like most such stories, there is truth in the heart of the metaphor.” Kobla checked the time. “There is much to be explained, unfortunately . . .”

A voice accustomed to the authority of command rang out, cutting Kobla off. The pair halted as a tall man with a jiggling belly waddled over to them. Wrapped in black and gold kente cloth—with a matching stole, all of which were the inverse pattern of the scientists—his bushy eyebrows topped a resting stern face.

“Kobla Annan.” Though light on his feet for such a big man, each breath rasped like a bellows.

“Safo Atakora Asantehene.” Kobla bowed low.

“Your mission was a success?” Safo asked.

“Yes, so ends Phase One.”

“Good, because Masklyne is on the move. Come, let us brief the others about Phase Two.” Safo turned to Morgan. His lips peeled back to reveal rows of bleached white teeth, an affectation of his wealth. He straightened, unfurling like a ship sail, as he extended his hand to her. “And who is this?”

“Morgan Kelly.” She reached out her hand.

“Curator, meet a board chief of the Bureau of State Acquisitions,” Kobla said.

“The one you told me about?” Safo cocked his head, studying the gesture before choosing to shake her hand.

“Yes,” Kobla said.

“You, my dear, are a gift without a price. Come, come.” Safo wandered off ahead of them.

Morgan turned to Kobla with a questioning gaze, remaining rooted. Unconvinced. Learning a potential asset’s story meant he had learned how to push her buttons. He knew they shared similar interests and core beliefs. He understood her sense of justice and the need to fix broken things. Kobla began to project a series of hard light images around them.

“We’re in a precarious place in history, but it also has already warned us what would occur.” Kobla flicked through the series of images. “The Berlin Conference. World War I. World War II. Power morphs and adapts, but the playbook remains the same. Inevitably, religious zealots, unchecked nationalism, and predatory capitalism over diminishing resources—all in the wake of global climate collapse—led to World War III.” He sped through pictures of the devastated bodies and buildings left in the war’s wake. “Now that it has ended, the US and China economies and military have been brought to the brink of ruin. Europe and Russia laid low. Where will the world turn to find the resources to rebuild?”

“Here. With the African Accords. Your borders redrawn for their interests.”

Never again, Kobla swore. He would do whatever was required to make sure the Maafa, no matter what form it took, would never happen again. He canted his head toward hers. “Our borders.”

“Our?”

“Yes. It’s time for the Diaspora to come home.”

“To do what?”

“To find protection. We prepare for World War IV. Part of my mission was recruitment.”

“Recruitment for what?” She stared at him with bright, unflinching eyes, this . . . Morgan Kelly.

When Kobla looked at Morgan, he understood that her long-dead enslaved forebear was given a new name once they stepped onto the new shore—a “decent,” more easily pronounced, Christian name. Even when freed, the former enslaved took on the surname of their former captors as the most pragmatic way to identify themselves. Tying themselves generationally to the Maafa through their very names. Before her husband was killed in an ARM raid, she had chosen to keep her maiden name. The thing about renaming was how it stripped a person, a people, of their identity. Leaving them adrift in an existential crisis; cutting them off from their roots, severing the tie to their ancestors. The first step in the journey of making them forget who they are and who they were and where they came from.

“Tomorrow, curator, we will take the first major steps to reawaken and reimagine what a new Alkebulan can be.”

“That was what Africa was once known as. ‘The Mother of Mankind.’”

“We could not even keep that name for ourselves. Tomorrow we will no longer operate under someone else’s design or threat of war. When the time comes, I’m going to ask you to do a simple thing that could very well change the course of history.”

“Snap my fingers and make a wish?” Morgan replied.

“Nothing so . . . fanciful, I’m afraid. But it will be your choice when the time comes. Now, will you accompany me to the briefing? We would have no secrets from you.”

Again, she flashed a skeptical smirk, but Morgan nodded.

Kobla ushered her into the grand hall. Faces bobbed all around them, drawn, ghostlike visages. Holographic projections of key government officials and sacred science practitioners. Scholars. Civilian leaders. Any who spoke for or represented their people. He escorted Morgan to a spot near the front while Safo stalked about the stage. Nodding at their entrance, he relaxed like a man who no longer had to stall.

“We gather here to begin a conversation on studying the Odede as a natural resource in order to fulfill the greater mission of the Door of Return.” Safo waited out the applause and cheers. “With that, I turn the briefing over to Kobla Annan.”

Kobla patted Morgan’s arm and walked to the edge of the stage without taking it. He spoke from its sidelines.

“The US, England, and France have always used magic to win their wars.” Kobla allowed the words to ring out and hold their attention. He enlarged a black-and-white portrait of a man. “The French had Jean-Eugène Robert-Houdin, the man from whom Houdini took his name. A watchmaker and magician, the man was hired by Napoleon to defeat the Marabouts. But it’s the Masklyne family who interests us now.

“Jasper Masklyne was an English soldier during World War II. He approached MI9, convincing them he could help with the war effort. He claimed to be from a line of magicians. His great, great, great grandfather was said to have derived his powers from an African oso. Tales of Jasper’s exploits included disappearing cities, relocating armies mysteriously, and even creating illusory weapons. He was enlisted into the military camouflage unit, what became dubbed the ‘Magic Gang.’ Masklyne once defeated Hitler in the Middle East by using illusions to hide tanks and even army units. We’ll come back to him.”

Kobla kept the lights low as he popped up images of museums from around the world.

“More than 500 historical objects including 440 bronzes from the Kingdom of Benin, in what was once called Nigeria, were held at the Ethnological Museum in the German capital alone. Museums made great war targets.”

Kobla caught Morgan’s eyes. She shifted in her seat, not quite uncomfortable.

“They were closed during wartime for a reason. They were outposts, warehouses of mystical weapons. Charged with the care and preservation of specimens. Since repatriation was as much a possibility as reparations for the Diaspora, the Bureau of State Acquisitions, Elmina’s intelligence gathering agency, conducted simultaneous recoveries of such relics all over the world in one coordinated effort of artifact liberation. Coordinating with several countries across our continent, teams were dispatched to various museums, including the Vatican. Our teams reclaimed the heritage of our ancestors. They also procured various mystical artifacts. The Vienna Lance. The Shroud of Turin. The Ethiopian Tabot. The Shield of El Cid. Kappa’s Plate. The Iron Crown of Lombardy. The Vatican Chronovisor. And so forth.”

With that list, Morgan eased forward in her seat with renewed interest. He knew that would capture her archivist interest.

“Not many know that during the Third World War, such objects shielded the colonial powers holding them against the full might of ARM’s ‘Old Gods.’ We replaced these items with replicas rather than steal them outright so the facilities and curators might not immediately notice the missing artifacts. Now possessing them, we have weakened their defenses to launch our own offensive: the Door of Return.

“We will open the Odede over several capitals and call forth some elder beasts. The Grootslang. The Inkanyomba. The Kongamato. The Impundulu. Mokele-mbembe. Emissaries to clear the path for our . . . Older Gods. Those whose names lie beyond human pronunciation. Those countries will presume ARM is restarting their campaign of aggression and deploy their forces accordingly.”

“But why?” Morgan asked.

“We need time to control and direct our own infrastructure, free from outside interference. Renewing the war both distracts them, keeping them from plundering us, and buys us—”

An abeng blew its mournful wail in raised alarm, a long-distance warning of a marauding party. A couple dozen BSA agents streamed past.

Checking his wrist alert, Safo yelled, “Incoming!”

“It’s Masklyne,” Kobla said. “Can your team intercept?”

Safo nodded.

“Masklyne? He’d be well over a hundred years old by now,” Morgan said.

“I’ve studied the Masklyne family intensively, investigated their entire line. Jasper Masklyne’s current descendent, Bradley Z. Masklyne, now works for the US. My intelligence reports indicate they are stepping up their efforts. No longer content to lob missiles at their enemies, they now seek to control the Odede. All part of the games nations play to remind Elmina of its place.”

Kobla collapsed the screen with a wave of his hands. With a casual swipe, he opened a new window. On the monitor, a tactical map of their headquarters appeared. A live feed. The enemy’s positions lit up in red. Safo’s dispatched squad was outnumbered, but would buy Kobla the necessary time to enact his plan ahead of schedule. The problem with being locked in a war mindset was that he learned to see everything as a potential weapon. Words. Artifacts. The Odede. Morgan.

Kobla burst through the throng of BSA agents bottlenecking the doors leading out from Elmina’s courtyard, barely sparing a glance to make sure Morgan followed. Once free of them, he zigzagged through dozens more agents who secured their headquarters, each face stoic in their mission.

A projectile smashed into a terrain skimmer, leaving it little more than a melted slag. Kobla dashed across the street, and Morgan kept her hands raised above her head, not that her arms would protect her from any projectile, mystical or otherwise. If one chose to target her, she’d have simply been no more. But she didn’t panic, nor scream.

“They have no sense of decency,” Morgan said.

“It’s war. There’s nothing they wouldn’t do,” Kobla said. “I would do no less.”

“We have to do better if we’re going to be better.”

Kobla maneuvered through the mazelike alleyways. He ducked through a window and scampered through an empty storehouse. A shortcut only natives would know to avoid the firefight outside. When he peered out the exit, Kobla realized that Masklyne had used his powerful illusions to establish and camouflage a staging area just on the other side of the castle’s confines. Kobla counted a dozen ARM militia agents clad in uniforms branded with the twelve black radial sig runes, like a dark sun.

Soon, the first tactical warhead would drop from orbit. Enough of a pretense to cast the confusion of war over the entire region. Masklyne would then deploy a mixture of consultants and contractors, and occupying forces to safeguard the people. Mercenaries by another name.

Kobla had to stop them before they gained anymore ground.

He watched as columns of flames targeted several nearby homes. Masklyne’s forces were desperate, using pyrotechnics to flush them out. Kobla’s men countered with heavy artillery fire from the other side of the castle, hammering ARM’s position.

“What are they after?” Morgan pressed her back to the wall, every now and then chancing a peek at the advancing enemy.

“Probably an attempt to procure their missing items. They might have tracked some mystical trail I hadn’t considered.”

“Or maybe they just placed trackers on them,” Morgan said. “Let’s not overcomplicate things.”

“Safo dispatched a unit to make sure our acquisitions are secure. We can’t afford to be distracted: We have another mission.”

“What’s that?” Morgan asked.

“To open the Odede.”

Safo led his team, scampering between enemy positions to draw their attention. His troops of sacred scientists projected shields to buffet the onslaught of Masklyne’s forces. A truck behind them exploded. When the smoke cleared, Safo’s people had disappeared. Masklyne’s forces advanced.

Exhaustion tore at the edges of Kobla’s spirit. The sound of the firefight faded as they neared the warehouse. Kobla nodded at the half dozen PACC guards at the station. He’d served with them for years, not bound by blood, but by mission. This wasn’t about money or politics or power. No ideology, no religious fervor, no nationalistic cause. He did, he gave, all for his people. He only wanted to keep them safe. All of them. To secure their country and protect it from any intruder wishing to harm his people. Foreign or domestic. No matter the cost.

“Watch the cables,” Kobla said.

Power cables wormed their way under the walls of the structure. Undulating and angry, like varicose veins spreading and receding with the energy that coursed through them.

“What do they do?”

“All of the artifacts are gathered here, like the world’s largest battery bank of mystical potential known to man. Consider this containment chamber a mystical Faraday shield, creating an enclosure to block all manner of energy fields, from electromagnetic to ley lines.”

Kobla removed the mask he’d retrieved from the Oldfields Museum. “From here we will continue the conversation Ghana started those many years ago. With you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like I said, the plans of the oso had already begun to unravel. The passageways, the hidden corridors known as the Odede, are a physical fact linked to the reality of our planet. Its existence depends on its relations to its maintainer, the oso, and their connection to Alkebulan. The preparation and the magics required to create corridors—especially across the distance of an ocean—were significant. Think of it in terms of energy: enough was released in the creation of these Odede that pathways opened up along the planet. Fractured veins spread across the globe, the barriers between worlds thinned, allowing . . . something else . . . to escape. Something dark. Beyond words or else they dared not even whisper its name. It took the combined might of all of the oso to defeat this darkness, killing most of our elders in the process before they managed to close the corridors. Many of the surviving oso were left mad or broken, but the disaster was averted.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Morgan asked.

“You are of the line of oso,” Kobla said.

“And what? You want me to . . . open the Odede?”

“Yes.” Kobla secured the door. “I had wished this for another time, for a tomorrow not so far away, when we could have trained. We can’t compete with ARM, Europe, Russia, China, not any of them, on their level of armaments. Heavy floater platforms. Drone support. Ground-based laser systems . . .”

“Nukes,” she added, studying the sky.

“Logistics is what wins wars.” He turned to her. “We have to play to our strengths. I had wanted this inevitable escalation to be on our terms, but it seems our hand has been forced.”

“I can’t. I don’t know . . .”

“I’ll be right here. The process can be, how do you say, jump-started. But to open a door, on this scale, there is a debt that must be paid.”

“What sort of price?”

Kobla had come this far. He knew he had to commit. There was no turning back. No Plan B. She was the entire plan. “My father taught me that the poet’s voice, that art, has the power to change a mind. To change the world. To heal the wounds of history and harness the power of stories. Some of us are cracked and broken, as erratic, dangerous and misunderstood as the names we claim as our own. Sacrifices must be made if we are to usher in a new way of doing things.”

“So what do I do now?”

“I need you to brace yourself.” Kobla wrapped his hand around hers. “The oso have been studying and creating since the beginning of time. For them it’s as simple as breathing or sleeping. Tap into that power of art you do know so well. Listen to those voices of the griots, of the martyrs. I need you to open yourself to the possibility and trust. We’ll do this together. Imagine a link that goes from your head to your heart to something deep within you. Reach into the past.”

“What about you?”

“I must perform my part of the ritual.” Kobla slipped the mask on and began to dance.

Morgan closed her eyes.

During a mask ceremony, the dancer went into a deep trance, taking his mind to a distant place where he could communicate with his ancestors. A translator was to accompany the mask wearer to decode the messages of wisdom the dancer brought forth from his ancestors.

Light etched the air between them.

Kobla saw, truly saw, for the first time. The edges of it illumined green like an emerald candle flickering in the night. Kobla felt it. The lament of an unsung melody. The fragrance of a forgotten dream. The sensation of a dead lover’s embrace. Intimate. Intentional. Knowing. The Corridor was the thrum of life. He felt her mind wrap itself around Alkebulan’s heartbeat.

The breech widened.

Glassy, red-irised globes lumbered into sight, dilating and contracting as it focused on the two forms in front of it.

Kobla felt a twinge in his chest. “Keep your eyes shut. It will all be over soon.”

“I can see it,” Morgan said. “They’re speaking to me. In ancient tongues, but I . . . know what they are whispering.”

“The portals can be directed, but someone would have to do that from the other side. The debt that has to be paid in order to safeguard our people.”

“I . . . understand.” Morgan stretched her arms out.

Light-gray tentacles reached out through the aperture like flexing arms. Single stalks wound about a cluster of sub-stalks. Ever greedy to draw the supplicant in.

Kobla grasped her by the shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

He shoved Morgan aside.

The protuberances wrapped around him. They drew him toward a central series of radiating ridges.

And with barely a tremble, the Odede closed behind him.


Elmina Eliminated

Accra, Wagadugu—In the wake of the renewed interdimensional incursions, the United Nations has ended the African Accords. The citizens of the state formerly known as Elmina have decided to pay tribute to their history, acknowledging the Bono State, the kingdom of Dagbon, and the Ashanti Empire which originally made up the land, which became the Gold Coast and then Ghana. They are now known as the United Kingdoms of Wagadugu, of the great continent of Alkebulan. Having already restituted hundreds of Benin bronzes to their home in Alkebulan, Berlin continues to pressure other museums to return sculptures and artifacts looted from the continent. “In light of the conversations being had, we need to begin paying back the debt we owe.”


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