I tell Amina everything. Her hands tighten into fists, but her eyes shine. She says only, "Then we must go."
We pack quickly—water, dried plantain, cloths, notebooks. The tro-tro that picks us up is an old, creaky thing. Inside, the air smells of camphor and rust. The driver hums a childhood tune.
We roll past the edge of Accra—markets blur to cocoa groves, groves to plains, then into the bush. The land turns ancient beneath us. Every mile feels like falling deeper into time.
At last, a village appears, hidden in a ring of trees. Jabari lives at its edge.
His compound is round and earthen. A great baobab looms over it, carved with Adinkra—"Life," "Spirit," "Journey." Feathers and old tech dangle from branches. There's a power here that breathes.
Jabari greets us with a nod. His beard is braided with beads, his robe simple, his eyes galaxies deep. "You heard the call," he says.
We sit beneath the baobab. He listens. Then he speaks:
"The cosmic tree—Cedi Nam—once linked us to the stars. But we forgot. Its roots sleep. Your dreams are awakenings."
He unrolls maps. Lines of energy cross Ghana—Orisha Point, Bakota Crater, Sahara Gate. "This line is sacred geometry. A pulse waiting to be answered."
Kesi arrives at dusk, her pack filled with metal and gears. She kisses Amina's cheek, then kneels. "I brought the telescope."
Together, we build it. Under the comet-streaked sky, we prepare. Jabari's orb glows, syncing with the stars. The old baobab hums.
We are ready.