Sammi & Eriko - can't wee have peace?

Chapter: The Moonlit Concord of Kilwa

The night’s tide slid soft against the stone quay, filling the lagoon with a hush that seemed to wait for music. Lanterns strung between carved teak pillars swayed in the ocean breeze, their flames casting gentle halos over silver trays of figs, millet bread, grilled Nile perch, and tiny bowls of cardamom ice cream.

From her seat at the end of the banquet table—polished mahogany laid out on the open-air terrace of a coral-stone villa—Eriko had the air of a scholar dropped into the middle of her own daydream. In front of her lay Athenaeus’ Deipnosophistae, but she was barely turning the pages. Her dark eyes wandered instead toward the assembly around her:

• Fisherfolk from Ituri’s forest lakes, dressed in indigo tunics embroidered with papyrus motifs.

• Merchants of North and South Kivu, whose jeweled belts shimmered like the lake water under a noon sun.

• Farmers from the Gezira and Butana, their laughter as warm as the silt-rich fields back home.

• A delegation from Asir, robed in cream linen with crimson borders, bringing coffee that steamed with the scent of frankincense.

“They could trade together,” Eriko murmured to herself. “They could learn, feast, flourish… instead of tearing one another down.” She imagined the regions’ borders drawn not with barbed wire but with footpaths between markets, not guarded by militias but by poets.

Sammi, reclining sideways on the cushioned bench beside her, caught that faraway look. She set down her glass of tamarind sherbet. “And they could also,” she added slyly, “make sure the guest list isn’t just men talking about men’s deeds.”

Eriko tilted her head. “You mean—”

“Yes. We need women here. Not just as wives of guests. As guests themselves. Poets, captains, weavers, singers. Oh, and of course—” She flashed that wicked grin— “yuri writers.”

Eriko gave a slow, appreciative smile. “So the Learned Banqueters would also include the Loving Banqueters.”

Sammi stretched her legs under the table, her bare toes nudging Eriko’s ankle. “Exactly. Imagine it: a Kivu boatbuilder flirting with an Asiri astronomer over whether the moon is better from her deck or her observatory. A Gezira scribe who blushes every time the Butana potter pours her more tea.”

Lanternlight caught the ocean’s edge and scattered it into trembling constellations. Eriko let herself see it—the whole impossible gathering—while Sammi narrated the romances. A harmony of dialects, the rustle of fabrics from forest, savanna, and highland, the fragrance of dishes no one had tasted before, all under the moon’s gentle tyranny.

Eriko finally closed her book. “Perhaps,” she said, “we should write the invitations.”

Sammi laced her fingers through Eriko’s. “Perhaps,” she said softly, “we already have.”

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