The Treasury of Akogwa did not smell of metal coins or printed paper. It smelled of papyrus, ink, and the heavy, buzzing energy of millions of promises.
Ahia walked behind Omari Imani, trying to keep up with the Authority's brisk pace. Omari was a vision of calculated elegance. Her Saffron skin glowed against the intricate beadwork of her Ndebele necklace, and her Violet Aura (Crown Chakra) formed a halo of intimidating calm around her manicured dreads.
"Welcome to the engine of the Empire," Omari said, gesturing to the endless rows of floating shelves.
Thousands of scrolls drifted through the air, sorted by invisible currents of Ase. Scribes moved between them, stamping documents with heavy seals.
"This is the Final Archive," Omari explained, her voice crisp. "As you know Aye's economic model is Ujamaa. We do not hoard currency. If a man needs rice, he asks. If a neighbor has rice, he gifts it.".
"But how do you build an empire on favors?" Ahia asked, dodging a flying scroll.
"We record them," Omari said, stopping at a large obsidian desk. "When the quantity or quality is too high for a gift, and the goods and or services are insufficient for trade by barter, vows take place—say, Mr. A gives Mr. B a thousand yams—Mr. B owes an equivalent favor. They sign a vow. The Original Document is stored in an Archive. Mr. A keeps a Doppelganger Copy." .
Omari picked up a glowing scroll.
"When Mr. A calls in the favor, and Mr. B fulfills it, the Doppelganger Copy destroys itself. Simultaneously, the Archive registers the debt as paid.".
She dropped the scroll and looked at Ahia.
"Ujamaa is not about money, Ahia. It is about Ubuntu. It is about ensuring that the web of mutual obligation remains unbroken. If people stop trusting that favors will be returned, the economy collapses. That is what the riots are threatening to do."
Ahia nodded, absorbing it. It was a fragile system.
"Why am I here, Authority Imani?" Ahia asked. "I know how to grow yams, not how to audit them."
"Because," Omari sighed, pointing to a group of shouting men at the far end of the hall. "We have a bottleneck. And my usual methods of logic are failing."
The Crisis of the Crimson Wheat
Three men stood arguing before a harried scribe. One was a Town-King from the fertile lowlands, dressed in a rich cotton robe. The other two were Military Quartermasters from the Iyakar-Tsaro (Border Guard).
"The wheat is poisoned!" the Quartermaster shouted. "My soldiers refuse to eat it! They say it tastes like ash!"
"It is the finest Crimson Wheat in the valley!" the Town-King roared back. "I harvested it myself! I am the King of my town, my word is my bond, I do not sell poison!".
"Gentlemen," Omari intervened, her voice smooth but carrying the weight of the High Table.
The men fell silent, bowing quickly.
"Authority Imani," the Quartermaster said, sweating. "We have a vow for ten tons of wheat for the Northern garrison. The Asura activity is high; the troops need the cosmic energy density of Crimson Wheat. But the shipment... it feels wrong."
"I have tested it," Omari said, picking up a handful of the red-hued grain from a sample sack. "Chemical composition is perfect. Ase density is within standard deviation. There is no reason to reject the trade."
"My men won't touch it," the Quartermaster insisted. "And until they eat, I cannot sign the Doppelganger Copy. The debt remains unpaid."
Omari rubbed her temples. This was the blockage. If the Border Guard didn't eat, the border fell. But the Town-King had fulfilled his part of the contract.
"Ahia," Omari said suddenly. "You are a Manomi. You speak the language of growth. What do you see?"
Ahia stepped forward. She felt the eyes of the men on her—the "Gardener Princess" in the silk dress.
She didn't look at the ledgers. She looked at the grain.
She reached out and buried her hand in the sack of Crimson Wheat. She closed her eyes and extended her Manomi senses—Florapathy.
Hello, she projected her thought into the seed. What is your story?
The wheat didn't speak in words. It spoke in feelings. It screamed.
Ahia recoiled, pulling her hand back as if burned.
"It's terrified," Ahia whispered.
"Wheat cannot be terrified," the Town-King scoffed. "It is a plant."
"Ase flows through all things," Ahia corrected him, her voice gaining strength. "The stone, the food, the air. Nothing is inanimate." .
She turned to the Town-King.
"You harvested this three days ago? During the height of the market riots?"
The Town-King blinked. "Yes. My workers were... anxious. The Mufarikha were burning fields near our border."
Ahia nodded. "Your workers were afraid. They harvested the grain while their Dapabies were flooded with Green Huenergy—fear.".
She picked up a grain.
"Cosmic energy absorbs Huenergy. You didn't just harvest wheat; you harvested their panic. That is why the soldiers taste ash. They are tasting the terror of the farmers."
The room went silent.
"So the crop is ruined?" the Quartermaster asked, horrified. "We have no other source of Crimson Wheat ready."
"It isn't ruined," Ahia said. She looked at Omari. "It just needs to be... washed. Not with water, but with sound."
"Sound?" Omari raised an eyebrow.
Ahia unclipped the Kwaya bell from her belt—the small artifact she had managed to smuggle under her silk dress.
"Plants respond to vibration," Ahia explained. "If we ring the bells of the Manomis in the silos—specifically a frequency of Yellow Huenergy (Happiness)—we can overwrite the residual fear signature.".
Omari stared at her. It was a solution that no economist would ever have thought of. It wasn't about numbers; it was about the spiritual quality of the product.
"Do it," Omari commanded.
An hour later, a choir of junior Manomis stood around the grain silos, ringing small bronze bells. The air filled with a cheerful, resonant chime.
Ahia stood by the sack, holding her Kwaya bell. As the sound washed over the grain, she felt the "scream" inside the seeds fade, replaced by a hum of contentment.
The Quartermaster hesitantly took a handful of the treated wheat and chewed it.
His eyes widened. "Sweet," he grunted. "Nutty. The ash taste is gone."
He turned to the Town-King. "I will sign the document."
The Town-King let out a breath he had been holding. The scribe rushed forward with the vow scroll. Both men signed. The Doppelganger Copy was generated, and the crisis was averted.
Omari Imani watched the transaction conclude. She walked over to Ahia.
The Saffron woman looked at the Kwaya bell in Ahia's hand, then up at her face. The look of skepticism was gone, replaced by a calculating respect.
"I thought the King elevated you because he was lonely," Omari admitted, her voice low.
Ahia stiffened, ready for an insult.
"I was wrong," Omari continued. "He elevated you because you understand the one thing the High Table has forgotten."
"What is that?" Ahia asked.
"That the Empire is a living thing," Omari said, her Violet Aura shimmering. "We treat it like a machine. We input laws, we expect output. But you... you treat it like a garden."
Omari gestured to the vast Archive.
"You have an instinct for Value, Ahia. Real value. Not just what is written on a scroll."
Omari pulled a small pin from her sash. It was a golden emblem of a scale. She pinned it to Ahia's silk dress.
"Welcome to the Treasury," Omari said, a small smile playing on her lips. "Now, put that bell away. We have a textile dispute in the West, and I suspect the silkworms are depressed."
Ahia touched the pin. For the first time since coming to the palace, she didn't feel like an imposter. She felt like a Manomi who had just found a new field to cultivate.