Chapter 4: All Eyez on Me
The steam from the bathroom mirror was the only thing standing between Amira and a total mental collapse. It was Sunday—wash day. In the hyper-manicured, climate-controlled silence of the Manhattan high-rise she shared with Ronda, the ritual was her only remaining tether to reality.
She stood before the vanity, the mirror fogged into a soft, impenetrable white. She took a deep breath, letting the humidity hit her lungs, and plunged her hands into her hair. The sensation was immediate and grounding. Her fingertips worked the thick, honey-scented conditioner into her scalp, the coils responding to the moisture with a familiar, springy resistance. This was a private architecture—a complex system of twists, loops, and growth that she understood perfectly.
As she massaged her scalp, her mind drifted to her mother. She’d spoken to her mama briefly on the phone earlier, but she’d kept the conversation light—the weather, the upcoming semester, the price of groceries. She didn't want to bring up the DNA results or the "Golden Tribe" flag she’d glimpsed in the system. Her mother had already lived through the soul-crushing pain of Amira vanishing during the Blip; she didn't need to hear that her daughter was now caught in some labyrinthine bureaucratic situation involving a foreign superpower. She didn't want to be a burden.
When she finished, she didn't reach for a towel. Instead, she grabbed a soft, oversized cotton t-shirt, gently blotting her edges and squeezing the excess water from her 4C coils. She took her time, letting the rhythm of the process reset her frazzled nerves.
When she stepped out, her phone lit up on the counter. She swiped it open.
Subject: Re: Ancestral Research Project - Grade Posted
Miss Jenkins, your structural analysis of the Outreach Center’s load-bearing variables is—to put it mildly—unprecedented. I have not seen a student identify the resonance frequency issue in ten years. We need to discuss the implications of your work immediately. An 'A' does not begin to cover the complexity of what you’ve unearthed. —Dr. Davis.
Amira felt a flush of genuine triumph. She wasn't crazy. The structural defiance she’d observed wasn't a mistake in her math; it was a feat of engineering that Dr. Davis had finally acknowledged. She felt like she was standing on the edge of a breakthrough. She checked her other notifications, finding the reply from N’Jadaka Udaku.
Miss Jenkins, I agree. Let’s talk about that design. The Daily Grind on 125th, Tuesday at 2:00 PM. It’s quiet, and the roast is better than anything you’ll get on campus.
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The Daily Grind was a sanctuary of exposed brick, low-hanging Edison bulbs, and the deep, rich scent of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe that seemed to cling to the dark wood of the tables. When Amira pushed through the heavy glass door, the bell chimed, and she immediately spotted the corner booth—a pocket of shadow that felt both private and intentional.
Mr. Udaku was already there. He looked strikingly different from the blurry headshot on the foundation’s website. He wore a dark, form-fitting charcoal sweater that highlighted the powerful breadth of his shoulders, and his long, freeform locs were pulled back into a neat, professional style tucked into a silk loc sock. He carried a casual, predatory stillness—a quietness Amira had only ever seen in field researchers, or perhaps soldiers who had forgotten how to fully relax.
"You’re right on time," he said as she approached. His voice was a rich baritone, smooth but with an underlying rasp.
"I didn't want to keep you waiting, the project looks too important for that," Amira replied with a warm, professional smile. She slid into the opposite seat, setting her leather messenger bag on the bench. "I’m really grateful you made the time, Mr. Udaku. I know how busy the foundation's rollout has been."
Mr. Udaku leaned back, a low, genuine chuckle bubbling up from his chest. "N’Jadaka," he corrected, his expression softening. "My daddy didn’t even call himself Mr. Udaku, and I’m definitely not starting now. Please, keep it informal. We’re both builders here."
He took a slow sip of his coffee, his dark eyes studying her over the rim of the mug. It wasn't the look of a bored executive; it was the look of a man searching for something specific.
"I’ll be honest with you, Amira," he began, setting the mug down. "When your email first hit my desk, I thought you were just another ambitious student looking for a line on a resume. But then I actually looked at the redlines you sent over. And then," he tilted his head, "I spent the last two nights looking into your undergraduate portfolio. Your work on the urban irrigation models in Harlem? That was bold."
Amira felt a flush of genuine surprise. She reached up to push her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose—a nervous tic she couldn't suppress. "You saw the irrigation project? That was... that was just a passion project for a local non-profit. I didn't think anyone outside the community board actually read the technical report."
"It was genius," N'Jadaka countered. "Most engineers look at a broken system and try to patch the holes. You looked at the foundation and realized the whole thing needed to be rerouted. I like your fire, Amira. I like your attention to detail—the way you poke at the math until it gives up its secrets. You have a passion for fixing things that most people are content to let stay broken."
As he spoke, he moved further into the light of the Edison bulb above them. Amira caught the way his brow furrowed as he watched her—a ghost of a gesture that felt hauntingly familiar, a deja vu that sent a shiver down her spine, though she couldn't place why.
N'Jadaka, for his part, went silent for a heartbeat. In the dim light of the cafe, the resemblance was jarring. He saw the way she held her chin with that innate, regal stubbornness, and the sharp, inquisitive spark in her eyes that mirrored the royal fire of a family she didn't even know she belonged to. She looked so much like the people across the ocean that it was almost painful to witness. It was a face that belonged in a palace, not a SoHo coffee shop.
"I’m not just here to talk about your feedback," N’Jadaka said, his voice dropping to a more serious register. "I’m here because I want that brain of yours on my team. I want to offer you the Lead Engineering Internship for the Oakland Outreach Center. It’s a full-ride fellowship, relocation included. You’ll be working directly under me on the structural implementation."
Amira froze, her breath hitching in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs as the words sank in. This wasn't just an internship; this was a career-defining leap. "Lead... Lead Engineering? Mr. Ud— N-N’Jadaka, I’m still finishing my senior capstone. That’s a massive responsibility for someone who hasn't even walked across the stage yet."
"And you're the only one I’ve met who’s actually qualified for it," he said with a confident, final nod. He slid the folder across the table, the gold-embossed logo catching the light. "So, what do you say? Do you want to keep critiquing the math from a distance, or do you want to help me build the future?"
Amira’s fingers hovered over the folder. The weight of the offer was life-changing, a literal golden ticket, but the ingrained habits of her life—the ones that kept her grounded—pulled at her.
"This is... it’s more than I expected," she said, her voice steadying as she looked back at him. "I want to say yes right now. But I don't make moves this big without talking to my family first. Specifically my mom. She’s been the one pushing me through this degree, and I need to run the relocation details by her before I sign anything."
N’Jadaka’s face shifted slightly. The stillness in his eyes sharpened for a fraction of a second, a fleeting moment of pure, intense calculation. The mask smoothed back into place before she could even wonder what the tension meant.
"I respect that. Family is the foundation of everything we’re trying to build in Oakland," he said, his voice dropping into a reassuring, resonant tone. He leaned forward. "And look, we can start slow. This contract is just for the summer—think of it as a trial run to get those final credits out of the way. If you do well—and I have no doubt you will—you’ll have a guaranteed, six-figure position waiting for you the second you throw that cap in the air next spring."
He tapped the folder with a blunt, scarred finger. "It’s a low-risk move with a high-stakes payoff, Amira. Take the contract. Talk to your mother. But don't let the fear of leaving home stop you from claiming what you’ve earned. This isn't just a job. It’s a legacy."
Amira nodded, the "summer trial" framing making the move feel like a strategic leap rather than a permanent desertion. "I understand. I’ll call you by Monday."
"I'll be waiting for the call," he replied, his gaze steady.
The moment was perfect, a peak of professional triumph, but as the adrenaline settled, Amira felt that familiar prickle on the back of her neck. She glanced toward the door. Two women stood flanking the entrance, draped in vibrant crimson wraps. Their heads were shaved clean, and they held themselves with a lethal, upright posture. At their sides, partially obscured by the heavy fabric, were the tapered, metallic ends of spears.
They weren't looking at the menu. Their eyes were locked on her—unblinking, clinical, and intensely protective. They watched her as if she were the most precious, volatile asset in the room.
Why are they staring? she wondered. Why does it feel like I’m under a microscope?
"Don't mind them," N'Jadaka said, drawing her attention back to the table. "They're just here to make sure the foundation's newest investment stays safe."
She nodded as she stood up, sliding the heavy folder into her messenger bag. She felt the eyes of the women in red track her every movement as she adjusted the strap over her shoulder. They didn't move an inch, but the air around them felt charged, like the atmosphere before a lightning strike.
As Amira walked toward the door, she offered a small, tentative nod to the two sentinels. They didn't nod back. Their expressions remained as stone-cold as the statues in a cathedral, their unblinking focus following her until she pushed through the glass door and back into the sweltering Manhattan heat.
She walked toward the subway, clutching her bag to her side. The contract felt heavy, but her heart was light. She couldn't wait to see the look on her mother’s face when she told her that her baby girl was officially the Lead Engineer of a multi-million dollar foundation—even if it was only for the summer.
Once inside the train, she found a corner seat and opened the flap of her bag, intending only to double-check that the contract folder was secure. But as she pulled the leather aside, she noticed a secondary, smaller pocket she hadn't utilized—a velvet-lined sleeve tucked into the back of the bag. N’Jadaka must have slipped something else in when he handed her the portfolio.
Curious, she reached in and pulled out a small, heavy object wrapped in a microfiber cloth. She carefully unwound the fabric, and her breath hitched.
Resting in her palm was a disc of pure, polished black obsidian. It was roughly the size of a coaster but possessed a weight that felt impossible for its dimensions. It wasn't just a stone; the surface was etched with microscopic, geometric lines that caught the flickering fluorescent lights of the subway car, glowing with a faint, iridescent violet hue.
There were no buttons, no ports, and no visible battery. It felt cold—so cold it was almost searing—but as she ran her thumb over the center, a pulse of warmth radiated back, vibrating against her skin like a low-frequency hum.
A puzzle, she realized, recalling N’Jadaka’s words about "poking at the math."
She was so engrossed in the disc that she almost didn't notice the shift in the car’s atmosphere. But as the train screeched around a curve, she looked up, her gaze instinctively drifting toward the reflection in the dark subway window across from her.
Standing near the sliding doors was a man in a nondescript gray jacket. He wasn't looking at a phone or a book. He was standing perfectly still, his eyes fixed on her bag. When their eyes met in the reflection, he didn't look away with the usual New York awkwardness. He simply stared, his expression as clinical and unmoving as the women in the cafe.
Amira’s blood turned to ice. She quickly rewrapped the disc and shoved it deep into her bag, her hands trembling. She didn't look back at the reflection. She kept her eyes on the dirty linoleum floor, her mind already racing through potential conductivity tests and spectral scans. Whatever this was, it was the key to the living organism architecture N’Jadaka was building in Oakland—and apparently, it came with a shadow.
___________________________________________________
Later that afternoon, she met Ade at a bookstore in the Village to return some textbooks. The aisles were narrow, crowded with towering stacks of philosophy and history.
"So, the Director of Wakanda's Outreach wants you to go to Oakland?" Ade asked, pulling a heavy copy of The Wretched of the Earth from the shelf. "Amira, that’s quite the development. A summer internship at a place like that... it's a huge boost for your resume. You’ve worked harder than anyone else on this project; you deserve to be recognized."
Ade’s tone was supportive, his eyes kind. He looked at her for a moment longer than necessary—a flicker of something unreadable—before he shook his head and returned to his books with a normal, easy smile.
Amira smiled back, feeling a bit of the tension leave her shoulders. It was good to be seen as an engineer again, and not just "the girl who was blipped." But as they turned to walk toward the checkout, she caught a glimpse of their reflection in the street-facing glass. Her heart stopped.
Across the street, standing by a newsstand, was the same man from the train. He wasn't even pretending to browse the headlines; he was looking directly at the bookstore’s front door. In the daylight, he looked even more out of place—clinical, watchful, and entirely too still for the frantic pace of a Village sidewalk.
She turned to look, but he ducked behind a stack of papers.
Amira felt a deep, uncomfortable tightness in her chest. She grabbed Ade’s sleeve, her grip firm and urgent.
"Ade," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "Don't turn around. But we need to leave. Now."
"There’s a man," she said, her heart hammering against her ribs. "He was on the train, Ade. He followed me here. He’s waiting for us to leave."
The bookstore exit felt like a portal—one moment they were surrounded by the dust and stability of academia, the next they were thrown into the cold, damp rhythm of a New York evening. The adrenaline surged through Amira, sharp and electric. She didn't know who the man in the gray jacket was, but the way he had moved—the way he kept his eyes locked on her from across the street—was enough to tell her that her day had shifted from her great interview to something much darker.
As they pushed through the service door into the narrow alleyway, the city felt suddenly hostile. Ade stopped near the mouth of the alley, his posture shifting from casual friend to something broader, more protective. His eyes flicked back to the street corner where the man had been standing. "Amira, hold on. Who is that?" He took a step toward the street, his jaw set. "If someone is stalking you, I’m not just going to let it slide."
"No, Ade," Amira said, her voice sharp. She reached out, grabbing his arm. "Don't. Please."
Ade hesitated, his protective instinct warring with her demand. "Amira, we don't know who he is. If he’s following you, he needs to know he’s been spotted."
"And if he’s just a creep, or worse, you confronting him makes it worse," she countered, her pulse finally beginning to level out. She couldn't let him be a variable in this; she couldn't let him be the one to pay the price for her fear. "I’m not trying to be a hero, Ade. I just want to get home. Please, stay out of this. If they’re watching me, they’re watching you now."
Ade searched her face, seeing the raw, unadulterated fear she was trying to mask with logic. He took a slow breath, his shoulders dropping. "Okay. Let me at least walk you back home. After that, I definitely don’t want you walking alone, and it’s getting dark."
The walk from the bookstore to her high-rise was a blur of shadows and shifting reflections. Every car that slowed down made Amira’s skin crawl; every pedestrian she passed felt like a potential threat. When they finally reached the building, the sight of the polished marble lobby felt like a miracle.
The doorman—a familiar, towering figure in a crisp navy uniform—nodded as they entered, but the safety of the lobby didn’t stop the frantic thrumming in Amira’s chest. They rode the gold elevator in a silence that felt heavy, the vertical climb giving her no comfort. When they finally stepped out onto the quiet, carpeted hallway of her floor, the normalcy of the hallway—the smell of someone’s dinner, the muffled sound of a radio—felt entirely alien.
They reached her door, and Amira fumbled for her keys, her fingers shaking so hard she nearly dropped them. Ade stood behind her, his posture rigid, his eyes constantly flicking toward the elevator bank, guarding the space behind her.
"I'm here," Amira whispered, her hand finally finding the lock. She turned to Ade, her face pale under the soft hallway lights. "Thank you for walking me all the way up. I—I think I’m okay now. You should go home, Ade. Please."
Ade didn't move. He stood there, searching her face, his gaze lingering on the raw, unadulterated fear she had been trying so hard to mask with logic and composure all evening. He took a slow, heavy breath, his shoulders dropping from their defensive hunch, though his eyes remained watchful.
"Okay," he said, his voice low and steady. "But if you see him again, or if anything else feels 'off,' you call the police immediately. You hear me?"
"I hear you," she said, managing a weak, grateful smile.
Ade waited until she turned the key and the heavy door clicked open before he finally turned to head back toward the elevators.
Amira stepped inside and locked the door behind her—deadbolt, chain, and latch. She leaned her back against the cool wood, closing her eyes and finally letting out the breath she felt like she’d been holding for blocks. The apartment was bright, filled with the warmth of a half-eaten container of Thai food and the familiar, low-volume chatter of The Real Housewives of Atlanta playing in the living room.
Ronda was sprawled on the oversized green velvet sofa, a fork halfway to her mouth. She looked up, her expression bright and breezy, completely oblivious to the fact that Amira felt like she had just escaped a war zone.
"Girl, you are late! I thought you were gonna be here an hour ago," Ronda said, gesturing with a spring roll. "How was the interview? Did you get the internship? You have to tell me everything—this episode is boring as hell anyway."
Amira stood in the entryway, her bag still slung over her shoulder, her chest heaving. The contrast between her internal state and Ronda’s casual comfort was dizzying.
"I..." Amira started, then stopped. She looked at her best friend, the person who had held her down when the world went to dust, and suddenly, the fear felt too heavy to hold alone. "Ronda, I think I'm being followed."
Ronda’s smile vanished instantly, the remote dropping to the couch. She sat up, her entire demeanor shifting from carefree to alert. "What? Who? Amira, talk to me. What happened?"
Amira slumped into the nearest chair, dropping her bag. She didn't mention the women in her class or the way the Dora Milaje looked at her—she didn't have the energy to explain the madness of it. She just talked about the meeting with N’Jadaka, the man in the gray jacket, and the weight of the air that had been pressing down on her for days.
Ronda listened, her face hardening with a protective, fierce intensity. When Amira finished, Ronda walked over and sat on the ottoman in front of her, taking both of Amira’s hands in her own.
"You're not going anywhere alone for a while," Ronda said, her voice steady. "And tomorrow, we are going to the police. We’re going to report this. You hear me?"
Amira nodded, feeling the first genuine wave of relief she’d had all day. She looked at her phone, sitting on the counter. She pulled out the small, obsidian-colored disc N’Jadaka had given her, the object pulsing with its steady, inexplicable light.
"What is that?" Ronda asked, her eyes narrowing at the strange, sleek technology.
"I don't know," Amira whispered. "He called it a 'welcome gift.' But I think it’s why they’re watching me."
Amira stared at the disc, the purple light casting long, weird shadows across the room. She knew that every effect had a cause—but as she sat in the safety of her home, she realized she was no longer just looking at a problem to be solved. She was looking at a puzzle that is hell-bent on solving her.
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