Mpho crosses to me, puts both hands on my shoulders, looks me dead in the eyes. “Dlozi lakho liyavuka. Vula, Sandi. Vula.” Your ancestor is rising. Open yourself. Open.

“I’m not—” My voice cracks. “I’m not built for this. I’m a field agent. I extract assets. I don’t—”

“You are,” Mpho insists. “You’ve been carrying her your whole life. Karelian songs in your mouth, winter in your blood. You think that’s accident?”

The daughters pick up the melody — shouldn’t be possible, they don’t speak Finnish, but their voices weave in anyway, Zulu harmonics braiding with Karelian cadence. Mpho’s alto grounds it. Kendra’s treble spirals up like smoke.

The baby stops humming. Starts laughing, delighted, three months old and knowing.