There’s a kind of magic that happens at the table. Not just in the clinking of glasses or the perfume of roasted rosemary and ambered wine, but in the gathering itself—in the sacred act of bringing souls together to be nourished by more than just food. So when posed the question—if you could host a dinner and anyone you invited was sure to come, who would you invite?—I felt a hush move through my spirit. Because this isn’t a party. This is a portal.

Let me set the table for you.

The room is velvet-lit—candles flicker like ancient stars, shadows dancing against silk drapes. A long obsidian table stretches beneath a chandelier of dripping crystals, catching glimpses of gold in every prism. Jazz hums low. Saffron smoke curls from incense in the corners. This is not a casual affair. This is communion.

I would invite…

James Baldwin. For his fire and tenderness. For the way he held truth like a torch and burned through illusion with precision and pain. He would sip his scotch slowly, speak even slower, and remind us what it means to love Blackness without condition.

Sade Adu. Because we need grace. Her voice alone could lace the air with calm. She’d arrive cloaked in elegance, her presence a balm to the nervous energy of the living and the dead. When she speaks, time slows. When she sings, it stops.

My Great Great-Grandmother. The one I never met, but whose cheekbones I inherited. I want to ask her how she loved, what she prayed for, who broke her, and how she kept going. I want her wisdom in the stew.

Prince. Of course. The artist. The oracle. The androgynous alchemist. He’d demand that the lighting be adjusted. He’d only eat figs and wine. And he’d end the night by reminding us that spirit and sensuality aren’t opposites…they’re twins.

Zora Neale Hurston. Because she knew how to tell the truth and laugh while doing it. She would bring stories for dessert, dipped in sugar and sly glances. She’d flirt with Baldwin, challenge Prince, and call me “darlin’” as she winked and sipped her spiked tea.

A child version of myself. Hair in thick plaits, eyes wide with wonder. She needs to see this. She needs to hear their stories. To feel that she is not alone in her curiosity, in her knowing, in her longing for beauty and justice and boldness. I’d hold her hand beneath the table and say: Look, love. This is your inheritance.

And maybe…just maybe…I’d leave a seat empty. For whoever the Universe sends. The unnamed guest. The spirit guide. The stranger who becomes a friend. Because the truth is, the most important conversations often happen with the ones you didn’t expect.

So, who would you invite?
And more importantly—
Would you be bold enough to take your seat?