A SMALL COURTYARD ABOUT A hundred meters from the access point where the Ghizoni are is the closest thing we can get to a proper burial ground, Jhamal had explained. Abandoned buildings are walled around us, backed up by overgrown field. The fur-cloaked guy and a few others who dress just like him follow us outside. Kai and the Yakanna come along with a few other stragglers.

They stand on opposite ends, and I remember what Jhamal mentioned about tribal loyalty. The guy cloaked in fur wears armor similar to Jhamal’s: leather straps, the gold plates across half his chest. He is Beerchi, I bet. He and the men at his side must also be part of Jhamal’s clan.

Others in long robes tied with gold twine at the waist—huddle together away from everyone else, and it’s clearer what’s going on here; more than Yakannaian loyalties have reemerged. There are many divisions here.

“Gahlee,” Jhamal says, nodding in the white-robed men’s direction. “Or scribe, if you prefer the term. But gae-lee is how you would call their clan. Learned, lettered. Scholarly.” He means Bati.

I nod. I can totally see it. Two men lug a stone vase, grunting. I peer over its edge and it’s full of dirt from what I can tell.

“Let me help.” I point and flick my wrist up. “J’meh.”

The vase lifts, hovering above the ground. They thank me, but it’s me that should be thanking them. This was my mistake. Despite their pinched stares and foot tapping, they are going through with this knowing we don’t have the time for it. Because of me. I’m indebted to them.

Apology after apology claws at me.

“It is okay, Jelani,” Zora whispers, moving closer to me.

“I feel so bad.”

“Sssh.” She squeezes my hand and the knot in my chest eases some. “Stand here.” She gestures and I move next to her. “Now just copy what everyone does, and when it’s your turn, I’ll tell you what to do.”

I nod.

A drum sounds, signaling the beginning of the ceremony. And it is beautiful. And would only be more so if we could have it properly at the Ancestors’ burial ground behind Yiyo. But for now, this dirt patch surrounded by abandoned buildings on the outskirts of the Capital will do.

We stand in a circle around the boy, and two Beerchi in fur cloaks, lay stones over each of his eyes. The next two in line adorn his hands with flowers. The next pair, wearing long white robes, scoop dirt from the vase and cover his feet.