Dad came over for dinner. Despite it being only the three of them, his parents spoke in hushed, respectful whispers about Xola’s passing. Dinner was simple: a traditional stew and mealie pap. The stew meat had been synthed that morning. The pap, a thick, nearly crumbly porridge made from corn grown in the Green Zone. Dad brought a box of chocolates, a small gift of appreciation, like he was a stranger invited to eat in his own home. He carefully used only his right hand to roll the pap into a ball and dip it into the stew to eat. The height of good manners. Each of them on their best behavior as their way of traversing the pain.

Bekele brought the stew to his mouth and slurped, drawing a cutting glance from his mom.

Just the other day, Mom was dragging Xola for how he always favored Amachi over her. She’d linked to him in the middle of the night, unprovoked to rail about how Amachi received the support and mentorship, the infrastructural support of Muungano for her endeavors, while Mom had to make do on her own. Or the pressure he put on her, captain or no captain, in regard to whatever mission he had entrusted her with. That was her thing: let all the little things build up in her until one day they exploded out of her. Camara Xola was her safe vent.

Then came that awful wail—cries of “No, no, no,” lost in a whorl of tears and soul-rending grief—followed by a terrible thud landing on the floor. He rushed to his mom’s side. His pleas of “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” went unanswered, and fear seared his heart so hard he couldn’t breathe. Not knowing how else to console her, he dropped to the floor beside her and held her. That was how Dad found them. Nothing would be the same.

Xola was dead.

Now Mom’s tone and reflection neared reverence. She spun stories about his notorious antics. Like the time he faced down the entire governing body of Yo, LISC, as they chartered a unified United Nations, by reciting the speech he gave declaring Muungano’s independence and freedom. A damp cloud of melancholy, fear, and uncertainty settled across the table. Mom moved about with a heaviness about her steps. If it was possible for someone to clear the dishes with sadness, she did. Bekele wished he could have gotten to know the Xola that impacted them so hard. The “fuck your piece of paper” leader. But Xola was gone.

“Are we heading back to Muungano for the funeral?” Dad handed her the last of the dishes from the table.

“We were just there, and we’re under strict orders to return to Titan.”

“So?”

“I know.” Mom’s head slumped as if heavy with fatigue. Rallying, she straightened. “I want to, too. I loved Xola. But we have duties here to carry on.”