13 WACHIRU ADISA
The Dreaming City

Our father was dead.

Even after a week had passed, the realization struck us all over again, an existential shovel digging a hole into our chest. A desperate gasp left us unable to breathe. Or talk. Or get out of bed. But the work had to continue. When the Ijo assembled, the faint whispers of grumbling began. The voices fueled by fear and uncertainty. Though Muungano had no hierarchical structure, the idea of a figure to coordinate and facilitate proved, if nothing else, a powerful symbol. This was the first time the title of Camara had been open since the time of the Uponyaji.

We had to wait until Abameta, the Day of Three Meetings, for the funeral in order for all of the arrangements to be finalized and travel to be made. Even with it about to begin, the reality of his absence only now began to weigh upon us.

A group of craftsmen paraded down the main promenade, carrying a scale version of the original mothership in an ornate coffin to honor him. They didn’t know how else to symbolize his profession as a teacher, leader, and visionary. They paused as they passed the family.

“This shit is off the chain,” we whispered to our cousin.

“It’s not like they made a giant middle finger or a set of butt cheeks,” Ezeji said. “You know how he was about saying, ‘The whole universe can kiss my ass.’”

“Yeah…” Our voice trailed off.

“I’m sorry. I’m not being very sensitive.”

“Nah, you good. All of that was true to Pops. He wouldn’t have wanted a traditional funeral. He’d have wanted something irreverent that spoke to community.”

“Yeah, but this ain’t for him.” Ezeji’s voice took an uncharacteristically somber turn.

Each person had their own way of working through their feelings. We wanted to retreat, to be alone. Mom spent days in isolation, assuring everyone that she was fine. Only a handful of folks—her children and Jaha—were allowed into her quarters. As long as she wasn’t alone during the time, the community respected her wishes, which didn’t stop us from worrying.

Our grief was every bit as profound, but we found that throwing ourselves into work helped. We arranged and coordinated most of the funeral activities. We accepted condolences from heads of state. In the wee hours before the day cycle, we recorded music. And elders watched us, mindful of our tendency to be washed away in the undercurrents of work to avoid feelings rather than experience them. As if there was any escaping the raw, gnawing void stalking us like an inexhaustible leopard, everywhere we went.