A hush fell over the roads. An emptiness swept across the kraals of Muungano. The community waited to pay tribute to Camara Xola. All along the processional route, people wore black kanaga masks splashed with red paint, topped by sculptures of a bird’s beak with a large cross above it with outstretched wings. Dancers began their march with ululating cries, their orange-and-red scarves swirling in imitation of crawling flames. They looked skyward before dipping toward the ground in sober display. They paraded down the center of the Dreaming City. Behind them, because of her honorary status, Jaha led her jelis through the Forms as a type of dance. Leading the Niyabinghi—who marched behind them—Matata joined in. The mourners along the path improvised a clap to provide a rhythm. The exuberance of the dance increased, an energy building through them.

Only then did Selamault appear, silent and unmoving, her black dress an onyx glacier glittering in a setting sun. The jelis choreography transitioned into a protective ring about her. She lifted her chin and ascended the stairs. Everyone marched toward the Dreaming City. Art sealed off the front of Camara Xola’s kraal. Mourners huddled with their heaving shoulders, their tears a sacrificial offering around several shrines. A series of carved screens depicted Xola’s father and his father’s father, all in their ceremonial outfits, honoring his lineage and the surviving elders. Children carved ekpu figures from pieces of scrap wood and scattered them along the entryway of the Dreaming City’s library.

We scanned the crowd for familiar faces, anything to distract us. Interspersed among the throng, the clans of the Iyami Aje, the sacred mothers allowing themselves to be seen. Black-robed, with red tail feathers of parrots adorning their hair. Or white-robed with symbols and patterns woven in black as trim. Gold elekes around their necks. Or red-robed, their hair wrapped in gold-patterned cloth. Specters among their people.

“You always see us,” a familiar female voice said in our ear. Her words stilled us as we experienced waking sleep paralysis; yet her tone, her presence, reassured us, like a fondly recalled childhood memory. “But you don’t know us. We are always there for family. Soon come.”

When we turned, we saw only Ezeji standing by our side. A cold chill ran down our spine, a wind of ill fortune.

“A great tree has fallen.” Bayard strode about the dais, his face grave but open. Full of compassion, the bearing of a shepherd anxious to tend to his hurting sheep. A potential Camara. “We’ve gathered to honor our ancestors. To offer gratitude for the gift of life, appreciation through drums and dance. We leave food out for them. Your pain is not a private thing. It is not yours to bear alone. It belongs to your community. To have the story, the pain, held by many.”