We hated funerals, offering up the sentiment as if there was anyone who enjoyed them. However, the rituals of death and remembrance were necessary for the community to process their grief together. Creating historical memory and a space for folks to remember in the context of a greater story. The rituals were good for some, maybe most, though not all. Some needed to be allowed to step out of them. The rituals held little interest for us. They constrained our abilities to not be imprisoned by what came before us, though maybe that was our hubris speaking. We celebrate Muungano, but Xola’s spirit was here. His voice added and shaped our culture, built the atmosphere in which we now breathe. But now we had to breathe on our own.

Bayard and his fellow ministers of the various faiths stood for the entire ceremony. Ushers with black suits and white gloves acted as sentries within the temple. The choir reverberated, their voices shook the walls and roof. The acknowledgments alone took over an hour and would have gone on for several had Bayard not stepped in.

“Sometimes there is no enemy to vent your anger on. Only the pain and grief to deal with. Grief nourishes life. This will connect you to your community, to help call you back to life. Mourn that which has been lost.” Bayard leveled his eyes at each of the heads of the Ijo families in particular, saving us for last as if directing his next words for our ears in particular. “Only a broken heart has known true love. Our grief may never end. It may soften, but it is the reminder of the love you had for Xola. It keeps him in this world. Don’t forget what must be remembered. You are a living memorial to him, but to do that, you have to live.”

The speakers went on, one after another. People with the energy of wanting to be seen. People near inconsolable with grief. People simply thankful for Xola even if they never met him personally. Maulana stood by the fire shrine. His silence spoke more than a hundred speeches. He watched. He waited. He planned for tomorrow. A potential Camara.

And then it was our turn, to bring the proceedings to a close.

“We told Bayard that we didn’t know if we would speak today. We didn’t know if we’d have any words. Not because we lost our father but because we…” Our voice trailed off. Voices among the crowd called out to us. Encouraged us. Reminded us that we weren’t alone, adding their strength to ours. To go on. “There are no words. Our father was there, from the beginning. For all of us. His vision and intellect shaped much of what had become Muungano. But he would be the first to say this, none of this, was about him. It’s about us.