“I know part of you wants to lead and teach the way your father did. Part of you fears that you can’t. That you may run the mothership that is Muungano into a cliff. But know that in the alternative, there are some strong voices whose ideologies and vision could also steer us to dangerous places.”

Maulana. The name went unsaid between us.

“You’re not and will never be alone.” Jaha stepped closer and placed her hand over our heart. Despite its slightness, it pressed with great weight. “I know politics is not your thing. Perhaps I could be your … advisor. Give you the benefit of my institutional experience, especially when it comes to the maneuverings of the other families.”

“Here we are, huddled in shadows, whispering of conspiracies. That is not our way. Not even for us cowards.”

“Sorry, sweet baby, I didn’t mean to offend you.” She withdrew her hand. “Calling you a coward and all.”

We hugged her tight. Her body tensed, not quite ready for it. Not knowing how much she—the strong one—needed to be held up by another. “It’s not like we’ve never seen you give someone a swift kick to get them back on task before. There is no one we trust more to get shit done.”

The funeral continued into the wee hours with no sign of people dispersing anytime soon. The crowds proved too much to bear, even though the mood lightened to one of fond remembrances and revelry. All the stories, all the laughter, all the involuntary tears, were testimony to a life well lived. But grief smoldered a thick cloud threatening to fill our lungs. The pressure of collective grief made it difficult for us to breathe.

Once the crowds became too much, we sought out Amachi, to console and be consoled in the wordless way of siblings. Hunched over a workstation fashioned in her room, she never heard Maya announce us, much less enter. The object of her scrutiny held her complete focus.

“It can’t be that interesting,” we said.

Her movement blurred. Not trained in any martial forms, only pure reflex caused us to duck as Amachi whirled. The blades of her chakrams missed us by mere centimeters.

“Wachiru!” Amachi leapt from her seat, her eyes brimming with tears, more frightened that she might have injured us than anything else. “What are you doing here?”

“We needed to be away from all of”—we gestured toward her door, the main library, the Dreaming City—“that.”

“You shouldn’t be here. Or at least have let me know you were on your way.” Amachi recovered her chakrams after reorganizing her workstation and shutting down the holovids and data streams she had been perusing.

“In Muungano, one should always be prepared for company.”