Rising, you capture all of their attention, hundreds of eyes, hungry yet encouraging. Xola was heavy on your mind as you stand before the Ijo security council, feeling very small on a very large stage. Jaha and Maulana both remain standing. Him at the center of the room, pacing the dais already in command of his stage; her off to the side, studying the room. You take a breath and begin your story. You tell them of your suspicions and your tentative investigation. Your findings and the attack on you and Wachiru.

“They want us at one another’s throats. The proverbial scorpion looking for passage across the river on our backs.” Nothing approaching compassion fills Maulana’s voice.

“Assuming it is O.E.,” Wachiru said.

“Who else benefits from a decapitation strike? And let’s call it what it is without mincing words. Sowing dissent among us buys them time.”

“And potential allies,” Jaha adds, though through a skeptical lens. Talking the idea through to see if it held any merit.

“If so bold, why not keep killing our Camaras until they have someone of their liking?” Wachiru’s posture betrays his conflict. On the surface, deceptively calm, remaining true to Muungano, honoring his father’s way of leading while figuring out what his own way looks like. Underneath, roiling uncertainty, with much of him still debating his right, maybe even ability, to be the unifying teacher.

You aren’t sure of your role in these proceedings. Similar to much of the Ijo, you have become a spectator while these larger-than-life figures posture and deliberate. But these people are also your mentors, and you remain uncertain who you are to support as a ranking member.

“Each death only raises the chances that evidence will point back to them. But take out Xola, and chaos ensues.” Maulana tenses, his arm flexes with the need to punch something. “Not only chaos, though. They hope to squash our spirit.”

“Xola was not Muungano. Muungano is bigger than him,” Wachiru says. “If our community cannot choose its next spokesperson, it does not deserve to move forward.”

“There is no one like Xola,” you say louder than you intend. Your voice crackles, almost hoarse. Your grief threatens to overtake you, waiting for you to drop your guard even a little.

“Exactly, Amachi. It’s time for a new Camara. A different tenor of the same song.” Maulana grimaces, perturbed. Not at you, though he could just as likely be annoyed at every person in the room. His resting glower tires of the inaction of politics.

“Right now, we have no concrete evidence. Only a circumstantial case and a lot of suspicions,” Wachiru says.

“What do you propose?” Maulana’s energy spikes, aggressive, almost predatory. He nears, a wolf circling to take the measure of his prey.