“I know where my sister stays. And I know how to pester her to cook for me.” He set the tray down in the center of the table. He held up his thumbs and index fingers to form a viewing frame before deciding he didn’t like their position and shifted it down.

“You know this only means that she’ll be putting this on your tab.”

“She got to you, too?” Ezeji laughed that carefree laugh of his. The one that didn’t care about anything past this moment. “‘Sibling reparations’ is not a thing. A tax for being a ‘bad big brother’ is straight-up abuse of her jelis’ duties.”

We envied him that laugh.

Our kraal had three rondavels: the central space where we relaxed, plus two bedrooms. The furniture smooth, with curvilinear designs, ran toward delicate surfaces and decorative textures. Blank spaces for furnishings that didn’t have to be there all the time, like cabinets and wardrobes. The wall dissolved as our mother came in. Once she approached the table, Taiwo and Kehinde settled into her hands. With a note of formality, she paused behind the seat to our left. She watched the two of us, her posture open, inspecting us. Proud of what she saw, though her approval did not lighten the weight in our heart. We nodded to acknowledge her presence. We needed her close, to lean on her strength now more than ever. Just as much as she needed ours.

Jaha entered, setting a tray of corn bread on the table before moving to our right. Near the beginning of the period of rest, contemplation, dreaming, and healing that would be known as the Uponyaji, Jaha Dimka was already an institution builder. She very easily could have been Camara instead of Xola, but she was more interested in moving the work forward, not sitting around contemplating the next horizons. She formed the original First World board and created the Science Council. She went on to mentor Astra Black. Back then, the uniforms of the Science Police—what would eventually evolve into the Griot Circle—were gray-and-black unitards. She sucked her teeth at them, saying they made our people look like disco revolutionaries. The fundamental questions she focused on with the dream of Muungano beginning to take shape were “Who were we trying to be?” and “Who do we want to be?” So an entire cultural conversation began … mostly because she hated how her ass looked in the uniforms.

Not knowing where he best belonged, Ezeji waited, licking his lips in anticipation, but remained rooted behind the chair at the foot of the table. He began to pass cups around the table for each of us to take. The air was heavy with expectation. Not just of the solemnity and ritual of the dinner itself but of us. How even out of public view, our every gesture was scrutinized, dissected, our every move analyzed like game footage being broken down.