We took the head of the family table. Xola’s seat. The family gathered for dinner around the table every Ojo Aiku, the Day of Immortality, with rare exception. Each child could go their own way through the week, but we came back together as the Adisa family every week. The ritual of reminder of who we were. Xola at the head, Selamault at his right side, Amachi on his left. The other seats were for guests or invited family. We always sat at the foot of the table, always facing Xola.

But Xola was gone.

We had never been completely carefree. We were aware that much of our childhood was steeped in preparation to lead. Maybe not the Ijo or even to become Camara but for wherever we found ourselves in life. The chalice felt too large in our hands, and it took several attempts before things began to feel comfortable to us. Conscious of the weight of attention on us in the moment, we cleared our throat. We closed our eyes and allowed the words to pour through us. That was our gift.

“It is said that people who lack knowledge of the past are like a tree without roots. In the spirit of remembrance, of acknowledgment, of respect, we pour this libation. We raise our cup to honor what we call God. We pour to honor the importance of family and those who came before us. We call upon our elders, whose wisdom we seek in all endeavors.” Acknowledging Mom and Jaha, we poured to the north. “Asè.”

“Asè.” Ezeji poured to the south.

“Asè.” Selamault poured to the east.

“Asè.” Jaha poured to the west.

“Let us be seated.” We hoped we were doing this right. Xola always had a way of making the rituals of the family meal feel natural, a story we were being reminded of and being invited into. Joining one another. We felt stiff and formal, dancing awkwardly within walls we erected to keep us from enjoying one another.

This was our first family meal without Xola.

We could picture our Pops at the other end of the table and avoided his eyes. We studied each of our family members. Ezeji with his multiringed hand clutching after a glass. All chatter and nonsense, opining on the latest pyr ball scores, his mates back on O.E., and the latest group he hoped to promote, all between sloppy bites of food. Jaha finished eating, her lithe form slipping free of her chair to fuss about unnecessarily in the kitchen, not trusting anything automated to wash the dishes. Our mother continued to eat, small and deliberate bites, well chewed before swallowing. A delicate bird bobbing about her plate. Her heavy-lidded eyes turned to us on occasion, full of worry and love, with an absence where her husband once occupied.