No masks, no pretense, they festered in their thoughts, not allowing our brooding silence to intrude. We hadn’t wanted to attend a formal dinner, not yet. We wanted to just be. To hang out, enjoy family on their own terms without any agenda. But the work of community never stopped, and the Adisas had to name a new head to represent them at the Ijo. We were certainly old enough. We had the weight of expectation upon us and a position to fill.

Selamault rested her hand on ours, her touch cool and soft. “It’s all right. You’re doing fine.”

“I’m not sure how to do this.” We passed food around the table, our stomach lacking the pressure of hunger, having dined to its fill on anxiety.

“None of us do. We simply do the best we can.” Selamault’s voice thickened with maternal concern.

We were now the patriarch of the family. Xola’s counsel was no longer available as a safety net. We no longer had the luxury to just sit at the table and call our shot when we needed to. To allow our mind to drift in the nascent melodies and rhythms that formed much of our idle thoughts. Now the table needed a head to call the family together, to see if we’d be formally accepted as head of the Adisa clan.

“Ain’t no one here to judge you, baby,” Jaha said. “So loosen up and do your thing.”

Despite how much time she spent with our family, Jaha also had two children of her own. She rarely saw them, since her daughter—following in her footsteps—became a ranking member of the Science Council on Titan. Her son helped organize the Bronzeville Rebellion and continued the work of building community there. Their family reunited three times a year, once in each of their spaces.

Jaha’s husband died when she was seventy. A part of the fifth wave migration from Yo, she had dropped out of high school, though she received her equivalency diploma, which allowed her to go on to university. During her career, she connected First World to other institutions, cobbling together a network that bolstered one another’s work. The Thmei Academy. The Scarabys Institute. When she was ninety, she decided to go back to school to pursue a doctorate. Her thesis focused on the life of Marcus Garvey and the institutions he created. She returned to First World as a teacher.

Hakeem Buhari, the first Camara, was her elder.

“Can we eat yet?” Ezeji asked. “I’m not used to standing on occasion, and this Negus is hungry.”

“Yeah, yeah. Have at it.” We uncovered the rest of the dishes. Macaroni and cheese. Greens. Slow-cooked barbecue ribs. And a bottle of whiskey. All of Xola’s favorites, though people were always after him to pursue the healthier diets of Muungano.