“Do we call for a formal vote to be accepted as head of the Adisa clan?” we asked.

Ezeji held his spoon hovering over the macaroni and cheese, paused mid-plunge, awaiting the answer to the ill-timed question. We motioned for him to continue. Everyone served one another food, and we pretended to not notice how Mom and Jaha exchanged uncertain glances.

“Is headship something you want?” A tentative hitch of hesitation filled Mom’s voice.

“Yes. Why do you ask? Do you have doubts?” We stopped pushing greens about our plate in the illusion of eating. Our stomach panged with its own uncertainty. This was a necessary conversation, but not one we relished. Our appetite wouldn’t return until its resolution.

“Not in you or your ability.”

We puzzled over the curious absence in our mother’s affirmation.

“Sweet baby,” Jaha began her windup. “You’ve always been torn. Look at you and, what was that child’s name?”

“Anyah.” Without looking up, Ezeji heaped another serving of macaroni and cheese onto his plate. If he was aware of how all of us turned to him at the sound of her name, he gave no indication of it beyond his intense focus on the spoon clanking against his plate. Maybe he knew we weren’t as fragile as everyone thought when it came to the mention of her name. Though more likely, he really wanted more macaroni and cheese.

“Yes, that’s the one. You sacrificed the possibility of a relationship with her to pursue your music. That’s your first love and who you are.” Jaha patted our arm. “There’s nothing wrong with that. You’re free to pursue your gifts and passions. The people in your orbit will either fit into that or not. But you can’t just ‘fit’ serving Muungano into a slot in your life. It consumes the slot.”

“The mantle of leadership is a heavy burden.” Selamault’s tone turned solemn and slow, each syllable imbued with import. Her hands rested on her knees. She kneaded the flesh around them, working out a stiffness deep in her joints. The movement seemed more meditative than palliative. “One which wore on Xola, precipitating many of his health issues. But he viewed everything as secondary to the needs of Muungano. His jazz. His health. Us. Once he ascended to Camara, I became second in his life. Over fifty years of not being his highest priority.” Her words, the heaviness of her heart, hung over the table. Selamault leveled her eyes at us. No pity or regret filled them. “I ask you, are you ready to make that sort of sacrifice?”

We twirled our fork in our food as we considered their counsel.