“The news has come to me only moments ago. The situation remains fluid. The entire Muungano assembly needed to know as word of this will quickly spread.” My eyes lock on to Xola’s, unflinching.

Amachi drifts into my peripheral view. There is a swelling pride that accompanies seeing my onetime pupil ascend, taking responsibility and leadership roles within the community. I helped train her and know her body language the way one knows the melody of their favorite song. When her ever-suspicious eyes study me, she shifts as if catching scent of something off-putting. She often called me “clever as a serpent,” her mind already mid-speculation that I would no more slip in security protocols than the sun forgetting to rise. She’s the clever one. A series of calculations determine my every move. As the civilian head of the Niyabinghi, keeping secrets comes with the job. But her emi probably senses that I am hiding something.

As if also sensing it, Camara Xola fixes his eyes into a sharpened squint.

“Jaha is being transported back here, but O.E. is pressuring us. They have recalled their ambassador and wish to send a new one, claiming we need a new cultural liaison. One better suited for a time of crisis.” I stalk the dais in full awareness that I hold the rapt attention of the Ijo. In only a matter of minutes, I’ve transformed from recent addition to the Buhari family leadership to my name ringing out from everyone’s lips. “More probably, they pursue a new agenda. An ambassador who could travel about with impunity under the auspices of diplomatic immunity.”

“Maulana, we cannot close ourselves off to diplomatic overtures,” Bayard interrupts. “We need to—”

“Those systems never seem to tire of us rising up in revolt against them. Ours is the shared story of the Maafa, the holocaust of enslavement: ripped from our Motherland, Alkebulan, to be brought to the horrors of a savage wilderness, followed by our continual uprising against enslaving tyrants and agents of oppression. Many thought the Uponyaji that came after the Lunar Ukombozi War ushered us into an era of post-racial harmony, because they want to forget the lessons of history. I do not. I will not.” I move to check the good reverend before he gets going. He loves the spotlight as much as he does the opportunity to speak. Strict mythicists have never sat well will me. “Let’s not confuse prayers for deliverance with liberation practice.”

Bayard steps back like he’s been slapped. Fully awake now, he speaks with his full chest. “Don’t you confuse praying on my knees with being on my knees.”

“I’m simply advocating professions of faith doing more to be about the work of struggle.”

“Which we are … and always have been, which those who are so mindful about remembering our history should know.”