Most members of the Ijo are familiar but remain strangers to me. However, a ripple in the crowd, a dipped toe disturbing a still pond, catches my attention. The people part, and I can’t help but notice Amachi’s sudden discomfort in recognition of the approaching young woman’s stride. This is the trouble with knowing one another so well: we risk being caught up in one another’s petty dramas despite our best efforts.

Captain Stacia Chikeke saunters forward.

Dressed in a velour kaftan, her rings and earrings match the metallic sheen of her boots, the height of fashion among those of Titan. Her coil of brownish dreads with blond tips wrapped in a scarf whose colors mirror the Chikeke family’s pattern. I could not mentor the one without knowing the other. The pair of them a study in contrasts, the captain’s tawny-colored skin a stark contrast to Amachi’s dark, smooth complexion. Older than I by only a year, becoming a mother, much less a captain, has matured her. Even in the way she carries herself, she has found her place within Muungano. Focused and driven, a tense wire that might snap from its own internal stress.

Though she attempts to hide herself, the edges of Amachi’s mouth turn upward in pride as Stacia takes the center. When she notices me, I allow Amachi the pretense that the familiar blush is one of renewed competition between friends. Though Stacia’s eyes, too, sparkle with recognition and warmth, her careful smile belies a weight upon her. A sadness.

“For my report.” Stacia pauses to clear her throat. “I need to invoke defense protocols. Keywords: golden chord.”

Most of the Ijo rise without protest or question in tacit dismissal. Amachi studies the departing figures and half rises herself before realizing no other Adisa has even flinched.

“What’s that?” she whispers to Xola, her face a miasma of confusion. I would have better prepared her for her first appearance at the Ijo. One has to always be prepared for how the community moves.

“The defense protocols. What Maulana should have invoked.” Camara Xola brushes his nose with the crook of his wrist. He barely bothers to cover his mouth as he utters oaths beneath his breath.

“Father, if Amachi’s to be a ranking member of the Adisa family,” Wachiru begins, “you need to read her in.”

Camara Xola rubs his fingers into the wispy threads of his beard. “She’s old enough and ready.”

“What does that mean?” she asks.

I almost feel bad for her, but the young have to learn to swim sometime, even if it’s by falling into the deeper part of a river.

Wachiru shifts in his seat, his heavy-lidded eyes flutter open, focused and suddenly interested. He joins in their whispers. “It means stay here by us and keep your mouth shut. Act like you’re meant to be here.”