Only the dull flicker of the broadcast illuminates my room. Silent except for the disembodied crackle of Fela’s last words. Shadows creep about its edges. The darkness bears witness to the cold umber, that nameless kind of rage that numbs me and threatens to explode from every cell in my being. Unmoving in the dark, I watch my sister’s last moments. I play the transmission over and over. A frozen dagger plunging into my heart each time I watch the broadcast. I force myself to study each second, never turning my eyes from it, searing her face into my mind. The images will find me in my sleep or every time I close my eyes anyway. Her gentle face. The light in her eyes fading under the barrage of blaster fire. My brave, brave girl.

“No matter what you do to me, I was born free and I will always be free.”

I’d put off getting dressed, stalking my rondavel naked, from one end to the other in a mindless pace. Detached, my mind a fugue of anger and despair. A hungry, devouring thing that draws me in its inescapable gravity. I only barely want to venture out and do so only because the Ijo need to be briefed. Eventually. And there’s no guarantee I’d find the will later.

My door chimes. My joints creak in protest. My muscles unlock, slow and painful with each movement as I stir from my position. I’ve lost track of how long I sat in that position. I don’t remember the last time I ate. Or when I last bathed.

Her two spheres orbit above her head. Selamault stands in my entranceway like the most regal of aunties ready to pick a much younger me up for church. A deep, abiding sadness wells in her eyes. A knowing sympathy radiates from her, like an inexorable tide, threatening to carry me along with it. I can barely meet her eyes.

“I see you, Selamault Adisa.”

“I see you, Maulana Buhari. May I come in? I don’t want my presence to add to your burden.”

“No.” My heart answers before my mind does. I want to be left alone with the darkness, my fury, and my hatred. I want to nurse the festering wounds curled up in the dark corner of my soul. I want to plot and lash out. I want their worlds to know my pain. Yet … I also want someone to hold me and tell me that everything will get better. “I mean, come in. I … wouldn’t mind the company of another.”

“If it’s no bother, I’d like to sit with you.” Her voice, soft and calm, soothes a balm on my raw, burning pain, as if my every nerve lies exposed and set aflame.