I attended my first Ijo meeting when I was six years old. Though officially only the leadership met, all members are welcome and encouraged to attend because every Muungano member has a voice. First brought by my parents and later ferried by my curiosity, I had no idea what was going on. All of these adults, tall as trees, talking, relaying big ideas, and telling stories. The stories were my favorite part. I had no idea that the meetings weren’t about the leaders getting together to decide issues crucial to the future of Muungano but were themselves training sessions, allowing any member the opportunity to study the process under the mentorship of Ijo members. The Ojo Aje, the Day of Profit, meeting of the Ijo typically set the cultural priorities of Muungano. There were the usual report-outs from different committees and the breakout times for individual kraals to have opportunities to handle housekeeping matters and other issues that arose. Most attendees deferred to the elders of the Ijo to hear reports and, to be honest, to keep the meeting moving along. Allowing everyone a voice came with the cost of the meetings sometimes dragging on for hours even with the simplest agenda. This was also where conflict transformation occurred, the true test of living in community: when parties who had issues with one another had the opportunity to voice their issues and allow community input to help resolve them. We used djemaas for our conflict transformation, how our disputes were worked out in public. Collective self-criticism. I admired every member of the Ijo; knew I wanted to be one of them as soon as I found my voice.

Today, we gather to voice our anger.

“This marks the first time Muungano has been directly attacked since its inception,” I begin.

“What about the terrorist threat Astra Black thwarted?” Bayard always has to interject, probably in the belief that we wouldn’t know how to think or feel without his guidance. No matter how well intended, his is a heavy hand when it comes to shepherding others. Overbearing and smothering, an insecure parent needing to demonstrate their authority. His overprotective concern can’t help but lead to a slow erosion of agency.

“Back then, we were still First World,” I say.

“Blacktopia!” someone cries out, their call met with cheers and a smattering of laughter. The spirit of Xola remains alive and well in the space.

“Exactly. Out of it we dreamt the experiment known as Muungano into being.”

“At a cost.” Bayard seems determined to challenge me at every turn. To not allow me to get into a rhythm of my words. I don’t know where this sudden need to press me comes from, but we have urgent matters to attend to that we can’t just pray away. My glare and silence wait him out. He eases back to allow me room to speak.