“There is always a cost when we establish our communities. The Maafa, the Great Disaster that was our holocaust, was our first and more terrible lesson. The lingering history of atrocities inflicted on our people, beginning with our enslavement. Continual, unrelenting, the Maafa ignited a system of the negation of our humanity, one that morphed as the times changed. Physical persecution, legal disenfranchisement, economic redlining, all institutionalizing suffering for economic gain. Adapting itself like an ever-evolving creature set loose upon us, determined to track us, with capitalism as the slave masters’ hunting dogs.” My pain resonates with them without me needing to hammer it. My words peel back the scars left by a history of attacks upon us playing in our collective unconscious. “The Maafa extended through lynching through Jim Crow through delayed civil rights through a police state through the Lunar Ukombozi War. Which brought us to the Uponyaji. At the heart of the Uponyaji was the reality that in order to heal, people needed to tell their stories, their truths, which required people to hear them. To critically examine the past to understand our social structures and where we found ourselves. To never forget the lessons we learned and the healing we experienced. We came together—Ugenini, Maroon, and Asili—as one weusi people. We shared our stories. We poured out our pain, and we dreamt of a better future—this present we call Muungano—together.”

“Where are you going with this, Maulana?” Bayard brays, but the way he studies the room to find his constant cynical interruptions unsupported deflates him.

“We remember, but that was then, and this is now. We cannot let an attack against us stand.” I pound the dais. “We must respond in kind.”

“O.E. has issued a blanket denial of any involvement in the matter of Fela’s death.” Swathed within a hoodie, Wachiru points with his index and pinkie fingers. His eyes distant, preoccupied with the latest data feed.

“Her execution,” I correct. Her loss will not be made more palatable to digest with petty euphemisms.

“They have also warned that they will move to protect themselves,” Wachiru says.

“They provoke us with impunity, then cry the victim when they fear we might retaliate. They push us toward war but don’t want to be seen as the aggressor.”

“What I’m saying is that we agree. We have to do something, but we shouldn’t be rushed to act rashly.” Heads bob in agreement, caught up in the easy rhythm of his voice. Wachiru is both every bit his father’s son and cut from a different cloth entirely. Though he probably doesn’t think so, I admire the young man he’s grown into. I just find his naivety dangerous. “We simply don’t know enough yet. We must broaden our investigations. We have to be…”