“Your plan remains nice.” I dive back in, not allowing time for his ideas to land, much less take root and bloom. “But we have to do what is necessary before we can do what is nice. There is a debt that has been incurred. Do we extend grace, mercy, and forgiveness when none has been asked for?”

“We have to release the bitterness and anger that clouds our vision.” Wachiru’s eyes narrow, almost in a silent plea to me.

“We can do that and pursue justice. Some of us have the stomach for it.” I pause to let the barb bite deep. I want his, all of their, full attention. “We will not be handling this as if we are cultural ambassadors. We will not be handling this with grace, poise, and dignity. We will blow the shit out of each and every last one of those O.E. motherfuckers.” A smattering of cheers erupts. More and more heads nod. A susurrus of whispers begins rippling like a building tide within the Dreaming City.

“We think you made your position quite clear.” Bayard raises his hands to still the conversation. But he is no Xola. Lacking such gravitas, he moves to bang at the dais several times until he regains the room’s attention. The conversation pauses, more out of surprise than anything else. Bayard’s face contorts into something this side of disappointment. He knows he’s lost them and any hope to be their voice. “Let us adjourn to consider the matter further among the security council.”

The full Ijo adjourns. Wachiru and I lock eyes again, our gazes never breaking while our fellow members disperse around us. The security council starts to reseat themselves in a more intimate arrangement. Selamault places her hand on my shoulder, breaking Wachiru’s and my cold war.

“We have need of your counsel in regard to your role as the R. Are you up for that?” she asks.

“Always.”

“We need Ras Maulana, whole and healthy. We will not put a meeting’s experiences over your well-being. One of your aides can update us.”

“No, Selamault. I can continue.” Out of sheer concern for me, Selamault might have benched me. Xola damn sure would have without hesitation. She sees that I need this, to do the work, in order to move forward. But I’m aware enough to know that if I lead the charge, take point on the work, they would have to unite to force me to step aside. Even now, Selamault wavers. “Though may I suggest Jaha lead the meeting.”

Selamault acquiesces.

Striding toward the dais, she adjusts her headdress. Jaha’s dress whirls about her, an iridescent black with reds that streak through it like comets against a starless night. Gold bands wrap her neck, accentuating her ceremonial chakrams. She presses her hand to my shoulder and squeezes it. I raise my hand to pet hers before she releases her grip.