I keep digging at Wachiru. I know beneath his calm façade, the peace he holds on to through his music, there is anger. And doubt. And pain. “Someone more interested in being an overseer and dancing for other people’s entertainment.”

Wachiru shoots up, ready to throw hands. Jaha steps between us. She fashions her pehla stick into a staff and stamps it once. I smile, a muscle memory testing itself.

“That is quite enough,” Selamault says. “Maulana, that was uncalled for, out of line, disrespectful, and unbecoming of one who claims to want to serve our people.”

“I’m…” I face Wachiru. His anger rages in pure reflection of my own. Disapproving frowns crease many a forehead. It was a gamble, I tell myself. That they needed to see my spark, the same energy I’d keep to confront O.E. and LISC. The voice in my mind quiets, more than satisfied. But I teeter on losing the room and whatever ground I’ve gained. No, that’s a political calculation. I grieve for him and all he’s been through. Hurt is the language we speak too well. “I make no excuse for my passion. But … I stand before you completely ashamed. You did not deserve that.”

Wachiru’s stance softens, but only slightly. “You’re not in a good place. You are far from whole. All of us are. But we can’t let that take us down dark roads.”

“My righteous anger gives me a clarity. And yet I also know how to heed the wisdom of my elders.” I bow before Selamault. “I will serve with the strength of our culture. I am many things, but I’m not a foolish man. I’d be foolish to want to lead without Wachiru’s tempering voice. I’d be foolish to want to lead without the spiritual counsel of Bayard. I’d be foolish to want to lead without the institutional memory of Jaha. I’d be foolish to want to lead without your wisdom, Selamault. I’d be foolish to want to lead without the blessing of this council.