“All we want is to live free and in peace. We are just so tired of waiting. We are tired of being attacked, shouldering the brunt of atrocities, because we dare want to exist. We are tired and impatient and we say, ‘No more,’” I say without heat or venom, only the pride Muungano instilled. In each of us. “Muungano was founded by those who turned their backs on the past and sought only the future. It was not enough for us to leave O.E. That was just our immediate escape from the grip and machinations of the enslaver. But we cannot forget those who were left behind. We did a disservice to them. We explorers of the future, carving out a new frontier of thought and culture, did not reach back to bring others to our shores. We left them in exile.” I meet Bayard’s eye in acknowledgment. “Our work is not done until each and every weusi, each and every citizen on O.E., is free. Freedom must be inclusive as well as indivisible. The ways of O.E. no longer matter to us. Their look does not cause me to avert my eyes. The sound of their voice does not cow me in terror. Their presence does not bother me. Everyone in Muungano is a revolutionary. Our ideas are the revolution. But if need be, if O.E. needs reminding, we have not forgotten the ways of war, especially in the defense of our own. Our home. Our way of life.”

Something shifts in Wachiru. He reads the energy of the room. Fixing his mouth, he steps down from the dais. The wave of cheers and chanting begins in earnest.

Maulana. Maulana. Maulana.

The gbedu drums’ rhythm pulses in my temples. I request for Selamault to accompany me out to the gathering of the full Ijo, through the pressing crowd, down toward the central corridor. Hands stretch to reach me, greet me as their brother and friend. Their Camara.

Bayard takes center stage. “May I have your attention.”

“You have my attention!” the crowd cries out in response.

Bayard moves with a stiff formality, offering a vague genuflection before Selamault and Jaha. “We call upon our elders, whose wisdom we seek in our endeavors. I ask your permission to commence.”

“Granted,” Jaha says and strikes the ground once with her staff.

With a slow nod, Selamault gives her assent.

With both hands, Bayard raises the kikombe cha umoja. The ornate cup glints in the light. “To the Creator of all things great and small, we show our reverence for the original source of our life.”

“Asè,” the crowd responds. Their unified cry washes over me, pinpricking my skin.

“We give thanks to the Motherland, Alkebulan, cradle of civilization. And to Muungano where it has brought us.”

“Asè.”