“We call upon our ancestors and their indomitable spirit, for these forebears are the foundation of our families. Immortalized in our thoughts, we call them by name.” Bayard turns to the assembly to await their roll call.

Sojourner. Martin. Haile. Barack. Ira. Malcolm. Nanny. Maya. Harriet. Huey. Shaka. Frederick. Marcus. Zora. Hampton. Castile. Langston. Rosa. Adam. Elijah. Nat. Booker. August. Nelson. Samora. Jomo. Kwame. Julius. Cudjoe. Astra. Hakeem. Daisy. Angela. Xola.

They call upon many ancestors in the moment. The name, the memory, chokes in my throat, my lips barely able to shape the word without any sound. “Fela.”

The gbedu drums continue to pound in my mind.

“We remember our struggle and those who have struggled on our behalf.” Bayard dips his hands in holy water. Once cleansed, he lights small incenses filled with sage.

“Asè,” the people say.

He again raises the kikombe cha umoja. “We call upon our family and ask that they be with us in our thoughts. ‘He who is not taught by his mother is taught by the world.’ We show our children the importance of family. For they represent the promise of tomorrow.”

“Asè.” The crowd’s tone lowers to a prayerful murmur.

“And by what name do we call our new Camara?”

“Maulana Langston Buhari, son of Hakeem and Tiamoyo Buhari,” I announce.

“We cast libation to the north, the south, the east, and the west.” Bayard pours out the kikombe cha umoja to each of the cardinal directions. Pausing, he meets my eyes without rancor and steps aside, allowing me to present myself.

“Asè. Asè. Asè.” I raise my arms.

Selamault walks over, and I drop to my knees before her. My assistant brings over the headdress I designed and presents it to her. Elaborately grooved horns with a central conical blue coiffure that rises from the two faces on the mask. A veil of beads to curtain the face. It depersonalizes the man behind the mask and points to the office. According to some, it also protects onlookers from the danger of casting their eyes directly upon the divine presence of the oba. Selamault places my headdress upon me. When I rise, I am Camara of Muungano.

“Long may you serve,” Bayard says.

“Asè! Asè! Asè!” the Ijo cry out.

From the time of my selection—though not official—through my appointed confirmation day by the Ifa oracle, Selamault, I have chosen to withdraw into seclusion, retreating for the Ipebi ritual of isolation. Though Muungano no longer adheres to the government of kings, royal seclusion is a tradition among my people. Meditation in isolation should be a new tradition for any accepting the mantle of Camara or any senior leadership position.