“Someone, an enemy perhaps in the guise of an ally, certainly brought us here. To paraphrase a prophet, we will not be a defenseless people at the mercy of a ruthless and violent racist mob. Since self-preservation is the first law of nature, we assert our right to self-defense. By any means necessary.” Anger flushed Maulana’s neck. Despite the mask, a vessel bulging like a snake attempted to crawl to his head. He realized his overreach.

Both men seemed so desperate.

Composing himself to buy time to think, VOP took his time returning to his seat. “It … saddens me that this kind of overreaction will set the tenor of our relationship.”

“In the name of setting the proper tenor of our relationship, let me be candid. We suspect agents, wittingly or unwittingly, work to further the aims of our oppression, and we stand prepared to defend ourselves against it. Here’s what we suspect: Someone, an enemy perhaps in the guise of an ally, had a hand in taking Xola from us, the people who loved and revered him. We suspect some of our allies are not working in our best interests. Someone, an enemy perhaps in the guise of an ally, sent agents who looked like us to sabotage and weaken us. Those events directly—again, let me be clear, directly—led to me becoming Camara.

“Xola is gone. Someone has seen to that. If you wanted a different tone to the relationship, perhaps a true ally would have better seen to his care. Perhaps someone took his ways or ours for weakness. Or softness. Now everyone—allies and enemies in the guise of an ally alike—has me to deal with. Being mistaken for weak or soft will not be made. Now we await the inevitable call to arms. We stand ready. My name is Maulana Buhari. Camara of Muungano.”

Camara Maulana cut off the transmission to O.E. Projecting strength and calm, he turned to address the full Ijo. “There is a time to tear and a time to sew. Now is a time to tear.”

The Dreaming City was no longer home. We had no place here. We needed to figure out who we were and who we were going to be. To rediscover the song of our heart and move us to even create music again. The door chimed. Waving our cousin in, we packed the last item into a slingpack.

“What are you on?” Ezeji plopped onto the couch he fashioned, like he was listening to a poet who made zero impression on him.

“Heading out.”

“To where?”

“We don’t know.” We paused at the truth of that realization. “Yet.”

“I’ve been wanting to chop it up with you for a bit. You’ve been keeping an awful low profile around here the last few weeks. Hardly even know you around.” Ezeji occupied his attention with a shelf that was now blank.