We stopped working and gave him our full attention. After a protracted silence, we said, “We don’t want to be a liability to the Adisa name.”

“What’s that smell?” Ezeji sat up and sniffed about. “It smells like straight-up CAP.”

“It’s obvious the people want someone like Maulana to speak for them. We don’t want to get in the way of that.”

“Maulana spanked that ass, now you want to get ghost?” His tone kept light, but Ezeji sat up, his emi both troubled and concerned. He pressed his lips together, having more to say but knowing he wasn’t going to say them in the best way.

“Look, it don’t work like that. With Xola gone, we thought our role was to fill in for him. However, community chose another voice—Maulana—to speak for it.”

“You leaving is the last thing anyone, Maulana included, wants.”

“We know that. On one level. On another, we took it as a sign that we weren’t ready. That we needed to grow, to challenge ourselves. We want to find … me … in all of…” We gestured to the room, but meant all of it. The Dreaming City. Muungano. “This. We believe the next stage of our journey lies away from the Dreaming City. Somewhere we have room to explore.”

“That’s deep. You don’t know where you’re going or what you’re going to be doing. It sounds to me like the next stage of your journey is homelessness.” Ezeji walked over to us and extended his arm to clasp ours in support. “Sounds fun. Can I come?”

“Nah, your place is here.” We clasped his arm and drew him into our embrace. “We submitted your name to stand in our place. Head of the Adisa family.”

“What?” Ezeji backed up a step.

“We both have new areas of opportunities to explore. This journey will be good for you.”

The Dreaming City did not have a spaceport. Not the way O.E. considered them. The outer band was almost an open-air market, filled with song and dance and the great smells of outdoor cooking. It led into an interior of tunnels, the walls and floors still a curated art experience, but there was a somberness to its tunnels and docking stations. It was a place of transitions, where people could lose themselves in the in-between spaces. We approached the recently docked Saqqara. Members disembarked, and others prepared to embark. A flood of people streamed in from O.E. Those leaving were going anywhere except there. A figure stiffened when we came into view. Jaha hefted her own slingpack.

“What are you doing?” we asked.

“Going with you,” Jaha said.

“Your place is at Maulana’s side,” we said. “He will need your counsel and ability to get shit done for the next phase of Muungano he is building.”