“Are you nervous?” Camara Xola struggles to find a more comfortable position in his seat even as it adjusts to his posture. His hand flutters in front of his face, gesturing as if conducting an invisible orchestra.

“No,” you lie, but you recognize one of his probing questions when you hear them. The community is school and school is always in session, Xola enjoys repeating. The Camara always takes the measure of those around him. Constantly curious, and genuinely so, it also allows him to ferret out possible weakness. No, it was more like scouting. He was always on the lookout to welcome and develop new leaders. Ones committed to building out the Muungano infrastructure for promoting learning and achievement.

And you never want to appear weak before him. Never him.

“You sure? Lots of folks here showing up to check you out. Coming to see what name an Adisa chooses for themselves.” His wry grin widens, perfectly pleased with himself.

You can’t help but match it. “I won’t disappoint.”

“I know you won’t.” Camara Xola’s eyes dart away from yours. His tell, when he has something he wants to pass along, calculating the best way to come at you.

“What is it?” You provide him the opening. You’ve never had trouble talking with directness to each other.

“You don’t miss a trick, do you?” The grin returns.

“You taught me not to.”

“I did? Hm, I must be better than I thought.” Xola plucks a jackfruit from within the folds of his robes. His long, yellowed nails dig into the flesh of the fruit. You can’t help but watch his flicks and fumbles, the intricate dance of his fingers along the fruit’s skin. You’re pretty convinced that he grows his nails impractically long simply to annoy his caretakers.

“Don’t try to be clever by changing topics,” you say with a smile in your voice.

“It’s Selamault.” A heavy sigh ladens his words. “She won’t be at the Naming Ceremony.”

“Oh.” The disappointment seeps out of you like a poorly bandaged wound.

Camara Xola reaches for your hand, his long, spidery fingers tremulous as they wrap around yours. “She’s sick. Can barely get out of bed. You know it’s the only reason she’d miss your time.”

“Will she be all right?” You study your fingers interlaced with his, how dark your skin is, especially compared to his.

“She should be. I’m not sure she’s going to let a spell of sickness stop her.” Xola squeezes your hand. “She loves you like you were her own.”

“I know.” The words come out, but you sound not quite convinced even to your ears.

“Because you are,” he finishes. “Your place is within our family. A daughter we are so proud of. I hope you hear that. And one day, I hope you fully believe it.”