Camara Xola has been every bit the father to you ever since you lost your parents in a mining accident so long ago you can’t remember their faces outside of a holovid. He releases your hand after a brief shake of your fingers to keep you from spiraling into a gravity well of introspection.

“I know.” You slowly meet his eyes. “I really do.”

“Good. Besides, you being around keeps Wachiru on his toes.”

“He needs it. All of Muungano will be his one day.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Camara Xola straightens, excited about an idea, and suddenly seems a few dozen years younger. “If we do this really, really well, Muungano will be everywhere. Folks raised in the Muungano way will go out into the world, the universe, and they will create other Muunganos in new spaces.”

“But Wachiru is the heir apparent.” You leave the words not me unsaid.

“Wachiru is the oldest in the work. He was born into it and raised in it, so naturally he’s a great candidate. But the role is not grounded in biology; a leader has to be selected by the community. The Camara is the voice of the community. A teacher. A consensus builder. Someone with the vision and skills to lead. Someone who represents the philosophy of the work. Now I don’t know how Wachiru would feel about any of that. At the very least, though, he recognizes the burden and sacrifice of leadership.” Camara Xola slumps, suddenly weary. When he chuckles, it’s a low, dark thing. “Maybe I’m being naive not having developed a ritual of transition.”

“Because you oldheads think you’re immortal.” Keyed to your artificial cowries encircling your wrist, you activate a wave of nanobots with a sweep of your hand. With that gesture, your funkentelechy spreads and directs them like liquid metal to fashion a curtain for you to hide behind to finish dressing. More because you hate the vulnerability of being observed enrobing than actually being seen nude. You have no shame of your body, but you do treat the ritual of dressing and applying makeup with the solemnity of a magician not wanting to reveal their secrets.

“It has been a couple of hundred years of birthdays. I’m old enough to know that we have to remain vigilant.” Xola’s voice becomes thoughtful and distant, drifting off into a dream. “There are always forces ready to attack who we are. I fear what we might become to stop them. But worst-case scenario is how my mind works.”

The two of you fall silent as you finish putting on your clothes. The weight of the day, of the community, presses on you. Your mind sifts through possibilities. You can’t escape the sensation of something impending about to drop on you. You push your anxiousness to the side as you put the final pins in your wrap.

“I’m almost ready,” you announce.