This was how maintaining Muungano consumed so much of our mind. Ferreting out the politics and motivations of those outside our space to determine whether they were a threat. Every day felt like a new round of interstitial chess and moves within moves within moves. Knowing people held meetings on Yo and on Mars, in and about Muungano, the whispers making their way back to us. Preparing and bracing for their moves.

Our feet slapped against the asphalt tile of fused regolith. It wasn’t as if we had much by way of furnishings or decoration in our room. No art hung on the walls other than the geometrically patterned clay paints. Our unit was free of distraction, a blank slate to retreat to. We grabbed clothes from the nearest pile. Nanobots tended laundry as part of their cleaning protocols, so we were never overly concerned with our clothing selection. Unless it was a ceremonial occasion, we typically went for the same look. Our clothing a blend of color, noise, and texture. Pants sheared and tight as if passed down from a smaller brother, aged to the appropriate level of fashionable distress. Ruffled sleeves, a series of dampening folds. Our jacket of sisal and beads woven together, doubled as a sound shield, allowing us to record and master music in any location should inspiration hit. A knit hat was the last piece of our armor we needed in order to face our day. With the day cycle just beginning, we needed to rehearse with Ezeji. Now was usually our favorite time to head into the studio to mix our music, before anyone else was up and we could enjoy the night sounds.

Incomplete truths, a half-sung melody, your life a cypher to everyone, including we

Still trying to make sense, only knowing we’re not okay, we’re not okay, we’re not okay

It’s been nearly three years since my baby left;

we failed you, didn’t see the obvious, didn’t see you

The most important person, right in front of us,

hiding in a black hole, between dark spaces, you

It’s our fault, we know. Choosing not to notice how mind, body, and emi hurt,

truth without rhyme

We want to hate her for leaving us alone, hollowed out, swallowed whole,

followed soon in time

But things can’t change because things always change

Even before the Lunar Ukombozi War, life on the Yo—with the environmental collapse and subsequent economic collapse—had made things so hard, people no longer feared of leaping into the unknown to try something new. The weusi established First World from the ashes of one of Yo’s failed attempts at colonization. It evolved into Muungano, our ongoing experiment in community. Muungano may have been the dream, but maintaining it was a motherfucker.