The mood of the Muungano space was another collateral casualty of the embassy bombing. The very air had a heaviness to it, an oppressive, inevitable sense of an unseen predator nearing. Yet that vague unease continued to stir within all of us. An older, nagging pain quietly nursed, the way broken hearts often were. A mix of loss and regret, like we attempted to walk on a recently broken leg that had healed poorly.

The temple had little by way of what we thought of as sacred design. None of the ornate fixtures meant to stir the awe of transcendence, but rather a simple structure flooded with early-morning light fluted through its window shields. Its entrance never locked, we entered through the low, wide archway.

Around the room, the images of ten orisha watched over any who entered, portraits in relief, three of whom were clustered together near the front of the room, at the heart of the chamber, over a dais with a golden orb suspended above it. Bayard strode about the space. We have always found him a curious figure. He waved about a censer burning sage, preparing for his Ubuntu service. Ubuntu meant “I am because we are,” a belief in the universal bond of sharing that connected all of humanity. Bayard wasn’t the religious head of the community, since many faiths populated Muungano, but he was well respected as a liberation theist. The community trusted his ability to create space for all people, even crafting his church service to demonstrate the same radical hospitality as the God he said he served.

“We see you, Bayard. How are you?” Neither Xola nor Selamault raised us with any particular faith traditions, leaving us to find our own way for ourselves. There was an openness in which he practiced his faith, which drew us to him.

“I see you, young Adisa. I’m facing more challenges than I can say.” His tone thick with knowing, as if waiting for us to unburden ourselves. Similar to Camara Xola, there was never any relaxing around Bayard. His words often felt a little too slick. Though he had a fascinating mind and perspective, beneath it bubbled a vague ambition. Like he was always on some agenda and was constantly probing and testing in order to move it forward. “Yet I’m strangely optimistic and full of joy. How are you?”

“We are … We don’t know how we are. May we rest here?” Our emi wanted to do little more than curl up in the window, our legs drawn up to our chest, and stare out of it until our joints ached.

Wiping his forehead, his energy radiated a coolness. He sat down next to us. “If you cannot rest here, I have failed in my mission. What’s on your mind?”

“Muungano never lets up. I don’t even know what roles I’m supposed to have here.”