Once we could see the future and you were in it, we can only hope you found some peace

now we just want the pain to cease, forgive us, for our deafness, for our blindness

Falling short of our kindness, what we say we’re about

knowing we failed you, bailed on you, jailed you

Just say something, we’d do anything to hear you shout,

not the still violence of silence without guidance

It’s hard to be out here still shinin’ when the darkness here still calls to us

Once you walked beside us, no matter what still connected, in a kraal with us

We would like to be remembered, us in you, so we remember, ibaye tonu

But things can’t change because things always change

His head bobbing to our flow, Ezeji fashioned a couch for himself and stretched out along it, his arms running its entire length. Once we stopped and opened our eyes, he upticked his chin for us to have a seat. “What you no good?”

“Nothing. Met with our Pops, then with Bayard.” We slid down a wall to rest on the floor, too tired to want anything more.

“How did we reimagine a better society and yet it still involved so many more meetings?”

“More ways and opportunities to connect.” The words spilling out in reflex, we shut our eyes.

“Nah, I ain’t feeling that.” Ezeji tapped, drumming the air with imaginary sticks. All manner of instruments decorated his room.

His energy always challenged ours. Even lyrically, his cadences worked at a whole different level, causing us to quicken our pace. He didn’t care about structure or form, only flow. The words. This was a far cry from the boy who declared that he wanted to be an intern of the Ijo. At age eight. Camara Xola stroked his beard as if in deep consideration before reminding Ezeji that the council usually didn’t start interns until they were at least thirteen. But Ezeji assured him that he was up to any challenge. Xola checked with his brother and sister, who said that he wasn’t ready. But Ezeji stood firm, imploring that he was up for any challenge. Xola paired him with Jaha.

Ezeji lasted two weeks before he was ready to quit. It was difficult to fail out of the Thmei Academy, especially if your uncle was Camara of the community. Still, Ezeji gave it his best shot, getting on the wrong side of her with his attitude and lack of drive. After she ran him out of a service drill, all Xola asked him was, “What have you learned?”

“That y’all stay grinding,” Ezeji told him. “And I got to find my own game.”

Soon after, he left for the Yo to pursue being a pyr ball player.