He was still the over-the-top character she met at the Thmei Academy. A hypercaffeinated personality wrapped in a lanky frame and a raised fist. Hair a mess, falling off to whichever side he wore his hat. Disheveled was his fashion sense. Challenged all of his teachers. And had a charismatic impertinence that she found charming, leaving her questioning her taste in qualities she found attractive. But she’d love him until the end, in health or in sickness. Even if that sickness was a degenerative type of focal dystonia, a misfiring of the brain causing a variety of neurological disorders. Painful muscle contractions. Diminished sight. Loss of motor skills.

“You look tired. Eat something.”

“I am.” Xola reached for another apple slice and began to get up.

“Have a seat. I’ll get your drink.”

“You dote too much,” he mumbled with his mouth full of apple.

“You want to get it yourself?”

“Well, I mean, since you’re already up…”

They sat in silence, each sipping their own drink and enjoying the silent presence of the other. Xola could keep his “morphic resonance” ideas; for Selamault, it was the ritual of ontological relationship. She consoled herself with a lesson of Muungano: caring meant being courageous enough to be fully present with one another. One did not have to be useful or whole or even remotely healed as long as they were present. Willing to bare themselves, their full, vulnerable selves, to others and allow their history of hurts to be transformed into a wellspring of healing. Simply being with those she could silently vibe with. They lived in the quiet.

But not this quiet.

Her eyes flashed open. A sudden absence of sound, which now resonated loudly in her awareness. No light snores signaling Xola’s drop-off into early sleep. No tapping of the glass to whatever rhythm played in his head. No faintly asthmatic breath. Just … silence.

Xola’s head lolled to the side.

Selamault rushed to him, shaking him, but his arm tottered over the edge of his chair. His glass fell from his loose grip and shattered on the floor.

She reached out with her emi. There was a … blankness in the space he used to fill.

“Xola?” she asked, already knowing she’d never hear his sweet voice again. “Xola?”

09 FELA BUHARI
Eshu