It has always been with you, a part of you. You grab two chakrams, rotating them in your grasp, passing them through each other like a stage magician preparing a trick involving interlocking rings. You lock your arms in a variety of stances and clutches, as if grappling with someone over the possession of the chakrams. You spin each ring, rotating them at greater and greater speeds while you go through the Forms. Part meditation, part martial training, you hadn’t decided if you wanted to formerly join the Niyabinghi, but you wanted to keep your options open. You spar with the air, battling your shadow.

Xola is dead.

He’d been sick for a while. His neurological symptoms continued to spiral and deepen, with those closest in his circle shielding you and—maybe even—him from its true depths. It was only a matter of time, you knew, but it still came too soon. It isn’t public knowledge yet, in order to allow the immediate family time to process the news. To steel themselves for the onslaught of the outpouring of community.

You stretch upward, reaching toward the sky, rotating your arms in huge windmilling circles. You sway with the looseness of a dancer, keeping fluid in the moment. A mix of emotions fuel your movements. Anger. Fear. Sadness. Grief has a physical quality to it. One that settles deep within your bones, wearying muscles until they are left so weak, even simple bedsheets prove too heavy to move.

You slide into a crouch, a low stance, chakrams still whirring.

You thought you needed to bury your anger, shove it deep within you, deny that part of you. Forgetting about it as it festered until it explodes out of you and you hope to contain its fallout afterward. But then you found Camara Xola. Spinning the chakrams reminds you of a cat fascinated by a ball. You twirl, not quite sure where you end and each chakram begin. The three of you spinning faster and faster. The blade becomes a faint buzz in your ears, a dangerous whine keening ever closer with each revolution. You don’t care. You rage. An inchoate thing boiling in your veins. A heat in need of venting.

When you first encountered Xola, you were so full of anger. You had been invited to speak at a LISC-sponsored community event to build erstwhile allies. A rally against the propaganda coming out of the Yo. Not Xola, not the Ijo, not any in Muungano tried to tell you what to say …