“You’re right. It did. We support it. And you. Sometimes folks need a slap to wake them up. I just wanted to test you a bit. As fun and easy as it is, you need other tools in your kit besides slapping folks. Right now, you a slap-aholic. A slappiologist.”

Not many fell into his direct orbit. A commanding presence, all sorts of public figures—important people from heads of state to politicians to scientists—sought an audience with him. His days were filled with the nonstop meeting of one need or another. Yet for some reason, he made time for you. He always made space for you. When you asked for support and input, he gave it. When you didn’t, he gave you room to maneuver. Or fail. Either way, he remained by your side.

And now he is gone.

And you don’t know how to fill the Xola-sized hole in your life.

And you don’t want to be alone.

The grief erupts when you least expect it, rearing up in sputtering fits. You search for anything to latch on to. Anything to steady your footing enough to provide you traction to move forward. Your world no longer made any sense. You feel lost again. Like you don’t know where you belong. Thrown off balance, you tumble from your pose. The spinning chakrams clatter along the floor. You barely catch yourself, but you know your hand is not strong enough to support you. You let yourself fall, not trying to move, lying there until the wave of tears stop.

You’d stowed away aboard a transport to Muungano. Your imagined success at cleverness proved short-lived as the Griot Circle was long used to such runaways. The jelis had allowed you passage to find a new home.

When you’d first arrived on Muungano, you were every bit your mother’s daughter: tough, cantankerous, iron-willed, and sharp-tongued. And dark. Not that dark was a shield, but dark was how you were built. Dark thickened your skin and warped the senses of how people perceived you. Dark was fierce, dark was protective, dark was never mistaken for soft.

You walk by the gathered girls playing their games. Some chant songs while swinging double Dutch. Others just chase a ball. All of them breathing free air and being themselves. One girl catches your eye. Standing against a holovid, she arranges equations about the air as if creating a piece of art. A string of code that makes no sense to you but holds her captivated.

A slight tinge of unease washes over you as you enter the temple. You had turned your back on the path of your mother. You wanted something freer, that harkened back to your pre-Yo way of life and thought. Though, most important, you wanted something to stir your soul.