The Seven

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"She's in the chapel. They'll only let her see Kuji for ten minutes of each hour, so she spends the rest of the time praying."

"It's that bad?" he asked, his eyes begging to be told otherwise.

Nia took both his hands. "Yes. It's that bad. He stopped breathing and was without oxygen for quite a while. She shooed me away. Wanted to be alone, she said, so I left. I'll go up and stay with Ujima while you're gone."

"Thanks. She's scared, but won't say so. Hell, I'm scared, too. Thirty-six weeks is still early enough to be risky, but ..." he trailed off.

"You'd better get going," Nia said, realizing that he procrastinated. "It'll be hours and hours before the baby comes. Tell Imani I'll be with Ujima if she needs me."

"Will do," he promised. "I'll be back as quickly as I can."

Nia watched the proud man's back as he hurried toward the chapel. The vicious attacks which peppered Kuumba's campaign for city council only served to strengthen his resolve. He never stooped to his opponents' level. He stuck to the issues and won in spite of the fact that most of his staunchest supporters were not even registered to vote. Voting required something the homeless lacked: an address. Kuumba's election to the council gave Nia, and many others, hope.

The battle over Washington Street polarized the community, and Kuumba's relentless opposition to the development scored him both friends and enemies. On the council, he represented the minority position, although a few still sat the fence– playing the political odds. The inadequate compensation being planned comprised only one part of the problem. Those old row houses that had been handed down from generation to generation for over a hundred years, and the historical society considered them worthy of preservation. Tenants of the rent-controlled apartments would receive nothing; only the landlords stood to benefit. Those who squatted in the abandoned warehouse had no options at all. In a nutshell, those most affected were completely disenfranchised.

And, of course, there was Nguzo Saba. They began keeping records when Kuumba first informed them of the city's plans. The figures–the sheer number of people served, day in and day out–still amazed Nia. How could anyone, when confronted with the hard data, even consider destroying such a place? she wondered. The answer, of course: greed.

Nia moved briskly toward the elevators. She would watch the council meeting on the television in Ujima's room. They would cheer for Kuumba when he spoke and hold hands as the council members each voted, praying for a reprieve. She would rub Ujima's shoulders and coach her through the contractions. They would try to pretend that their lives did not teeter on the brink of disaster.

Nia dreaded Ujima's first words. "How's Kuji?"

"He is alive," she responded, truthfully if somewhat evasively. "Not out of danger, but alive."

"Nia ..."

"Let's focus on happier thoughts, shall we? Your baby is coming tonight! How close are your contractions?"

"Still over twenty minutes apart," she smiled. "Kuumba should be back in plenty of time for the birth. Turn on the TV, would you? The meeting starts in a couple minutes."

All three local stations broadcasted the council meeting live. Nia selected the one which was typically more sympathetic to their cause. They normally watched the more conservative channels in order to get a better idea of the challenges they'd face when seeking support. Tonight, however, she preferred not to stir the ire such broadcasts often evoked. Ujima cocked an eyebrow at Nia's choice, but said nothing.

The screen showed the council bench, a semi-circular affair with a podium at the midpoint of the arc. Ten members of the council were seated, and the chairperson leaned on the polished wood podium.

"I don't see Kuumba," Ujima fretted. "He should be there by now."

Nia shushed her. "They're starting."

"Ladies and gentlemen," the chair began, adjusting the microphone, "members of the media, and citizens watching at home, welcome. As you are no doubt already aware, this special meeting was supposed to have taken place this afternoon. However, a series of events made it necessary to reschedule. The council extends its sincerest well wishes to those injured in this afternoon's ... um, scuffle. We can delay consideration of this pressing matter no further. Each member of the council will have ten minutes to speak, and then we will vote. The issue on the table this evening is the seizure of properties along Washington Street for economic development. I'll cede the microphone now to the council member from the First District."

A contraction diverted their attention. "They're getting closer," Ujima noted through clenched teeth. "Just sixteen minutes this time."

A nurse bounced in, recorded Ujima's vitals, and bounced out. By the time they were again able to attend to the broadcast, the Second District council member spoke. She was one of the undecided, along with the representative from the Sixth District. Kuumba spent long hours trying to convince them to vote against the measure. Her remarks sounded nice, but had no substance. Typical political double talk.

Third, Fourth, and Fifth District council members strongly favored the proposal. Ujima'd endured four more contractions by the time the member from the Sixth District began to speak.

"Did Kuumba show up yet?" she asked as her most recent contraction ended.

Nia shook her head. "He's still got a little time, though."

They missed the speakers from the Seventh and Eighth Districts when the doctor came in to check Ujima's progress. "One hundred percent effaced," he told the nurse, "and seven centimeters. Call me when she gets to nine." He disappeared without even acknowledging Ujima. The nurse shrugged apologetically and then disappeared herself.

Kuumba, representing the Ninth District, should have been next. The chair announced that, given the extraordinary circumstances, Kuumba would be allowed to speak when – if – he arrived.

Ujima's contractions picked up steam, and she barely enjoyed six minutes of rest between each. The nurses peeked in and out more frequently, too. Checking this and tweaking that.

"There!" Nia pointed as the member from the Eleventh District stepped away from the microphone. "There's Kuumba!"

Ujima, in the throes of another contraction–hard on the heels of the last, merely grunted in response. "Nia, I want to push. I need to push."

"I'll get the nurse," she said, heading for the door. Kuumba's voice, barely recognizable, stopped her in her tracks. She turned to stare at the television.

"Today," he began, "my dear friend Kujichagulia left this world."

"No! Oh, Lord, please no." Ujima was wailing and pounding her fists on the mattress.

"Kuji died doing what he loved and what he believed in. He died trying to save Washington Street. I would have gladly taken his place if given the chance."

Kuumba continued speaking, but his words just floated in the air. Nia stood frozen in disbelief. "Kuji," she whispered and half expected to hear a tinny "Yo, foxy babe!" from his voice synthesizer.

Two nurses pushed her aside, jarring her from her trance. "You'll have to step outside, ma'am," one called over her shoulder.

Nia forced her legs to move. They felt heavy, as if all her insides had dropped into them, leaving the rest of her hollow. She could hear Ujima's continuous cries echoing through the dark tunnel of her mind. Aimlessly, she shuffled into the hallway – not sure where to go or what to do; feeling a desire to help, but not knowing how.

She looked up and saw Imani walking toward her, Umoja and Ujamaa on either side. Nia collapsed into their arms. A nurse, embarrassed by their tears, herded them into a vacant consultation room and closed the door. Imani, eerily composed, comforted them in turn; sharing tales of the esteem her son held for each.

Ujamaa left to get them some water and returned with the news that the council referendum had been defeated by a vote of six to five. The chair, who could've cast a tying vote, abstained. This brought another round of tears; these tinged with relief to know that Kuji did not die in vain.

When they regained some of their equilibrium, they went together to check on Ujima. The charge nurse looked surprised to see them. "We lost track of you during the shift change. We've been looking all over the hospital for you," she said, giving no indication if the news was good or bad. "You can go on in."

Kuumba stood at her bedside, staring with wonder at his newborn son who was sleeping peacefully against Ujima's breast. He looked up as they entered the room and smiled. "We are again seven," he said with pride.

"Our son will be called Kuji," Ujima announced as the tears streamed from her eyes. "May his life honor that which we've lost."

EPILOGUE NGUZO SABA The Seven Principles of Kwanzaa

Umoja [oo-MOE-jah] (Unity) To strive for and maintain unity in the family, community, nation and race.

Kujichagulia [koo-jee-cha-goo-LEE-yah] (Self-Determination) To define ourselves, name ourselves, create for ourselves and speak for ourselves.

Ujima [oo-JEE-mah] (Collective Work and Responsibility) To build and maintain our community together and make our brother's and sister's problems our problems and to solve them together.

Ujamaa [oo-JAH-mah] (Cooperative Economics) To build and maintain our own stores, shops and other businesses and to profit from them together.

Nia [nee-YAH] (Purpose) To make our collective vocation the building and developing of our community in order to restore our people to their traditional greatness.

Kuumba [koo-OOM-bah] (Creativity) To do always as much as we can, in the way we can, in order to leave our community more beautiful and beneficial than we inherited it.

Imani [ee-MAH-nee] (Faith) To believe with all our heart in our people, our parents, our teachers, our leaders and the righteousness and victory of our struggle.

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