The tantalizing aroma of Southern cooking soon permeated the house. Marley removed a slender electronic device from his tattered sports coat. He stabbed the shiny metallic point through the crispy, golden coating of the fried fish. “Oh, that’s interesting,” he mused, eyeing his phone screen. “The fish has riboflavin and omega-3 fatty acids.”
D’Melo scratched his head. “Marl, what are you doing?”
“It’s a Lumalink,” he said, as if everyone should know what a Lumalink was. “It tells you the components of things. This way you can always know what you’re eating.”
Jeylan chimed in. “You spent your hard-earned money, flippin’ burgers at Chubby’s, to buy something that tells you what you can just read on the package? Dawg, you gotta be the biggest nerd on the East Coast.”
“But it does more than that,” Marley raved. “Watch this.” He raised the Lumalink to Kazim’s diamond earring. “You see, this ain’t real.” He read, “It’s zirconium dioxide, otherwise known as ‘the poor man’s diamond.’”
Kazim slapped the Lumalink from his ear. “Get out of here with that, nerd!” It launched from Marley’s hand and landed perfectly in the mashed potatoes.
“Ahhh, man,” Marley whined. “Look what you did!” He glanced at his phone and his expression changed from dismay to elation. “Awww.” He threw his arm over D’Melo’s shoulder. “Thanks, man! You flooded the potatoes with butter. You know I love butter. And you used the real stuff this time, not that nasty margarine you usually use.”
“So Marley,” Baba said, giving D’Melo, Jeylan and Kazim a grinning wink. They frantically gestured for Baba not to get Marley started. He ignored their plea. “How does this thing work?” D’Melo inclined his head and sighed.
Marley explained in glowing detail how the Lumalink gathered information, which allowed it to analyze materials to authenticate objects.
Finally, Kazim asked, “Can it help you tell whether a hottie is into you?”
“Kaz,” Jeylan quipped. “You don’t need to waste your money on a Luma-whatever to answer that. I can tell you for free.” Jeylan leveled his eyes with Kazim. “She’s not!”
“You just a hater!” Kazim replied, pushing back a smile.
The brotherly banter cascaded joy warmly through D’Melo’s body. He gazed at his surrogate family with tender eyes. For him, absolutely nothing could be better than this.
Baba never failed to open Sunday dinner with a morsel of wisdom for the boys to chew on. He worried that the often self-serving and hostile world of Lincoln Downs left them starving for hope and affirmations of their worthiness. So before diving into the Sunday meal, Baba first nourished their souls.
“As you enter this final year of high school, you are a different person. You’re not the same as you were before.”
“That’s true, Baba,” Jeylan said. “But I wish you would tell that to Kaz’s head. It still got that same 1980s Jheri curl it had last year.” The table burst into raucous laughter. Even Baba murmured a restrained chuckle.
Baba paused until decorum returned to the table. “You’re the same person, in a sense,” he continued to an occasional giggle. “But you aren’t, in another sense. It’s like the sun that rises in the morning. You can say it’s the same sun as yesterday, but it’s also a different sun because it dawns on a new day. In Kipaji we say, ‘Macho mapia, fursa mpia.’ This means, ‘New eyes, new opportunity.’
“So, as you enter this year, it’s time to ponder your future using your new eyes. Don’t let society dictate your fate. Dream your dream, then set your minds and hearts on achieving it.”
“Baba,” Jeylan said. “That all sounds nice, but life’s hard out there with white folks running everything. They just want to keep us down.” Jeylan’s face tensed. His brother, Tyreke, was recently accused of stealing drugs from the pharmacy where he worked. His boss warned him to return the drugs or he would be fired.
Jeylan bit his lip, trying to keep his anger at bay. His family had a history with unscrupulous shop owners. His father had been swindled by his white business partner out of tens of thousands of dollars.
“I know Tyreke didn’t steal any drugs,” Jeylan asserted. “What would he do with them? He doesn’t use, and he ain’t no pusher. It’s just that this white dude hates black people.”
“You mean that German guy who owns the store on Cherry Street? That guy isn’t racist,” D’Melo refuted.
Jeylan fumed. “Why are those Germans even in this neighborhood? They just runnin’ their shop and taking money out of the black man’s pocket. This is our community!”
“Well,” Marley interjected sheepishly. “Actually, it was their community first. Lincoln Downs was a German neighborhood before all the African immigrants started to settle here in the seventies.”
Baba tried to bring peace back to the table. “Jeylan, I understand how you’re feeling. But I want you to realize that this thinking is only hurting you. There are a lot of barriers out there for black people, but none insurmountable. The only barrier that will prevent us from realizing our dreams is the one we erect inside our own minds.
“I’m going to tell you a story to illustrate my point. There was a magician named Harry Houdini who could seemingly escape from the most difficult of confinements. He boasted that he could break out of any jail in the world. One prison took him up on his challenge. As the cell door clanked shut, Houdini slipped a pliable piece of metal out from beneath his belt. He thought he would be free in minutes. But he couldn’t open the lock. After some time, he became frustrated and gave up.
“Houdini collapsed against the door, which then slid open.” Baba delivered the punchline: “You see, the cell door was never locked. Well, I should say, it was never locked except in Houdini’s mind. The barrier he created in his head was the most formidable obstacle he had ever come across. It was so powerful that it broke his spirit, which made it impossible to achieve what he could have easily accomplished.”
Baba’s eyes panned the table, pausing momentarily on each of them. “I pray that you will not construct barriers in your mind that will prevent you from becoming everything you desire to be in this world.”
“So, Baba,” Kazim said. “You always wanted to be a biology professor?”
“Sometimes your path is chosen for you by the Great Spirit. And when that happens, it behooves you to follow it.”
Baba was a doctor in Kipaji before his life took an unexpected turn. When he moved to America, his medical degree was not accepted. Being in a new country without two pennies to rub together, Baba didn’t have the time or resources to get a new medical license.
“D’Melo was little,” he explained, his lips stretching sentimentally into a smile. “I didn’t want to miss one moment of him growing up. I’m happy with my choice.”
Taking his cue from the rumble in D’Melo’s stomach, Baba wound up the pep talk. “Go after whatever you’re passionate about. And trust that the Great Spirit will assist you in achieving it.”
“Truth,” they chorused. “Take ’em to church, Baba!”
Baba raised his glass of cranberry juice. “Kwa uzima,” he toasted. “To life.”
“Kwa uzima,” they repeated.
Typically, the dinner conversation was rife with tomfoolery and harmless ribbing. But on this day, somehow the subject of marriage came up and quickly took center stage. Baba stressed the importance of finding a good partner, “It’s the biggest blessing in this world.” He peered at D’Melo and clarified, “When the time is right.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me, Baba,” D’Melo assured him. “I’m not messing with any girls. It’s books and basketball for me; that’s it!”
“Man,” Kazim said. “I don’t know how you do it. You get mad hotties all over you. And this year, it’s gonna be even worse. They gonna be sniffin’ that NBA loot.”
D’Melo had planned out hi
s life to the finest detail—and the plan didn’t include girls right now. He worked hard in high school because he was planning on getting a scholarship to the University of Pennsylvania. After college, he figured he would play in the NBA or become an American history teacher. Either way, settling down anywhere other than Lincoln Downs was out of the question. “If I make the NBA,” he said, “I better be drafted by the Sixers, so I can stay right here in Philly with Baba and y’all fools! Then,” he avowed, “I’ll get married and have four kids.”
“Four!” Jeylan exclaimed. “You want four little rug rats running around here!”
“At least! I want more, if my wife’s willing. You guys have brothers and sisters. You don’t know what it’s like being an only child. I look at big families and I see the kids playing, laughing, fighting, doing everything together; it’s beautiful. If I had a wife and kids and nothing else, I’d be the happiest person in the world. I just want a normal life, like normal people.”
D’Melo had always met his high school sports celebrity status and apparent lucrative future with casual sobriety. His detachment was often misperceived as humble. Although D’Melo possessed humility in abundance, if truth be told, his nonchalance had more to do with coping. The very thought of being separated from Baba, his friends, and Lincoln Downs made him nauseous with anxiety.
After the dinner, Sundays had come to host another, less propitious tradition. As soon as the last crumb of dessert had been devoured, the reasons why D’Melo’s friends had to leave before clean-up began to fly. Over the years, the excuses, initially irritating, had become a welcome and highly entertaining part of the evening.
“Wow, I’m stuffed,” Jeylan muttered, leaning back heavily in his chair. “You hooked it up, D.” He then glanced at the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink. “I wish I could help y’all, but I gotta dip. My sister’s learning a new violin piece and needs my tutelage.” D’Melo and Baba exchanged an amused glance, silently acknowledging Jeylan’s creativity in crafting his entry for dodging the dishes.
“But Jey,” D’Melo played along. “You don’t play the violin.”
“I know. It’s crazy, ain’t it?” he deadpanned. “She must be desperate.”
Kazim was next. “I gotta bounce, too. I got homework to do.”
“What!” D’Melo blurted. “School doesn’t even start until Tuesday!”
“I said I got homework, not schoolwork. I gotta get crackin’ on my honey plan.” They all shook their heads at the lameness of Kazim’s excuse. “Do you know how much work that is?” Kazim attempted to justify his urgent duty. “There are like a thousand girls in our school. I gotta be prepared.”
All eyes turned to Marley, wondering what he had come up with. “I have to run—I have a group call tonight with the Mechanics Club,” he declared. “We’re deciding on what we’re gonna build for the Inventors of Tomorrow competition. All the schools in the region are gunning for us because we won last year.”
“You guys are too much.” D’Melo indulged them with a warm smile. “Alright, I’ll see y’all tomorrow.”
After clean-up, Baba settled down on the living room sofa. D’Melo headed to his room. Dong, dong, dong . . . the wall clock chimed nine times. Another Sunday night tradition was about to unfold. “D’Melo, it’s time for The World This Week!” D’Melo hemmed and hawed about how the news was depressing, then dragged himself to the living room and plunked down limply. Truthfully, D’Melo looked forward to spending this time with his father. But he didn’t necessarily want Baba to know that; he was a teenager, after all.
The news program opened with a report on the country of Malunga in Central Africa. Baba straightened attentively on the sofa. Geographically, Kipaji was part of Malunga, but was a sovereign region within it. So any news about what was happening in Malunga was of special interest to Baba.
Malunga had been marred by nearly two decades of an on-again, off-again civil war. Rebels from the minority Shuja tribe had been fighting against the discriminatory practices of the Borutu-led Malungan government, but with only sporadic success.
This was the first time that Malunga had been in the news for a year or more, as far as D’Melo could remember. The civil war had grown quiet since the mysterious disappearance of the Shuja rebel leader, Waasi Madaki. Now, Malunga once again found itself in the bright light of international scrutiny, but this time for non-war-related news. Baba and D’Melo listened together as the newscaster unfolded the report.
Newscaster: “While pharmaceutical giant, Pharma, is having one of its best years on record, some are protesting its methods of discovering new medicines. In recent years, Pharma’s bioprospecting in Central Africa has resulted in three drugs that their CEO says will make great advancements in the fight against cancer. However, hundreds of protesters have clustered outside Pharma headquarters in San Francisco. They allege that Pharma is exploiting the Shuja tribe and their rainforest. The company extracts medicinal plants from Shuja forests and makes millions of dollars from them, yet it has provided no compensation to the tribespeople.
“While Pharma claims to be saving the lives of tens of thousands with these medicines, it sells them at such high prices that the common Shuja can’t afford to buy them. The irony in this is, Shujas are dying every year from some of the very diseases that these medicines, which came from their land, are designed to cure.
“There is another allegation brewing among the protesters. In the process of bioprospecting for medicinal plants, Pharma is desecrating the Nyumbani, the sacred homeland of the Shuja tribe. They assert that Pharma’s president of product development for Africa, Wilem VanLuten, has struck immoral, if not illegal, deals with the Malungan government for unfettered access to the Nyumbani, a land known to be rich in natural resources, particularly medicinal plants.
“To the Shujas, the Nyumbani is much more than merely their homeland. It’s where Shujas believe the spirit of their ancestors still live. Now Pharma has turned this sacred land into its own bioprospecting playground. Since Pharma’s invasion of the Nyumbani, the Shuja community has become disillusioned and has fallen into despair.
“So the debate rages: Should Pharma be allowed to continue bioprospecting to bring potentially life-saving medicines to the world, when doing so is decimating the culture, traditions, and the way of life of the Shuja people? You be the judge.”
“You see, Baba,” D’Melo said, feeling validated. “There are always terrible things in the news. And Africa’s the worst! You’re so lucky you were able to get out of there.”
“D’Melo,” Baba replied stiffly. “Do you think what you see on TV is Africa? You watch a clip about a continent with a billion people and fifty-four countries, and you think you know Africa? That’s not Africa,” he asserted, pointing to the TV. “Every place has struggles. But for Africa, all that’s reported are the struggles. There are wonderful and amazing things happening in Africa that will never find their way onto this screen.
“Son, Africa isn’t something you will ever be able to understand sitting on a couch in Lincoln Downs. To really know Africa, you have to touch it, you have to breathe it, taste it, smell it.” Baba paused as his mind filled with images of the vibrant Kipaji mountains and forests. He shut his eyes and breathed tranquility: he was back home on Amanzi Mountain, lazing in the soft tangerine light of sunrise, absorbing the prattle of a crystal brook, drawing the perfume of lavender, jasmine, and gardenia into his nose and lungs. Cool mist from one of the many waterfalls freshens his face with a caress. “It’s a place of spirit, son,” Baba said wistfully. “So to understand it, you have to lead with your soul. Once you do, you’ll realize that Africa is pure magic.”
Baba’s attention drifted to the drawing beneath the wall clock and his nostalgia deepened. D’Melo’s mother, one of Kipaji’s most beloved artists, had sketched it soon after they arrived in America.
“I never stopped being amazed at how your mother could
create such beautiful things.” Baba’s eyes misted. “Do you remember all of her art in our house in D.C.?”
D’Melo shook his head.
“Well, you were still little at the time.”
“Why didn’t we bring Mama’s art when we moved to Philly?”
“After she died, I realized that I wouldn’t be able to bear having so much of her around me.” Baba’s voice wobbled. “But I couldn’t leave all of her, so I brought this one.” Baba gestured toward the drawing.
“Why this one? I mean, I like it, but it doesn’t look like anything.”
“It’s abstract,” Baba said, bemused. “Your mother would get so riled up over injustice in the world. It would tie her up in knots.” His jaw tensed. “Creating art helped her work out her turmoil. But this piece in particular was special to her.” Baba grimaced, and then his gaze morphed into a bristling glare. He closed the conversation with the same thing he always said after he had been looking at the drawing: “Haki inakuja kwako! (Justice will find you!)”
The following evening, Jeylan, Kazim, and Marley were hanging out at Jeylan’s house, engaged in their typical high jinks as they waited for Tyreke. They were going to shoot pool at Wilson’s Billiard Hall, one of their main pastimes. It helped keep them out of the trouble, which had an uncanny knack for finding young men in Lincoln Downs.
Then Jeylan’s phone rang. It was his brother, Tyreke, calling from the hospital. His girlfriend had overdosed on oxycontin and was fighting for her life. Jeylan told him that he would come immediately, but would stop at the drugstore on the way to inform Tyreke’s boss that he wouldn’t be able to work in the morning.
“Don’t bother,” Tyreke said. “He just fired me.”
“What!” Jeylan fumed, his vision blurred red. He clicked off the call and brushed tensely past Marley to the garage. He snatched a can of spray paint off the workbench.
Marley grabbed his arm. “Where you goin’ with that?”
Spirit King: Return of the Crown Page 3
