Spirit King: Return of the Crown

by Dashiel Douglas

  The day before leaving, D’Melo held a press conference at his school. Reporters from every major news outlet filed into the gym. D’Melo didn’t take questions, he simply announced his decision to attend the University of Pennsylvania.

  This news sent shockwaves through the gaggle of clamoring reporters. After the raucousness settled, the ESPN reporter’s voice rang out above the rest. “D’Melo, I’m not disparaging UPenn, it’s a great academic school, but you have the opportunity to go to the best basketball programs. You could have chosen Kentucky, Kansas, or Duke, just to name a few. Those schools churn out NBA players every single year.”

  “Yeah, that’s true,” D’Melo responded evenly. “But those schools don’t have what I’m looking for. They’re not near Lincoln Downs, my home.”

  After a few hushed moments, D’Melo closed. “I want to thank you all for coming today and showing such interest in my future. Some of you have traveled a long distance to be here. I wish you a safe journey home.”

  The clip of D’Melo’s press conference played repeatedly on the sports networks. It was a feeding frenzy for roused sports commentators.

  Steve: “I respect his choice, but does D’Melo really understand what he’s doing? Do you know how many players have been drafted to the NBA from UPenn in the last twenty years? That would be a big fat zero! Four were drafted from the University of Kentucky last year alone! Now, if you show me a dude that’s willing to give up this opportunity, I’ll show you a crazy dude.”

  Mack: “Well, that’s a little harsh, Steve. Yes, he won’t receive a ton of airtime. And yes, he won’t compete against the best talent in college basketball. So yes, it will reduce his chances of being successful in the NBA. But, he’s clearly not about money and fame. What’s wrong with that? Don’t we want to see more of this in today’s world? Personally, I admire his choice. I wish others knew that money and fame aren’t what they’re cracked up to be. Most rich and famous people only realize this after they’ve become rich and famous. D’Melo has obviously learned this at an early age.”

  While the boyz were glued to the TV coverage, D’Melo packed for New York. Zara dug in his closet and pulled together outfits for him. He tossed them into his suitcase and walked it to the front door. He poked his head into the living room. “I’m going to bed, y’all.”

  “Man, it’s like eight o’clock,” Kazim gibed. “You an old man already.”

  “Whatever, dawg. I’m the one who’s gonna be out there ballin’ on national TV tomorrow. You’ll just be in the stands trying to push up on every honey in the arena.”

  Before shuffling off to bed, D’Melo reminded them, “I’ll see y’all bright and early. You best be ready!”

  “We’ll be ready. Just go to bed, grandpa,” Jeylan mocked. He cupped his lips over his teeth. “And don’t forget to take out your dentures,” he gummed. The boyz chuckled.

  Just then, brisk thumps rapped against the front door. D’Melo cracked it warily. A couple of T-Bo’s thugs loomed on the stoop. T-Bo was street side, leaning smugly against his shiny black Escalade. He gestured for D’Melo to come out.

  Although D’Melo saw T-Bo at his games and by chance in the neighborhood, he was thrown to see him at his house. He figured T-Bo just wanted to congratulate him on being named an All-American.

  “What’s up, T-Bo?”

  “How you gonna come out talkin’ about ‘What’s up’!” T-Bo scoffed. “I heard you decided to go to UPenn.” D’Melo nodded, rapidly growing concerned about where this interaction was headed. “You think I supported and protected you all these years out of the goodness of my heart? You were supposed to go to the NBA! And UPenn ain’t gonna get you there.” He jabbed a threatening finger into D’Melo’s forehead. “I suggest you reconsider your decision!”

  T-Bo drew a gun from the small of his back. He brandished it in D’Melo’s face. D’Melo started edging away. T-Bo’s thugs snatched D’Melo by his arms. T-Bo lowered the gun toward D’Melo’s knee. “I could end your basketball career right here.”

  Still inside watching the sports news, Zara suddenly gasped. “Something’s wrong with D’Melo.”

  “What do you mean?” Jeylan fretted.

  “I don’t know, but something’s wrong.”

  In a flash, Jeylan sprung out the door and down the stoop. He jumped in front of D’Melo, scowling at T-Bo. “Yo! Whatcha doin’, fool?”

  “Oh, you a tough guy, huh?” T-Bo sneered.

  Jeylan brought his face nose-to-nose with T-Bo’s. “Put that gun down and we can find out.”

  “No!” Baba intervened. “We’re not going to find out anything tonight.” He backed Jeylan up, keeping his eyes fixed on T-Bo. Marley and Kazim pulled the thugs off D’Melo.

  “Let’s go, y’all,” T-Bo commanded. “D’Melo’s got his girlfriends out here to save him.” He and his ruffians hopped into the Escalade. The dark window slid down. T-Bo glared at D’Melo. “I hope you do the right thing,” he winked. “Or I’ll see you another day.” The car shot off with a screech.

  Chapter Seven

  The Hooded Stranger

  The All-American players met with the coaches at center court. They gazed around Madison Square Garden in awe. They imagined playing in front of twenty thousand screaming fans. D’Melo was moved as well, but not for the same reasons. He couldn’t remember a time when he had felt his mother’s presence so profoundly. “Thank you, Mama,” he said under his breath, clutching the locket she gave him. “I’m only here because of you and Baba.”

  As the players headed to the locker room, a brawny man stood at the far end of the corridor. While there were many people milling around preparing for the game, this man seemed out of place. As D’Melo got closer, the man slipped around the corner.

  Later, during practice, D’Melo noticed the same man just inside the tunnel that led to the inner corridors. He enquired about the man with a Garden representative. But when he pointed toward the tunnel, the man was gone.

  “There was a bulky, dark-skinned guy wearing a black hoodie standing over there,” D’Melo said. The representative didn’t know of any such person. In fact, this was a closed practice, so no one should have been at court level except the players and coaches.

  When D’Melo returned to the hotel, he stopped by Zara’s room. Her door was propped open with the metal security latch. D’Melo slid in. She was sprawled across the bed, spent from a hectic day of shopping.

  “You know,” he cautioned. “It’s not safe to leave your door open.” He clicked it shut behind him. “Anyone can just walk right in.”

  “And do what?” Zara popped off the bed into a boxer’s stance. She rocked her fists. “I got these to protect me!” She squinted one eye, thumbed her nose, and sniffed. “Who’s gonna mess with this, huh?” She jabbed awkwardly, clearly never having fought anyone in her life.

  “You’re right,” D’Melo smiled. “No one’s gonna mess with that. The attacker would be in too much pain, having cracked a rib from laughing so hard.”

  “Oh yeah?” she said. “Will he laugh when I do this?” Zara tried to karate kick D’Melo but missed, smacking her foot against the desk. She bit her bottom lip, trying not to shriek in pain. She clutched her foot and flopped backward onto the bed.

  D’Melo burst into a doubled-over guffaw.

  “That’s not funny, dude,” she said, wincing. “I could be seriously injured.”

  D’Melo stroked her head. “Aww,” he feigned sympathy. “Did you hurt your little toey?”

  “Jerk.” She whacked his hand off her head. “You know, you shouldn’t be making fun of your only fan. Oh,” she remembered, “how was practice? Did you score any touchdowns?”

  “Yeah, and I hit a couple home runs, too,” D’Melo jested back half-heartedly, his mind returning to the dark stalker. “You know, it’s probably nothing, but I kept seeing this dude in the Garden. He just lurked ar
ound. It’s weird. I don’t know. I’m probably making something out of nothing.”

  “Yeah, probably,” Zara said encouragingly, but not completely convinced. She knew that D’Melo tended to be a worrywart, but his instincts were usually keen.

  The game and all its fanfare came and went that evening. It seemed that D’Melo had saved his best effort for his last high school competition. Coaches from the top basketball colleges made a final attempt to convince him to join their programs. But D’Melo was unmoved. Although UPenn was a questionable choice for a player of his caliber, it was a ten-minute bus ride from Lincoln Downs, and that’s all that mattered to him.

  D’Melo, Baba, and Zara headed to the All-American dinner. A taxi dropped them at a fancy hotel in midtown. Rows of skyscrapers seemed to touch the clouds. The glitter of wealth shimmered opulently from every building. Even the streetlights seemed to gleam brighter than in other places.

  They padded unassumingly into the glitzy lobby. A chandelier twinkled overhead like dangling diamonds. They edged their way through the gaggle of reporters to the banquet hall. A tuxedoed server escorted them to their table. “That’s a beautiful dress, ma’am,” he commented. Zara was wearing a black short-sleeve cocktail dress. It hung above the knee and draped low in the back. Her neck sparkled with a wide rhinestone choker necklace.

  Zara’s head swiveled, looking for the lady the server was complimenting. Then she realized he was talking to her. “Oh, wow. Thank you,” she said bashfully.

  Players and coaches filled the tables in the front. Media personnel settled into the rest of the hall, cameras already clicking and flashing. The waitstaff served a steady flow of hors d’oeuvres. D’Melo paced himself so that he had room for the main course. Zara, on the other hand, chowed down on everything that even resembled food.

  D’Melo leaned over to her. “You know,” he whispered. “There are other people at this table. They may also want to eat something.”

  “Oh,” Zara covered her mouth to prevent food from flying out. “The waiter put it on our side, so I thought it was for us.”

  D’Melo narrowed his eyes, quizzically. “Do you think he’d bring six plates just for us and nothing for the other folks?”

  “I didn’t think that deeply about it, dude. I’m just hungry. And this stuff is unbelievable. Here, try this.” She dipped a fried broccoli floret into the spicy white sauce, coating it generously, and thrust it toward D’Melo’s mouth.

  He blocked her hand. “Please,” he said, wide-eyed. “You enjoy it.”

  “Alright, dude. But you’re missing out!” She stuffed the broccoli into her mouth. A dollop of white sauce splattered on her dress. “Ahhh, maaan! How does this happen every time!”

  D’Melo shook his head. “I wonder,” he said sarcastically.

  The lights dimmed. A large man took center stage and introduced himself as Dante Gibbons. “I’m astounded by how much things have changed since I was an All-American,” he said. “Back then, there may have been three or four reporters and they were all local.” He then congratulated the players for being selected to the All-American team. He wished them the best and urged them to never forget the people who helped them get to where they were.

  The All-American game MVP trophy was rolled onto the stage. A buzz vibrated through the hall. “I just want to say, every one of you deserves this trophy. But we can only give it to one person. This young man was not only magical on the court but displayed the qualities of true leadership.” A muffled chant rang from the players’ tables. Zara was the first to make it out.

  “Hey.” She elbowed D’Melo. “They’re saying your name!”

  “No,” D’Melo said, hoping she was wrong. He listened closely and realized that she wasn’t. He dipped his head, shrinking in his seat.

  “This year’s All-American MVP is . . . D’Melo Bantu!”

  Zara screamed. Baba clasped his hands euphorically, overwhelmed with gratitude to the Great Spirit. Chants of “D’Melo!” reverberated through the hall. He lifted himself up and hopped the steps to the stage.

  “I—I honestly don’t know what to say,” he murmured, lowering his gaze meekly. “Like Mr. Gibbons said, I didn’t get here on my own. I’m only receiving this award because of the people who’ve supported me and pushed me to be better.” D’Melo lifted an open hand toward Baba to spirited applause. “Also, I can never thank my friends and my community, Lincoln Downs, enough. They’ve been there for me every step of the way.

  “Finally, I recognize that I wouldn’t be on this stage if it wasn’t for the ballers in this room. So I’m gonna have all of your names engraved on the trophy and donate it to the Citadel, the court I grew up playing on.” The room erupted into booming cheers. “I hope that one day you’ll find the time to come play there.”

  On the way out of the banquet hall, D’Melo was swarmed by clamoring reporters tossing questions at him over each other. As he started answering, a slit of space momentarily opened in the mob, revealing the dark man at the back of the lobby. D’Melo halted an answer mid-sentence. He shifted from side to side, trying to get a clear view. But by the time he did, the man had vanished once again. D’Melo thanked the reporters abruptly and headed for the exit.

  In the taxi, Zara and Baba bubbled with energy, while D’Melo’s mind swirled with thoughts of the hooded stranger.

  “The boyz are gonna go nuts when they hear you were the MVP!” Zara said to a vacant D’Melo. “D’Melo.” She nudged him. “D’Melo!”

  He snapped out of his malaise. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Maybe we shouldn’t tell them.”

  “Dude, they’re gonna find out. It’s probably all over the Internet already.”

  D’Melo, his thoughts churning in torment, said nothing.

  The day D’Melo, Zara, and particularly Baba had been waiting for had finally arrived: the release of Kyle Sandersen’s documentary. Baba seemed unusually anxious as D’Melo connected his computer to the TV. Zara burst through the door and shot straight to the kitchen. “I’m gonna make popcorn,” she shouted.

  “Watch this, Baba,” D’Melo said, his face beaming mischievously. He called to Zara, “Can you bring me a glass of pomegranate juice? Oh, and also a slice of apple pie?”

  “Hey, dude,” Zara yelled back. “Are we in the 1800s? You need to get off your behind and get your own juice and pie!” Zara must have heard D’Melo and Baba sniggering. “Ha ha!” she shouted. “Baba, I expect this foolishness from your son, but you too?” She toddled in, balancing a heaping bowl of popcorn. She quipped, “Aren’t you guys gonna make some for yourselves?”

  “Funny.” D’Melo said, unamused.

  “Scooch, scooch,” she said, motioning with her head for them to make room for her on the couch. Popped kernels spilled over the rim of the bowl as she wedged between them.

  Throughout the documentary, Baba added interesting details not covered in the film. Otherwise, they watched in engrossed silence. The film moved through the history of Malunga, and then focused on the events that led to the assassination of President Amani and the ensuing genocide. The narrator began, the story accompanied by a montage of images of jungles, villages, vintage photographs, newspaper clippings, and portraits of the main people in the story.

  Narrator: “Although tension was high at the time we are starting this story, things were still mostly quiet on the streets of Yandun, the capital city of Malunga. The Shujas seemed content to merely grumble among themselves about the injustices heaped upon them. On the rare occasion when violence was used to express their displeasure, it was swift and relatively tame. But one day, this all changed in the flash of a soldier’s pistol.

  “Yaro Madaki was a beloved fruit merchant in Yandun. He readily won the hearts of market patrons with his kindness and wicked sense of humor. He became known as ‘Kila Tuto,’ which in Shuja means, ‘Makes everyone smile.’ But in April of 1999, Yaro would become known for much
more than bringing people joy. He would become the flashpoint of an all-out rebellion against the Malungan government.

  “Malungan soldiers didn’t much like Yaro. While they were bent on dividing the country along tribal lines, Yaro, in a small but profound way, was doing the opposite. Everyone, including the common Borutus, the tribe in control of Malunga, spoke of him with honeyed tongues. So, on an otherwise typical market day, a pair of soldiers decided to turn their hostility into a revolting display of intolerance.

  “Luckily for history and justice, unbeknownst to the soldiers, a Malungan spectator captured the incident that day on her camera. Here is that footage.”

  The soldiers slithered up to Yaro’s stand and knocked his fruits to the ground. Before he could collect them, the soldiers squashed the fruits under their menacing boots.

  “Oh, sorry,” they snickered. “We didn’t see them there.”

  They then taunted, “We heard that you make everyone laugh. So far you haven’t made us laugh even once. Why not?”

  Yaro shrugged, a nervous smile twitching on his face.

  “Come on, make us laugh!”

  Yaro’s body tensed. He tried to say something, but no sound would come from his quivering lips.

  A solider yanked Yaro from behind his stand. “We’re not leaving until you make us laugh.”

  The other market merchants and shoppers watched, horror gripping their faces. Murmurs of disgusted objection buzzed in the crowd of onlookers.

  “Look at me!” a soldier barked.

  Yaro’s body flinched at the soldier’s stinging tone.

  “I said look at me!” The soldier grabbed Yaro by the chin. Yaro’s eyes stayed fixed downward. “I know what you can do to make us laugh. Dance!”

  Isolated shouts from the crowd rang out. “Leave that boy alone! He didn’t do anything to you!”

  The soldier pointed his pistol at Yaro’s feet. “Dance, you Shuja cockroach!” He fired into the dusty soil. Yaro jolted at the bullet penetrating the ground inches from his feet.