Zara elbowed D’Melo. “Milpisi’s like a rock star.”
Milpisi reached the centermost point of the concentric circles, called the Tabernacle. Only the Milpisi and the King of Kipaji could access this medium between this world and the realm beyond. His frame became momentarily obscured, as if passing through a membrane. Just as he entered, the Wapendwa became illuminated in rings of light, progressing outward from the innermost circle. They offered the Kipaji salute—raising four fingers, clenching them into a fist, then laying their fists over their hearts. Within the Tabernacle, Milpisi faced all directions so each of the Wapendwa sections could see him. He lifted an open hand. The chatter ceased instantly. Only the natural sounds of the forest remained. The Maalum were awestruck by the brilliance of the circles, the otherworldly technology, and the discipline of the Wapendwa.
“My dearly beloved friends.” Milpisi’s serene voice floated down from the bamboo lamps. “As always, it is a true joy to see each and every one of your radiant faces illuminating the circles of light. I am once again honored with the privilege of commencing the Festival of Lights. For our esteemed Maalum, I will take a moment to explain this occasion.
“Every nineteen days, the Wapendwa gather to discuss community affairs. It is an opportunity to consult upon concerns, ideas for improving community life, and whatever may be in the heart of any Kipaji. The only way we can truly be a community of strength is for all of us to feel free to allow the tongue of our hearts to speak.
“Today is a special Festival of Lights. The newly elected Council members will be announced. While it is an honor to serve the community as a Council member, it is no different from every other service in the community.
For the benefit of the Maalum, do I have your permission to introduce the different service areas?”
The Wapendwa clicked from the back of their mouths, signaling the granting of permission.
“Thank you. The food-growing servers, will you please stand?” About a third of the community rose, ululation greeting them.
“Will the natural-energy servers please stand?” About a fourth of the community lifted off their cushions.
“The peace servers.” Forty-eight warriors rose.
Milpisi continued through another ten or so cohorts of servers—health and nutrition, enlightenment, natural innovation, culinary, and others. Then, when everyone was standing and the invocation seemed complete, suddenly the assembly started flicking their wrists rapidly, snapping their index fingers against their middle fingers.
“Oh, you’re right. I forgot one.” Milpisi dipped his head, embarrassed. “Will the Healer servant please stand?” He lifted his arms to his sides and chuckled.
Milpisi then announced the newly elected members of the Council, after which he opened the festival to consultation. Each of the four sections were to discuss a topic of concern amongst themselves. The outcomes of the consultation would then be reported back to the full community as recommendations for the Council to decide upon.
First to speak was the Upepo clan from the purple section: “We humbly offer the Council our thoughts on the selling of our excess energy. The deal with Malunga to supply them with energy at a very low cost was made decades ago and under different Malungan leadership. The current Malungan government is not our friend, or even a friend to most Malungans. We recommend renegotiating the deal so more revenue will be made for the Kingdom of Kipaji. We know that we have more money than we need, but a rainy day can come. We should be prepared.”
Next was the Joto clan, from the green section: “We would like the Council to discuss greater accessibility to the Internet. We feel that we are falling behind the rest of the world. Our access at the library is grossly insufficient. Thank you.”
The Amanzi clan spoke next from the gold section: “Our recommendation is that Kipaji move toward becoming an independent country. Although we are a sovereign region, we are still in the dark shadow of Malunga. Perhaps it is time to come out from under its tyrannical cloud.”
And finally, the red section spoke, the Choma clan: “We request the Council to consider offering Kipaji’s special natural resources to the world.” A hush came over the listeners, then a growing murmur. The Choma representative continued, “With the money that would pour into Kipaji, we could modernize our emergency healthcare system.”
Milpisi thanked the Wapendwa for their thoughtful recommendations. “I assure you the Council will give each and every one of your recommendations the careful consideration they deserve.” With that, he closed that portion of the festival.
“It is now time for the Kinfuna, the Reunion. Our ancestors await us,” Milpisi told the Maalum.
The drummers at the edge of the clearing began beating on the taut skins of their drumheads. Before long, the pounding built and increased in tempo. The Wapendwa sang and danced their way into the forest.
Milpisi started off down the pathway toward the foot of Amanzi Mountain. He motioned for Zara to accompany him. He then looked at D’Melo. “You too.” D’Melo smiled and joined them.
Milpisi walked nimbly through the low-lying undergrowth of the forest. About a hundred feet from the clearing, he stopped. He lifted his hands flat before his face and began to chant, as if in a trance.
The forest in front of them began to blur. Zara rubbed her eyes, then blinked hard. She edged closer for a better look. Milpisi raised his hands above his head. The blur lifted like a curtain, revealing a humble tree standing alone. The other trees and brush of the forest vanished. The earth beneath their feet vibrated, alive with burgeoning energy. Twinkling lights ran along the roots of the tree, up the veiny trunk, and along the branches. The tree’s flowers opened, pulsing brilliant colors. Zara was mesmerized, trying to fathom what she was witnessing.
An orange aura glowed and flickered around the tree, like it was on fire but with no heat. The back of Zara’s neck suddenly burned, like a hornet had stung her. She caressed it unconsciously.
Milpisi jolted in his trance. Though his eyes remained closed he seemed to know that Zara was stroking her neck. When she removed her hand, her birthmark radiated light.
Milpisi let out a grateful sigh, then gazed up beyond the tree, as if observing something. Joyous ululation rang out from around the forest. For perhaps ten minutes, a murmur of voices filled the surreal woodland.
Milpisi chanted again. The tree dimmed and the blurry curtain drew down.
He turned to D’Melo and Zara. “This was for you only. You must never tell anyone what you saw here. Not even your friends.”
They nodded in enraptured silence.
“But . . . but, what was that?” D’Melo managed. “Why was the tree blurry and then clear? How did it light up like that? Where—”
“One thing at a time, son of Kipaji.” Milpisi’s eyes were still glazed with intensity. “Haya, the Tree of Life, is a portal for the extraordinary energies of the Great Spirit to pour into this world. What you witnessed tonight is only one of its many gifts to humanity—allowing us to commune with our ancestors. But for now, the only things you need to know is that the Tree of Life exists. The rest will be revealed to you as the need becomes manifest.”
“Do you mean I can talk to Baba—and my mom?” D’Melo said hopefully.
“You can, but only at the time the Great Spirit has destined for you.”
Zara asked, “Is this the special natural resource that the Choma section recommended to the Council to share with the world?”
“It is, my dear one,” Milpisi said, clearly not wanting to delve further into the subject. He thanked them for gracing the festival with their presence, then directed them back to D’Melo’s rondeval.
Their ten-minute trek up Amanzi Mountain was mostly reflective. There was much to say, but neither could find words adequate to convey what they had just experienced.
When they reached the rondeval, they greeted Jua on her
way out. As Zara started to head inside, Jua gently asked her whether she knew where her rondeval was.
“Oh, I have a rondeval?”
“In Kipaji,” Jua explained, “unmarried women and men cannot share the same quarters unless they are family. It is a protection for everyone.”
Zara nodded appreciatively.
“If you continue along the path,” Jua said, “in five minutes you’ll come to Rondeval Mwanga, which means ‘Light.’ We took the liberty of relocating your belongings. You will find them inside waiting for you. Amani ndoto, peaceful dreams.”
“Did you hear that?” Zara looked at D’Melo, bright-eyed. “I got my own rondeval, all to myself!” she gloated, in a singsong fashion.
Just as Zara was heading off, D’Melo said, “Baba left me a flash drive. I was thinking about going to the library to see what’s on it. Wanna come?”
“Do banana trees have bells?”
D’Melo lifted his brows. “Is that a yes?”
Zara’s cheeks turned red trying to contain her laughter.
“Do spring peeper frogs hibernate in logs?” she managed, through growing giggles.
“Okay, stop. You coming or not?”
“Is broccoli a flower?” She burst into laughter.
D’Melo shook his head. “Something’s wrong with you.”
Zara was now hunched over, guffawing. “Let’s go, dude.”
D’Melo couldn’t have known that with this simple stroll to the library, he would be crossing the Rubicon. There would be no turning back. What he learned there would upset the balance of power in Central Africa, nay, the world.
Chapter Eleven
The Assassination of President Amani
The interior design of the library created a seamless transition from the great outdoors. It was difficult to discern where Kipaji’s most treasured building began and where nature ended. Its walls doubled as floor-to-ceiling windows, providing an extraordinary 360-degree view of Kipaji. Bougainvillea and wisteria vines crept up the walls and crossed the translucent ceiling, forming a resplendent canopy bursting with life and color. And the candied fragrance of well-placed hyacinth and honeysuckle were a welcome change from the musty book smell found in typical libraries.
A handwoven rug with the Kipaji crest commanded the floor of the central room. Bookshelves fanned out from the circular tapestry in nine directions. Golden runners lined the rows of books, like rays of the sun—a theme that D’Melo was starting to realize was common throughout Kipaji.
A multitude of crafted nooks spotted the library. Each seemed to have its own unique personality and decor, perhaps to make a visit to the library a deeper experience in the acquisition of knowledge.
As D’Melo and Zara weaved their way to the computers, they passed the art nook. Before he knew it, D’Melo found himself powerfully gravitating to a particular painting. He edged up for a closer look. A deep sense told him that this was one of his mother’s paintings. He squinted at the signature, but the initials at the bottom were “DJ.”
The painting depicted an oddly familiar woman poised on Amanzi Mountain above what he now knew was called the Ukuqala Pool. She was gazing into a glittering sky, as if embracing heaven. Two babies, nestled in a single white cloth, hovered radiantly above her raised hands. D’Melo’s eyes fixed on the bright emerald dangling from a headlace wrapped around the woman’s cornrowed hair—much like the emerald his mother had been wearing in his recent dreams. He was suddenly filled with comforting feelings.
“The library’s closing soon,” Zara said, then started toward the computer nook. D’Melo lingered, pondering his vague sense of kinship with this woman. Just as he was leaving, he noted the engraved placard beneath the painting. It read, “Leda, Mother of Kipaji.”
D’Melo joined Zara at the computer. He inserted the flash drive and scrolled to its only file—an audio labeled, “Yabo.” D’Melo tucked one earbud into his ear and offered the other to Zara.
She raised a brow, Are you sure?
He shook the earbud, Of course.
He inhaled a conscious breath before opening the file.
“Please enter the password” appeared on the screen.
D’Melo flipped his palms upward, How would I know the password?
“Baba made it password-protected so only you can see what’s in the file,” Zara suggested. “So you must know it. Think.”
D’Melo drew a blank.
“Was there something that only the two of you shared?” Zara asked.
“There are probably a thousand things we shared.”
D’Melo dug a frustrated elbow into the table and squeezed his forehead. “I can’t believe this. Baba left me something, and I can’t even listen to it.”
D’Melo removed the flash drive and rose to leave, disappointed.
“You’re giving up that easily?”
“Well, no, but I can’t think of what the password could possibly be. Maybe it’ll come to me later.”
They wandered through the library aisles, mulling.
Just as they reached the painting that reminded D’Melo of his mother’s artwork, Zara tried again. “Well, was there anything that Baba would always say to you?”
D’Melo halted in his tracks. “I think I know it!”
They scurried back to the computer. He typed, “Haki inakuja kwako.” He closed his eyes hopefully and tapped the enter key.
“Incorrect password” appeared on the screen. He leaned back heavily in his chair, rankled.
“Hey,” Zara said. “Try, ‘Justice will find you.’”
D’Melo frowned.
“Just try it,” she exhorted.
D’Melo typed it and pressed “Enter.”
“It worked!” she screamed.
“Shhh, dawg.” D’Melo scanned the hushed library. “How’d you know that?” he whispered.
“Well, dude, if you ever took the time to learn Kipaji, you would have known it too. The night we watched the documentary, Baba said it when he looked at your mother’s drawing, so I looked it up. Haki inakuja kwako means, ‘Justice will find you!’”
D’Melo clicked open the audio.
“My beautiful D’Melo, I want you to know that my love for you has no bounds. The Great Spirit blessed this most undeserving soul with the bounty of being able to call you my son.
“The fact that you’re listening to this means my earthly life has come to an end. Please know that I did everything I could to protect you from what I’m about to reveal. I never wanted you to be involved. But clearly, I failed. Now, for your safety, it is imperative that you know the whole truth.
“Years ago, like an unwitting fly, I became entangled in a most formidable web of corruption and deceit. Like any other day, I was doing my rounds at the Malungan hospital. A woman named Jasiri was rushed into the emergency room. She was suffering from violent abdominal pains and vomiting. After some testing, we discovered that she had eaten a deadly mushroom called Death Cap. We were mystified by how it could have gotten into her system. These mushrooms don’t exist in Central Africa.
“By the time my shift ended that evening, Jasiri was recovering well. I told her that I was leaving for a medical conference the next day, but I would check on her before going. That’s when things became strange. Suddenly, her attention was drawn to the hallway. She turned ghost white. Her eyes swung back to me, terrified. She grasped my wrist tightly and begged me not to leave. I assured her that she would be fine and that I’d see her in the morning. Then she said, ‘They’re going to kill me.’ I turned toward the hallway. There was no one there. I thought that maybe the lingering effects of the poison was affecting her mind.”
D’Melo felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. The librarian whispered, “The library will be closing in five minutes. If you need to save your work, please do so.”
“Jasiri asked where th
e medical conference was. When I told her San Francisco, the fear in her eyes melted. She thanked me for helping her and offered me a gift. I graciously declined. I was simply doing my job. But she insisted.
“She stumbled to the closet and returned with a small box. Inside the box was a cassette sealed in an airtight bag. Apparently, her company used those bags to preserve medicinal plants for transport overseas. I took out the recorder that I used for listening to my medical notes and opened her box. She snapped the box shut. Her eyes shot to the hallway. She said it was a precious live recording and that I should only listen to it at home. I assured her that I love music and would treasure the cassette.
“When I arrived home, I started packing for the trip. As I reached for my medical bag, I remembered Jasiri’s cassette. I grabbed your mother and told her we were going to dance. I played the cassette—but it wasn’t music. It was two people talking. We drew the cassette player close to our ears. When I heard what was being discussed, my body went numb. The two people were plotting the assassination of President Amani. We stood there petrified, because we recognized one of the voices; it was—”
The computer screen went black.
“What happened?” D’Melo scrambled under the computer desk to see if any cords were disconnected.
The librarian ambled up. “The library is now closed.”
“Just five more minutes, please,” D’Melo implored.
“I’m sorry, there is nothing I can do. The central computer shuts down all the computers at exactly 11 o’clock to save energy. You can come back in the morning. We open at 9 a.m.”
D’Melo remained statuesque for a stupefied moment. He finally stood, his legs rubbery.
“For Baba and your mother to be so frightened,” Zara said, “the voice on that recording must have belonged to someone with a lot of power. Well, I guess so—whoever it was had enough power to kill the president.”
Zara’s voice was mere background static to D’Melo. An anxious tornado of questions churned relentlessly in his mind. “Who was behind the assassination? Was the recording what made Baba a wanted man by the Malungan government? Were he and Mama killed because of it? Does the Malungan government think I have it?
Spirit King: Return of the Crown Page 22
