Spirit King: Return of the Crown

by Dashiel Douglas

  Safiri, Kavu’s horse, pranced over to D’Melo. He and Zara mounted her. With the slightest flick of a finger, D’Melo released the soldiers from the mud. His former enemies followed him into the valley, where he would unite the Wapendwa once again, as promised by the Spirit King.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A New Dawn

  The bitter smell of smoke sharpened as D’Melo and Zara descended into the clearing. The forest crackled from the heat of withering fires. Thousands of trees had been reduced to charcoal. Most of the buildings burned to the ashy ground. D’Melo’s eyes shot anxiously toward the library, which housed centuries of art, ancient relics, and the most precious treasure in Kipaji—the notes Leda penned on the Legend. He waited with unease as wisps of black untangled and migrated lazily across the Moyo. He let out a relieved sigh. The library had been spared.

  At least twenty conjurers lay strewn on the valley floor. Some bodies were charred beyond recognition, others drenched and bloated, and still others mangled into violent contortions. D’Melo clasped tormented hands, sickened by the carnage. Only the day before, the wasteland which now lay before him was the most pristine spot on earth, bursting with the energy of life and the giggles of carefree children.

  Zara dismounted to tend to the fallen conjurers. Perhaps there was one with a flicker of life left to be kindled. Finding none, she walked forlornly to Haya. Nauseous with apprehension, she gripped a leafy branch obscuring her view. Before peeling it back, she drew a prayerful breath. She knew the future of the world depended on the vitality of this natural healing portal of the Great Spirit. When her eyes fell upon the Tree, a deluge of tears spilled. But this time, the tears carried liquid joy. A pair of Amanzi warriors were, wearily but faithfully, still keeping guard.

  D’Melo whirled a commanding hand. Wet twisting gales materialized and swept through the forests, extinguishing lingering blazes. He motioned to an eagle soaring overhead. With a series of shrill screeches, it trumpeted the arrival of a new day. The Wapendwa, hiding in the protective cover of the forest, began trickling into the Moyo.

  Zara scanned through the smoky air. Her heart dropped. There was no sign of Jonju. Suddenly, she was pummeled from behind and toppled to the ground.

  “Madam Zara!”

  She slung her arms around Jonju. They rolled jubilantly in the waterlogged soil.

  D’Melo approached the Tabernacle. The silence of hopeful hearts blanketed the community. His long frame became momentarily obscured as he transcended the sacred threshold. An elderly woman’s ululation pierced the sooty air, initiating a chorus, “Shangwe! Shangwe! Falme Roho Anaru! Rejoice! Rejoice! The Spirit King Returns!” The Wapendwa prostrated themselves before their king.

  D’Melo implored, “We are all the children of the Great Spirit. No man or woman is more important than any other. Please lift yourselves and claim your rightful place in this world. Your station is one of honor and dignity.”

  D’Melo reminded the Wapendwa of the covenant their ancestors made with the original king over two millennia ago. “We once again invited the greatest of evils—our selves—to grow within the womb of Kipaji. As a natural consequence, it gave birth to its poisonous offspring, disunity. And what you see around you is the only possible result of its destructive influence. But, by the will of the Great Spirit, the sons and daughters of Kipaji have been graced with a new dawn.”

  D’Melo exited the Tabernacle and began clearing debris. The Wapendwa promptly organized into cleaning teams. Some of the Wapendwa began to fell the scorched trees. But D’Melo requested that the trees remain untouched. “As long as these trees stand, they will act as a reminder of the consuming fire of discord. And, when they eventually disintegrate and feed their minerals back into the earth, they will remind us that out of death comes new life.”

  The Wapendwa worked feverishly to prepare the Moyo for the Festival of the Golide Kanzu that evening. The festival would celebrate the anniversary of the original king’s rise from the Ukuqala Pool. But now, with the Return of the Crown, the festival had something else to celebrate—the rebirth of Kipaji.

  Excitement buzzed at Pharma’s headquarters in San Francisco. There was standing room only for the nearly one thousand company shareholders packed into the conference hall. They eagerly anticipated the announcement of the new CEO. The chairwoman of the board of directors addressed the crowd.

  “Much of our recent unprecedented success is due to the person I’m about to introduce. He has been an inspiration to me, and to many others. He’s the poster child for the American dream. He lifted himself from the dregs of Detroit to now heading one of the biggest companies in the country.

  “His exploits in Africa have continuously breathed new life into Pharma. He’s delivered eight highly profitable drugs into our pipeline, making many in this room very rich, including me,” she chuckled. The crowd cheered boisterously.

  “So, with no further ado, it gives me the utmost pleasure to present to you the new CEO of Pharma Pharmaceuticals. Wilem VanLuten!” Wild applause erupted.

  An orchestra began playing as Wilem strolled onto the stage, gleaming. He threw triumphant arms over his head and waved them to the music. As he reached the podium, he swept the full breadth of the crowd with clapping hands. I wish Helen was here to see this, he thought. She’d realize she made a huge mistake leaving me. The moment was only made sweeter by it happening on the anniversary of their divorce.

  Wilem waited for the ovation to fade. “Well, that was quite some introduction and welcome.” He nodded appreciatively at the chairwoman. “I’ve been dreaming about this moment for many years. I can hardly believe that I’m about to head the best and most innovative drug company in the world.” The crowd hooted and hollered.

  Suddenly, light filtered in from the rear of the otherwise dark hall. Wilem shaded his eyes from the bright glare of the stage lights. Several silhouetted figures loomed in the doorways.

  “Umm,” he continued. “I promise that Pharma is in good hands.” He lifted his hands for the audience to see. “Just in case you didn’t know whose hands I was referring to,” he said to a smattering of laughter. “These hands will lead Pharma to a prosperity far beyond what we’ve already achieved.” The crowd roared for the promise of greater riches.

  “Before moving on, let me formalize the reason why we’re all here today. I’m greatly honored to be offered the position of CEO. And I hereby officially—”

  The mic went dead. Wilem tapped it, flummoxed. No sound. A hum of confusion emanated from the audience. Wilem turned to the sound crew. They shrugged.

  Static then issued from the speakers, followed by two voices.

  Voice 1: “He’s destroying this country. If he goes through with the peace agreement and gives them sovereignty, it’s going to ruin us. This country will spiral into an economic collapse. And our business opportunities will be closed forever.”

  Wilem’s heart raced, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. He gripped the podium to steady his weakening legs.

  Voice 2: “Well, there’s a solution to this problem. Get rid of him.”

  Voice 1: “You say that so nonchalantly. I can’t just get rid of him.”

  Voice 2: “Why not? There are always ways. You just have to be creative.”

  Recognizing a familiar voice, the Pharma audience went stone silent.

  Voice 1: “Are you suggesting to assassinate him?”

  Voice 2: “Well, I’m not telling you what to do, but that’s an option.”

  The crowd let out a collective gasp. Rustles of alarm filled the hall. All eyes were on Wilem. He backed away from the podium.

  Voice 1: “He’s the president! He’s the most protected person in the country.”

  Voice 2: “Everyone can be touched. How about his motorcade on the way to the airport? He’s vulnerable then. Surely, you’ll know which car he’ll be in.”

  Voice 1: “Th
en what?”

  Voice 2: “Do I have to think of everything! What about a shoulder missile launcher?”

  Voice 1: “That would implicate our military. This country would be in chaos if the people knew that our military killed the president.”

  Voice 2: “Well, how about you make it look like the Shuja rebels did it. This would kill two birds with one stone. The peace agreement won’t go through and it would be the best excuse to finally put the Shujas in their place.”

  The betrayed shareholders stirred with indignation. Most understood that what was being discussed led to the assassination of President Amani and the genocide of the Shuja people.

  Voice 1: “That’s a good plan, but how can I frame the rebels?”

  Voice 2: “What if I told you that I could get my hands on the type of missile launcher that the rebels use?”

  The recording stopped. The silhouetted figures from the doorways streamed down the aisles of the hall. Wilem bolted for the backstage. But FBI agents were there waiting for him.

  “Wilem VanLuten, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit the murder of President Jaru Amani.” An agent snapped handcuffs onto Wilem’s wrists.

  “I have the best lawyers in the country,” Wilem threatened. “When they get a hold of you, you won’t even be able to work as a mall security guard!”

  The agents forcibly marched Wilem past the chairwoman.

  “Don’t worry, Johanna,” Wilem assured her. “This is just a misunderstanding. I’ll be out before our board meeting tomorrow morning.” The chairwoman’s face contorted with disgust.

  As the agents paraded Wilem through the lobby, a voice quipped, “Who would ever believe these ghetto hoodlums?” Wilem swiveled to see Jeylan, Kazim and Marley guffawing and clapping each other’s backs. “Well, Mr. VanLuten, it looks like our job here is done. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you,” Jeylan gloated, mocking what Wilem had said to them in Nanjier.

  Just before Wilem was escorted from the building, Marley shouted, “Now who’s the man!”

  “Dawg,” Jeylan gibed. “I really wish you’d stop saying that.”

  Kazim mimicked Marley in a squeaky voice, “Now who’s the man!”

  “Y’all just jealous you didn’t think of it first,” Marley retorted weakly.

  Jeylan and Kazim chortled and nudged Marley gleefully.

  For the first time in their relationship, Zara found herself on edge with D’Melo. After all, he was the King of Kipaji and possessed extraordinary abilities. So, instead of bouncing into his rondeval as she normally would have, she sounded the woodpecker doorbell. She tried to waggle the nervousness from her body. It didn’t work. After only a few seconds, she thought, Well, I guess he’s busy. Almost relieved that he didn’t answer, she turned to leave.

  The door swung open. Her heart jumped. D’Melo stood tall and glorious in the doorway. A majestic outfit of purple and gold draped his athletic physique. Even the tassel dangling from his kufi rang noble.

  “Greetings, Zara,” he addressed her formally. Statuesque, he extended a hand adorned with his father’s Ibada ring.

  Zara raised a brow, What’s he doing? D’Melo gave his hand an impatient shake. She scrunched her face. Does he expect me to kiss his ring? She peered at him out of the corner of her squinting eye. She bowed hesitantly and puckered her lips on the ring.

  “Ahem,” he cleared his throat, What are you supposed to say?

  “Uhh,” she paused to think. “Ohhh . . . great . . . King of Kipaji?” She shrugged, wondering whether that met royal protocol.

  D’Melo glared at her, unimpressed. He then gestured downward.

  Zara goggled dubiously. “You want me to prostrate myself at your feet?”

  D’Melo could no longer maintain the charade. A dimply smile broke on his delightedly satisfied face.

  “Oh, my God!” She slapped his arm. “You’re the biggest jerk-king in the world!” D’Melo burst into laughter. He mocked her, “Ohhh, great, King of Kipaji? I guess? Maybe?”

  She grumbled, waving fists at him. “You just don’t know. If you weren’t a king, I’d clobber you right now.”

  Still in hysterics, D’Melo wrapped her up in his arms and swung her cheerfully in the air.

  “Oww, oww,” she winced.

  “Oh sorry, I forgot about the shoulder. How is it?”

  “It’ll be alright. Got it stitched at the clinic.”

  “And the ear?”

  Zara padded her bandage. “Just a scratch.”

  “And the ribs?”

  “Can we not talk about all of my issues? There isn’t enough time in the day to go through everything.”

  “Yeah, I hear that. Sorry.” D’Melo stepped back for a better view of her. “Wow! Look at you,” he said, noticing Zara in her traditional dress.

  She spun around. “You like?”

  “Amazing!”

  “Thanks, dud—” Zara caught herself. “Umm, am I still able to call you ‘dude’?”

  “Please,” D’Melo lifted prayerful hands. “Don’t ever stop being yourself with me. Nothing’s changed.”

  “Good to know. How about, ‘punk’?”

  “Don’t push it. I could have a hundred wildebeests stampede you in like one minute!”

  Zara chuckled, her eyes crescentic. “But seriously, nothing’s changed? You’re a king, dude! And you can take down a whole army by yourself.”

  D’Melo’s eyes glinted. “I meant, nothing’s changed with us.” He locked eyes with her. “I will never let anything or anyone come between us again.”

  “Awww.” She flitted her eyelashes. “Now you’re the biggest sweet-king in the world . . . but soon to be jerk-king again, I’m sure.”

  D’Melo’s face beamed. He darted to the bathroom and returned with the seeds from the Heart. He offered them to Zara.

  “Ewww, yuck! I’m not touching those!”

  “What do you mean? You’re gonna be anointed the Milpisi. So you’ll need to return the seeds to the Tree.

  “Nuh-uhh, dude,” she grimaced. “Those came out of your—” She pointed behind him. “How’d you get them out anyway?”

  “Senna tea. Drank like four cups. Dawg, I’ve been nonstop on the toilet all morning!”

  “Aw, man,” she said squeamishly, “That’s way too much information.”

  D’Melo dropped the seeds into his pocket. “Do you think I have to wear the golden fleece for the festival?”

  “What! Dude, the festival is called Golide Kanzu.” Zara rolled her wrist, gesturing for D’Melo to say what Golide Kanzu means.

  He shrugged.

  “Please tell me you’re kidding? And you call yourself the King of Kipaji?” she gibed. “It means, the festival of the Golden Fleece. So I’m pretty sure the Wapendwa will be expecting you to wear it,” she concluded sarcastically.

  “Ahhh, man. But it’s itchy,” he whined, gyrating his shoulders.

  “Oh, my God. You’re such a big baby.”

  Zara abruptly shot off to the boyz bedroom. She returned with her hand behind her back.

  “What are you hiding back there?”

  “Oh, you mean this?” Zara presented D’Melo with a lit candle. “Happy birthday. Did you think I’d forget?”

  “No,” D’Melo smirked. “But it seems that you forgot the cake and gift that are supposed to come with the candle.”

  “Wow. It appears someone’s been bitten by the greedy bug,” Zara said. “But seriously, what do you get a guy who has everything, literally?”

  D’Melo smiled. “I guess you did save my life. That’s a pretty good birthday present.”

  “That’s true!” Zara perked. “So actually, you owe me, big time! For my next birthday, a hike ain’t gonna cut it, dude.” They chuckled.

  The doorbell clacked. It was Jua. She came to esco
rt them to the festival. With lowered gaze, she bowed before D’Melo.

  D’Melo pursed his lips at Zara, You see, is that so difficult?

  D’Melo and Zara rode Safiri into the Moyo. The tail of D’Melo’s fleece flipped behind him with each trot. The anticipatory hum of the Wapendwa halted. A drumbeat resounded through the valley. The pounding rhythm penetrated D’Melo, sending vibrations shivering up his spine.

  With each beat, D’Melo’s heart pumped with rising vigor. Blood surged through his veins, awakening tremendous energy. With unimaginable clarity, he tapped into previously inaccessible areas of his mind. As he passed the Wapendwa, all the good deeds they had done in their lives were presented to him. The images zipped like flashes of lightening, but D’Melo’s elevated mind was unchallenged.

  Suddenly, the original king appeared before D’Melo’s eyes. He sat majestically astride a hippo, nearly close enough for D’Melo to touch. As if it was happening at this moment, D’Melo listened to the original king give the address to the Wapendwa that gave birth to Kipaji. He relished every word.

  Zara dismounted and took her place along the innermost circle of light. Chants of “Falme Roho” morphed into a jubilant frenzy. As D’Melo entered the Tabernacle, the Wapendwa offered the Kipaji salute.

  “On this day, over two thousand years ago, we stood on this very spot,” D’Melo elucidated with great poise, his eyes mighty and piercing. “We made a covenant. You promised to follow the way of the Great Spirit. In return, we promised that if you ever strayed from the path of unity, we would return unto you. We stand before you today as the embodiment of that promise. To ensure lasting harmony and the advancement of this hallowed land, we must now recommit to the Covenant of Kipaji.” Clicks of approval rippled out from the innermost circle until the whole community clicked in unison.

  Zara heard D’Melo in her heart. Did you hear when I said, ‘hallowed’?

  Ahhh, yeah, she responded curiously.

  It was a good word, he asserted with hopeful excitement. You need to clunk it into the good word jar!

  Dude, you’re already a king. Do you really need to win the ‘good word’ game too?”