Spirit King: Return of the Crown

by Dashiel Douglas

  D’Melo, while continuing his speech to the Wapendwa, peered at Zara and nodded vigorously.

  Oh, my God. She shook her head. Okay, I’ll think about it.

  The chairperson of the Council approached D’Melo, stopping just outside the Tabernacle. She addressed the Wapendwa.

  “The first order of business is to officially recognize the monarchy, a calling from the Great Spirit. The Council hereby acknowledges Yabo Jakanda, son of Mujiza and Diata Jakanda, brother of Kavu Jakanda, a descendant of the people of Amanzi, and the son of Kipaji, as the Falme wa Kipaji! The King of Kipaji! A deafening ovation shook the valley. Zara tried to ululate. An elderly woman beside her giggled.

  Zara rumpled an eye. “That bad, huh?” The woman gave a pitying nod.

  “Now,” the chairperson’s lips stretched into a gleaming smile. “We are immensely excited and privileged to present a very special guest. The Council realizes that this is highly unusual, but we think you will want to hear what this gentleman has to say.”

  She signaled toward the Choma forest. The crowd vied to glimpse the visitor. “Please give a warm Kipaji reception for Taj Amani, President of Malunga.” Hoots of stunned adulation resounded. President Amani thanked the chairperson and bowed before D’Melo.

  “I’m truly humbled to be the only president of Malunga to ever lay feet on this sacred land. When I was a boy, my father, President Jaru Amani, would tell me stories about the Legend of the Spirit King. To most Malungans, they were just far-fetched tales that the government created to explain away its terribly unsuccessful invasion of Kipaji. But I always wanted to believe that they were true. It brought me comfort to trust that there was some supernatural force for good in the world. So I allowed my imagination to run wild. When my schoolmates and I would play-fight, I’d fancy myself a Kipaji warrior. My friends had no idea what I was I doing, but of course, I’d always win the fights.” The Wapendwa chortled. “I would even imagine myself with the King of Kipaji, solving all of the world’s problems together. And here I am today, standing alongside his majesty.”

  “I’ve never doubted that this land is the Great Spirit’s most favored spot. Among all the regions of the world, he chose you—the people of Kipaji—to deliver his healing to the world, a most pressing challenge. I vow to do everything in my power to assist you with this formidable endeavor. As a start, my first official act as president of Malunga is to grant Kipaji independence. So, as of this moment, you are your own country, the determiners of your own fate.” A gasp of delight erupted into booming cheers and ululation.

  D’Melo thanked President Amani, then set out his plan to offer Kipaji’s gift to the world. A few seeds from the Heart would be entrusted to the Global Health Organization, the institution that Ameka headed. In consultation with D’Melo and Zara, the GHO would determine the optimal regions to plant the seeds. Each Tree would be protected by conjurers trained by D’Melo.

  “With the Wapendwa’s blessing,” D’Melo requested, “Zara and I will travel to America briefly to begin this process.” Clicks of approval followed.

  “Now, there is one final order of business before we commune with our ancestors. Our most venerable and beloved soul, Upendo Akachi, Milpisi, has made his ascension to the eternal realm. He departed this world the way he lived in it—a selfless servant of Kipaji.” Low ululation rose from the crowd, indicating sadness. “He left very large shoes to fill. But the Great Spirit has blessed us with a worthy soul.”

  Chants rang out immediately: “Zar-ra! Zar-ra! Zar-ra!” Zara’s face flushed red, as she joined D’Melo in the Tabernacle.

  “Zara, Kipaji will be forever in your debt. Without your courage in the face of grave danger, I would not be standing here and Kipaji would now be in the hands of treacherous men. We humbly request that you accept this most lofty and weighty position as the Milpisi.”

  Zara covered her face and whispered, “I’ll accept as long as you don’t make me touch the poopie seeds.”

  D’Melo guffawed. The Wapendwa murmured, not understanding what just happened. “You see what you made me do?” D’Melo chided, trying to compose himself. “Now they’re not gonna respect me.”

  “Just cause an earthquake or something. Trust me, the respect will come right back.”

  Zara uncovered her face and addressed the Wapendwa. “I couldn’t be more honored to serve the country of Kipaji as the Milpisi.”

  The assembly ululated in ecstasy at hearing, “the country of Kipaji” for the first time.

  “If I can be half the healer that Milpisi was, I will be overjoyed. Now, let me not waste one more moment. It’s time to hasten the Kinfuna.”

  Zara pivoted to D’Melo and gibed, “Kinfuna means, ‘Reunion.’ It’s when the ancestors—

  “I know what it means,” D’Melo said, pressing his lips together. “You’re hilarious.”

  “Well, we know your Kipaji is a tad on the nonexistent side,” she laughed, as she hustled off to do the Unveiling.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Destiny

  The city bus trundled along the familiar yet foreign streets of Lincoln Downs. Everything looked the same, but nothing was the same. As it grumbled over the pitted road past Ms. Keba’s house, D’Melo expressed his appreciation for why Ms. Keba was so overcome with joy at having “found” him. “I’m happy for Ms. Keba that she completed her life’s mission and she could die in peace. “You know,” he said, awed, “I can’t believe how much my life has changed. My whole world was Lincoln Downs, basketball, and chillin’ with the boyz. And now…” he shook his head. “Who would have ever thought?”

  Zara barely acknowledged D’Melo’s incredulity. Her mind was elsewhere. She gazed out the mega-sized bus window, briefly glimpsing the tree she scaled to Ms. Keba’s bedroom. Her thoughts shifted to the fragility of life. What if something happens to me? Who will administer the nectar? What if I’m not humble enough for Haya, and people die? The responsibility of being the Milpisi nudged anxiously against her ribs. I’m just eighteen. She applied relieving pressure between her eyebrows and took centering breaths. A tender hand slid into hers.

  “Are you okay?” D’Melo enquired.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” she said without conviction.

  The bus squealed to a halt in front of the drug store.

  “Tell your grandparents I’ll stop by tomorrow and teach them my Nečzian dance moves.”

  Images of D’Melo’s, let’s just say, unique, traditional Nečzian dancing tickled her. She flung her backpack over her shoulder and descended the narrow bus stairs. She lingered on the sunbaked sidewalk, her eyes fixed on D’Melo, a clenched fist over her heart. After the bus rounded the corner, she swung the shop door open. Ding-Ding! Ding-Ding! The bells chimed sweet welcome.

  Tomáš called, “Babička, a crazy redhead just walked in the door!” A pot slammed in the kitchen sink. Babička’s sixty-five-year-old legs carried her as swiftly as they could down the stairs. She wrapped Zara in her flabby grandmother arms.

  “Ohhh, Zara.” Her hands, wet from washing dishes, pressed Zara’s face into an involuntary pucker. “We missed you so much!”

  “Babička,” Zara warbled, pleasantly surprised by the display of affection. “It’s only been two weeks!” She rubbed her cheeks dry with the knobs of her shoulders.

  “How long are you here for?” Babička asked, hopeful.

  “Do you really want to talk about that already?”

  Babička’s eyes signaled an emphatic, Yes.

  “Well,” Zara said gently. “I go back in a few days.”

  The energy in the store deflated momentarily. “Well, we’ll just have to make the most of each moment we have you.”

  Tomáš chimed, “How about my homey?”

  “Ahhh . . .” Zara lifted a brow. “I assume you mean D’Melo?”

  “Fo shizzle my nizzle.” Tomáš explained his wildly inappropr
iate response. “For you street-illiterate folks, that simply means, ‘For sure my n—’”

  “Hey! No!” Zara shut him down, swaying a chastising finger. “You cannot say that word . . . EVER! I don’t care how many street gangs you’ve joined since I left.

  “As for D’Melo, he’s going back with me.” She lifted a sympathetic cheek. “Sorry, I know how much you like hanging out with him.”

  “Ahh, it’s okay,” Tomáš acquiesced. “I still got my other homies.”

  “Who?” Zara narrowed her eyes questioningly. “Your bingo crew?”

  “No. Jey, Kaz, and Marley-Mar.”

  “Oh, my God.” Zara shot gaping eyes at her grandmother. “Who is this dude?”

  Babička shrugged and giggled.

  The mouthwatering aroma of jollof rice and githeri filled Baba’s house. Attired in traditional African garb (and Zara’s chef’s hats), the boyz helped D’Melo put the finishing touches on their favorite Kipaji dishes.

  As Zara waltzed into the kitchen, D’Melo leered at her. “Mmmm-um!” he cooed,” his eyes browsing her lasciviously.

  “Quit it, dude. You don’t have X-ray vision,” she snipped. “I can feel your heart, remember? And trust me, if you could see through my clothes,” she maneuvered her hands provocatively over her body, “your heart would be beating a lot faster.”

  “Ohhh, snap!” the boyz chorused.

  “Keep him real, Zara.” Jeylan chuckled at her uncharacteristic sauciness.

  “Now who’s the jerk!” D’Melo said, trying to bridle the smile spreading his cheeks.

  While D’Melo, Zara and the boyz were in Kipaji, Zara’s grandparents and Ameka had rallied the community to restore Baba’s home. No hint of the horrifying tragedy remained. But still, none of them dared to acknowledge the transformation. They rather chose to reminisce about happier times—their days in Kipaji. But they found words inadequate to describe their experience. It seemed surreal, like a shared conscious dream. After a wordless moment, they simply conceded that they had experienced something extraordinary, something that had bonded them in the deepest of ways. The world of Lincoln Downs suddenly felt very small.

  D’Melo expressed his lament at not having been able to be at Pharma when Wilem heard the recording on stage.

  “You should’ve seen that fool’s face,” Jeylan chirped. “I think he had an accident in his underwear!” They all doubled over in laughter, as the boyz each had a go at mimicking Wilem.

  They settled into their usual seats around the dinner table. Baba’s chair remained his. They even arranged a place setting for him. An impromptu moment of silence was observed for Baba before D’Melo offered the Sunday dinner toast.

  “Baba always had something enlightening to say. His toasts gave me the strength and belief in myself to make it through another week.” They all clicked, like the Wapendwa. “So I think it would be fitting to offer something straight from Baba’s lips. When I was hatin’ on Africa, he told me something that I didn’t appreciate at the time. Now it dwells deep in my heart. He said, ‘Africa isn’t something you can understand sitting on a couch in Lincoln Downs. To know Africa, you have to touch it, you have to breathe it, taste it, smell it. It’s a place of spirit. So to understand it, you have to lead with your soul. Once you do, you’ll realize that Africa is pure magic.’”

  “Truth,” Zara whimpered, dabbing her eyes. “Take ’em to church Baba.”

  They raised their glasses. “Kwa uzima.”

  As they dug into the meal, they began discussing their futures. Kazim had received a scholarship to play basketball at a small college in Western Pennsylvania.

  “That’s awesome, Kaz,” D’Melo said. “I’m so happy for you!”

  D’Melo turned to Marley. “What about you, Marls?”

  Marley flapped a letter in front of him. It was a scholarship to MIT. Apparently, someone at the university saw his interview on the news after the Pharma shareholder meeting. “When they realized that I took down Dimka and saved Kipaji, they were like—” Marley cupped his mouth for effect, “‘Yo! This Marley is a boss! We gotta give him his chedda!’”

  D’Melo jested about being glad that they were all there to assist Marbleman in his liberation of Kipaji. Marley paid no heed to D’Melo’s sarcasm, as he crumbled the letter exaggeratedly.

  “I’m a hero, so now all of a sudden they want me,” Marley scoffed. “They need to recognize; I was a hero before Kipaji. I just hadn’t done anything yet.” He shot the balled-up letter toward the trashcan and missed terribly. “I’ve decided to join Kaz at his school. Y’all know this fool can’t do anything without me.” Marley gave Kazim a playful tap on the arm.

  As for Jeylan, there was something he needed to do before he could even think about what was next for his life. He explained that upon returning from Kipaji, he went straight to the drugstore. He confessed to Tomáš that he was the one who vandalized the store. He apologized profusely and genuinely conveyed that he would understand if Tomáš called the police.

  Jeylan turned to Zara. “Did your grandfather tell you what he did? He offered me a job! He said that he sees potential in me. When I thanked him,” Jeylan grinned, “he gave me a fist bump and said, ‘Fo shizzle my nizzle.’”

  “Oh, my God!” Zara threw mortified hands over her face.

  “Nah, it’s cool. I like him. He’s good people.”

  All eyes shifted to D’Melo. Now that he was no longer in jeopardy, he was free to settle back into his lifelong plan—UPenn, then the NBA. But D’Melo didn’t surprise anyone when he said proudly, “Kipaji’s my home. I owe it to my people to rebuild it.”

  The boyz smiled and sighed. “Yeah, that’s what we figured.”

  To D’Melo’s chagrin, Marley provided a less-then-merry community update. Chubby’s restaurant had closed. The moment Chubby got wind that Dimka was removed from power, he packed up and moved back to Malunga. Also, after Baba was killed, Wilson’s Billiards Hall relocated to the less colorful neighborhood of Leighland, seeking more peaceful surrounds.

  Sensing a dispirited mood, D’Melo took it upon himself to be the bearer of glad tidings. Just before the boyz arrived, the director of the health clinic had paid him a visit. She informed him that the clinic changed its name to honor Baba. It was now called the Dr. Imari Bantu Health Clinic.

  “That’s real chill,” Jeylan said. “Baba will never be forgotten around here.”

  “Yeah,” D’Melo hummed, “but only if we can keep the clinic open.” The clinic had been running on fumes for months. Barring a small miracle, its financial coffers would be empty before the end of the year.

  “I hit up the ballers on the All-American team,” D’Melo said. “They agreed to play a charity game at the Citadel to raise money for the clinic.”

  “Yo! That’s lit,” Kazim said. “You think they’ll let me ball with them?” Seeing no affirmative response on the horizon, he toned it down. “Just for a couple minutes?”

  D’Melo grinned. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Jeylan tossed a dampening dose of Lincoln Downs reality over the excitement. “You know T-Bo’s gonna have his greedy hands in this. There ain’t no way that fool’s gonna have all that looch pour into this community without taking the lion’s share.”

  “You don’t have worry about T-Bo,” D’Melo assured him. “Do you know that that dude was waiting for me outside my house when I got back from Kipaji? He tried again to persuade me to go to a better basketball college. When I told him that I was moving to Kipaji, he lost it. He pulled out his gun and pointed it at my face. If I’m not headed to the NBA, my life is worth nothing to him.”

  Zara gasped.

  “The neighbors noticed what was happening and crowded around us. A few folks took out their phones and started videoing, I guess to dissuade T-Bo from pulling the trigger.”

  “What happened next?” Marley asked,
anxious.

  “Well, amazingly, the muzzle of the gun melted shut. It was a miracle.” D’Melo smirked. “Then, T-Bo’s belt buckle came loose. He grabbed his sagging pants just before they fell to his knees.”

  “Ah man, dawg,” Jeylan said, chortling. “I would have given anything to see T-Bo’s undies.”

  “T-Bo’s belt seemed to have a mind of its own,” D’Melo continued. “It slipped out of the belt loops and started whipping back and forth, with T-Bo holding on to the buckle. The people in the crowd were stunned at first, but then broke out laughing when T-Bo starting to spank his own behind with the belt.”

  “That’s awesome!” Kazim said. “That fool finally got what he deserves.”

  “But that’s not even the best part,” D’Melo chuckled. “He took off running down the street, trying to keep his pants up with one hand and spanking himself with the other.”

  Zara and the boyz were now in a full guffaw. Marley laughed so hard that he fell out of his chair.

  “So,” D’Melo said, gratified. “As soon as the videos are uploaded to the Internet, T-Bo’s street cred will be dust. He’s finished in Philly… maybe everywhere.”

  “Well, that was quite a well-timed ‘miracle,’” Zara said dubiously.

  “I guess I’m just lucky,” D’Melo said with a wink, as he motioned upward with his finger. A spoon lifted from the table and stood on edge. It whittled into a tiny metal person then pirouetted into a shuffle dance.

  Zara shook her head. “Show off.”

  D’Melo began clearing the table, anticipating the usual amusing excuses from the boyz. He wondered wistfully whether their harrowing experience in Kipaji had heightened their level of responsibility and maturity, half-hoping that it didn’t. Marley clinked dishes clumsily atop each other and hauled them to the kitchen, teetering all the way. D’Melo sighed disappointedly.

  “All right, y’all,” Jeylan muttered contentedly, rubbing his belly. “That was a slammin’ meal.”