Spirit King: Return of the Crown

by Dashiel Douglas

Ahhh yeah! Here it comes. D’Melo clanked a bowl back onto the dining table, not wanting to miss a moment of the evening’s main entertainment.

  “I wish I could stay and help y’all, but I gotta bounce. My diabetic neighbor needs me to clip her toenails,” Jeylan said deadpan. “Y’all got the dishes this time?”

  “This time?” Marley snorted. “Don’t you mean, every time!”

  “Word, Jey,” Kazim piled on. “You never help. You always got some excuse.”

  “So you gonna stay?” Jeylan said, skeptically.

  “I wish I could, yo.” They all shook their heads. “But I got a date early in the morning. So I gotta catch some Z’s.”

  “You? A date?” Jeylan countered. “Man, please. At least I gave a somewhat believable excuse.”

  “For real, dawg,” Kazim said. “I’m Skyping Jua. She can only use the library computer during her lunch break. That’s 5 a.m. here!”

  “Good for you, Kazim.” Zara gave him a fist bump. “Tell Jua I said hello.”

  “What about you Marls?” D’Melo prodded. “What’s your excuse?”

  “Well, I didn’t have a good one. But now I do. I gotta help this fool figure out how to make a Skype call.”

  “Tru dat!” Kazim chirped, tossing his bony arm over Marley’s shoulders. “You alright, dawg.”

  Jeylan paused at the door. “Man, we gonna miss y’all. But we’ll come to Kipaji before the end of the summer. D, you know I’m always here for you. If anyone over there is punkin’ you, just holler. I mean, I know you got those superpowers and all, but you might need some muscle to deliver an old-fashioned beat down,” Jeylan flexed. “Naw mean?”

  “Thanks, Jey. That’s comforting,” D’Melo said sarcastically. “So when the flesh-burning steam and fifty-pound fireballs start raining down on us, I’ll be sure to call you.”

  “Well . . . now that you put it that way,” Jeylan waffled. “I might be like—” He pretended to hold a phone to his ear. “Huh? D’Melo? Whatcha say? I can’t hear you. Click.” He gestured hanging up the call. The boyz chuckled, as they hopped down the stoop.

  Marley spun back. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Remember you had all those questions about Gemini? Well, guess what?” he beamed nerdily. “Astronomers just discovered a new star in the constellation.” D’Melo and Zara together blew a satisfied breath, It’s Kavu, he’s immortal now, like Castor.

  The boyz raised four fingers, clenched a fist, and tapped their hearts. “Falme Roho!” They bounced off into the night, cracking jokes and causing enough of a ruckus to disturb the neighbors.

  “I’m gonna miss those guys,” D’Melo said.

  “Yeah, me too.” Zara slipped her arm under D’Melo’s and settled her head on his shoulder.

  D’Melo started for the kitchen, where a mountain of dinnerware awaited.

  “All right then,” Zara jested. “I gotta go feed my plants and water my goldfish.” She shuffled toward the door.

  D’Melo snagged the back of her shirt. “You better get back here.”

  Zara chuckled. “I wash, you dry.”

  D’Melo was trying to embrace his new life and let go of the one he had always envisioned for himself. Returning to Kipaji meant leaving his friends, who loved him unconditionally; Lincoln Downs, the community that had warmly embraced Baba and him from the moment they arrived on that blustery winter day; and basketball, the game that he loved and that had given him so much. But his heart hollowed when he pondered his greatest sacrifice. As the King of Kipaji he could never get married or have children.

  His eyes shifted to Zara. She was a whirlwind at the sink, water splashing and suds flying everywhere. Her hair was disheveled, with several unruly strands escaping the hairband, tickling her cheek. She took a swipe at them, smearing a clump of bubbly lather onto her forehead.

  D’Melo smiled, the ache in his heart allayed temporarily. “Here, let me get that.” He herded her silky hair into a tidy tail and twisted the band around it. He then attempted to relieve her of the washing.

  “Get out of here, dude. I got this.” Zara nudged him away with a sprightly hip. “You’re just trying to take credit for all the work I’ve done so far.”

  “You got this, huh? Like that time you threw soup at those lunatics and almost scalded my face off?”

  “No, I got this, like—” she lifted a bowl from the sink. Gray, granular water teetered menacingly at the brim. She turned his way, grinning impishly.

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Really?” She slung the water at him. He threw his arms out, gaping at his soaked shirt. Zara laughed until D’Melo snatched up a dingy dishcloth.

  “You better not!” she said, backpedaling. She turned and dashed off in a giggle. D’Melo chased her into the living room. He wrapped her in a bear hug from behind. She squealed and twisted from side to side as he smothered her face in the sopping cloth.

  Pluh-pluh, she puffed the bitter metallic detergent from her lips. “You’re lucky I’m not wearing makeup, dude. You’d be in big trouble.”

  D’Melo spun her around, their bodies so close he could feel her quickened heartbeat thumping against his ribs. He gazed longingly into her twinkly emerald eyes. His heart throbbed achingly, fighting the urge to touch her lips with his. Words edged tentatively to his tongue.

  “I—” he waffled, his heartbeat now keeping pace with hers. He blew a long steadying breath, then tried again. “I lo—”

  Zara laid a finger over his lips. “Please don’t.” Her voice quavered. “This is hard enough already. I’m still trying to accept that we can never be together. But if I hear you say those words—” She blinked back tears, trying desperately to prevent her emotions from sweeping her to places she couldn’t go. “This is our destiny.”

  D’Melo leaned in. His stubble brushed lightly against her moist cheek. She shuddered. His hot breath must have tingled her neck because goosebumps immediately rose on her arms. He then whispered tenderly in her welcoming ear. “Your face smells like a dirty dish rag.”

  “Oh, my God! You’re the biggest jerk in the world!” she said, through a laughing cry.

  Just then, the wall clock chimed nine times, awakening crestfallen memories. The momentary cheer on D’Melo’s face drained.

  “Hey punk,” she said. “The World This Week is starting. Wanna watch with me?”

  A bittersweet smile passed swiftly across D’Melo’s lips. He hemmed and hawed like he always would with Baba. “There’s only gonna be horrible things on there, you know.”

  Zara replied just how Baba would have. “You need to be informed about what’s happening in the world you live in.” She padded the sofa cushion next to her. D’Melo plopped himself down.

  The newscaster opened with a story from Nečzia. The program cut to the reporter on the ground. The reporter pressed an earpiece tightly to her ear. “Thanks, Rob,” she shouted over the clamor of the protesters behind her.

  Reporter: “I’m live in Venn, the capital city of the Republic of Nečzia. Thousands of people have poured onto the streets to protest the presidential election results. A little over an hour ago, it was announced that Pavlik Drobny won by a narrow margin.”

  Zara’s face swelled tensely. D’Melo quickly switched off the television, realizing that the program was about the man who assaulted her mother. “Turn it back on, please,” Zara said, trembling. “I need to watch this.” D’Melo reluctantly compiled. He scooted closer to her and laid a sympathetic arm around her.

  Reporter: “I’m here with Jakub Novák, the organizer of the protest. So Jakub, tell us what’s the reason for the outcry?”

  Jakub Novák: “We’ve had a democratic society for twenty-six years. That’s all changed now. Drobny used his money and influence to sway the election in his favor. He sent hundreds of people to communities that support the opposing party to threaten violence if they didn�
��t vote for him. Also, tens of thousands of ballots have been ‘lost’ from opposition areas.”

  Reporter: “I interviewed the Director for the EU commission overseeing the elections. She said those allegations are being investigated.”

  Jakub Novák: “Let’s be real. The Western world will never force a revote, no matter what the commission finds. It got the guy it wanted. It’s common knowledge that Nečzia is the number one producer of livestock in Europe. But did you know that Drobny’s livestock company is the continent’s largest, making it critical to the economy. So the EU will never risk having Nečzia implode over a revote.

  “Ten years ago, we were a quiet country of hard-working people enjoying a simple life. And then one man decided that Nečzia would become a world leader in livestock production. His company deforested millions of pristine acres to make room for pastureland and growing animal feed. People protested vehemently as slaughterhouses overwhelmed their communities with the stench of death and caustic pollutants. During a short period, the incidents of cancer rose over 500 percent. The community protests mushroomed and spread to major cities. Then suddenly, the movement’s most prominent leaders started disappearing one by one. To this day, their families don’t know what happened to them—but we do.

  “Then, a few years ago, the government finally cracked down on deforestation for animal feed. Because Drobny could no longer expand his empire in Nečzia, he made a deal with Malunga for seven million acres. There have already been reports of a growing health crisis in the villages near the slaughterhouses.”

  Reporter: “Just before the election, three women came forward and accused Drobny of assault. He brushed it off as a ploy by the opposition to defame him before the voting. Your thoughts?”

  D’Melo looked at Zara, whose face had blanched. He slipped his hand into hers and gave a gentle squeeze, reminding her that she wasn’t alone.

  Jakub Novák: “I don’t know about those particular accusations. But what I can tell you is, Drobny has a very long history of such allegations from scores of women.”

  Reporter: “Thank you, Jakub. Back to you, Rob.”

  Zara remained perfectly motionless, rooted in her cushion for seemingly an eternity. D’Melo waited anxiously for which Zara would emerge from the news that her father was now the president of Nečzia. Will she crumble into an emotional heap, like she did on the way home from the Poconos? Will she spiral inward and shut down, like she did when grappling with telling me about moving to Malunga. Or will she fly into a rage and want to burn everything to the ground, like she did when . . . well, like she usually does.

  Zara scooted to the edge of the couch. She braced herself with her hands, as if preparing to leave. She tucked her lips and took in a lengthy breath. Her eyes placid, she turned calmly to D’Melo.

  Hmmm, this is new, D’Melo thought, wondering who this woman was sitting next to him. She looks like Zara, but—

  “On our way back to Kipaji,” she uttered, intensely even. “What do you say we take a detour?”

  D’Melo’s expression turned dimply pleased. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Epilogue

  The Fire of Justice

  The International Criminal Court (ICC) bungled its opportunity to bring Dimka to justice years ago. But now, with the recording, it had everything it needed to move forward—well, almost everything. To ensure Dimka wouldn’t slither through its judicial fingers again, the ICC needed a witness who could identify Dimka as the voice on the infamous recording, plotting the assassination of President Amani. Only two other people were present at that meeting, and one of them was dead, General Nyoko. Desperate to remove Dimka from power, the ICC had no choice but to make a deal with the devil. It requested the United States government to grant immunity from prosecution to Wilem in exchange for his testimony against Dimka.

  When Wilem was approached with the immunity deal, he rejected it outright. Immunity in the United States alone would not do. He knew he could still be prosecuted in Malunga. So Wilem demanded that the deal include that he could not be extradited to Malunga to face trial. At the urging of the ICC, the U.S. Attorney General agreed.

  The immunity deal leaked to the public. Social media caught fire. Protests erupted outside Pharma headquarters. In a flash, they turned violent. Protesters hurled bricks at the building, shattering windows. Luxury cars in the Pharma parking lot were overturned and set ablaze. Police disbursed the mob with tear gas and rubber bullets. The protesters, lungs burning and throats constricting, scrambled frantically for breathable air.

  Meanwhile, Wilem was released from jail. A gaggle of reporters spat questions at him like poisonous darts. At the instruction of his attorney, Wilem ignored the questions as he edged through the horde and ducked into a limousine. But unable to resist the temptation to rub his victory in everyone’s face, he slid down the tinted window. The reporters bustled toward the car and readied their notepads.

  “When I was wrongfully arrested,” Wilem said, “I told the FBI agents that I have the best lawyers in the country and that I’d be out in no time. And what do you know,” he shrugged gloatingly. “Voila. Here I am! That’s why America is the greatest country in the world. Justice is always served!” The window slid up and the limo shot for the airport.

  The following morning, Wilem was escorted to The Hague in the Netherlands. He arrived at the ICC in a black government van. United Nations security personnel scoped the streets and rooftops, assessing potential threats. Getting the all-clear signal, Wilem emerged. Security ushered him hurriedly past the jeers of a furious crowd. Upon entering the ICC, Wilem observed, “It’s amazing how people can be so hateful.” Disgust surfaced on the faces of the typically stoic security guards.

  Wilem, dressed in his finest Armani suit, took a seat at a shiny wooden table. A panel of four dignified and no-nonsense jurists sat before him on a raised platform. Wilem avoided the stern of eye of the panelist wearing a traditional African dress—Senegalese, to be more precise. She gestured to the court stenographer to begin transcribing the hearing.

  The proceeding commenced with a formal explanation of what was expected of Wilem. He was required to answer all the panel’s questions, honestly and fully. Failing to do so would violate the terms of his immunity deal.

  During the first hour, Wilem delved into Dimka’s corrupt financial practices. Sensing that Wilem was minimizing Pharma’s role in the corruption, the panel pressed him on the millions of dollars he paid to Dimka for access to the sacred land of the Shujas. Wilem defensively alleged that Dimka had similar deals with several industries—mining, oil, and animal agriculture. The companies were from all over the world, including America, China, Nečzia, “and,” Wilem paused smugly, “this country we’re sitting in right now, The Netherlands.”

  Panelist (Senegal): “Mr. VanLuten, the panel hears the point you’re attempting to make. But for the purposes of this hearing, it is neither here nor there. So let us get to the objective for the day. Please tell the panel what you know about the plot to assassinate President Jaru Amani.”

  Wilem VanLuten: “When it was discovered that Amani was going to enter a peace agreement with the Shujas and grant sovereignty over the Nyumbani, Dimka flew into a rage. Shuja sovereignty meant no more access to valuable resources—namely oil, gold, and medicinal products.

  “Dimka called me, ranting. I suggested that President Amani could be dealt with. Dimka shushed me. He said, ‘Not over the phone.’ That evening, I received a call. The voice on the other end told me to go to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Yandun. From there, I was driven to a secret location in the countryside. I found out later that it was the family cottage of General Nyoko’s wife. During the meeting, I suggested that one option was to get rid of Amani.”

  Panelist (Brazil): “Could you be more specific when you say, ‘get rid of Amani’”?

  Wilem VanLuten: “I think you know what I mean.”r />
  Panelist (Brazil): “We need you to be clear for the record.”

  Wilem VanLuten: Wilem sighed, irritated. “Ending his life, okay? Is that clear enough!”

  Panelist (Senegal): “What was your interest in, as you so nonchalantly put it, ‘ending Amani’s life’”?

  Wilem VanLuten: “Purely business. I had no animus toward President Amani. Amani’s granting of sovereignty of the Nyumbani would have had a devastating effect on Pharma’s financial interests. I didn’t care one way or another how Amani was removed.”

  Panelist (Germany): “Exactly what suggestion did you offer?”

  Wilem VanLuten: “I mentioned that President Amani would be most vulnerable on his way to the airport. General Nyoko was responsible for his security, so he was privy to which vehicle Amani would be in. With that information, it would be relatively simple to kill Amani. They could blow up his car with missiles from shoulder launchers.”

  Panelist (Vietnam): “I think you’re neglecting another part of your involvement. The launchers were not the type that the Malungan military used. You secured those weapons for President Dimka, correct?”

  Wilem VanLuten: “No, not exactly. All I did was connect Dimka with someone that could get him the launchers.”

  Panelist (Brazil): “Someone?” The interviewer leafed through documents and slid out a photo of a burly guy wearing an eye patch. “This someone?” She flipped the photo over for Wilem to see. “Isn’t this Zachariah Rotman? Your friend?”

  Wilem VanLuten: “Well, I guess you can say he was my friend. We were in the Marines together.”

  Panelist (Brazil): “Isn’t he the same friend who was granted land in the Nyumbani, through your insistence with Dimka, to grow poppy for his illegal opium business?”

  Wilem VanLuten: “Yes.”

  Panelist (Senegal): “I understand that you benefitted substantially from that opium business.” The interviewer ran her finger down the page. “Here it is. You made approximately $12 million.”