Spirit King: Return of the Crown

by Dashiel Douglas

  They glanced over at Zara being celebrated by her elderly friends. “They love her so much,” Tomáš said. “Through the years, Zara would write letters to each of them. They’d rush into the drugstore waving the envelope. They’d say, ‘I got my letter from Zara!’ Then they’d tell me what was going on in Zara’s life, as if I didn’t already know.”

  The ladies edged their way into a vague line in front of Zara. One by one, they offered words of advice for the coming year. The women were speaking in Nečzian, and Zara seemed to understand. D’Melo wondered how much more there was to Zara that he still didn’t know.

  “Mr. Zanič,” D’Melo said, at a loss. “What’s up with the nose twisting?”

  “Oh! I guess that is a little strange, huh?” Tomáš chuckled. “They twist the birthday girl’s nose to make sure she remembers the advice. In the olden days, parents would do this with their children. It doesn’t happen anymore, outside of this birthday tradition.”

  Zara crossed to D’Melo and offered him jednohubky from her plate. She snapped a photo of him in his party hat. She threatened to post it on the Lincoln High Facebook group.

  “You better not!” D’Melo reached for her phone.

  “Hey, it’s my birthday. I can do whatever I want today.”

  “Every day must be your birthday, because you always do whatever you want!”

  “All right, you big baby. I won’t post the photo, but you have to do something else for me.”

  “What? That sounds a little ominous.”

  “You’ll find out really soon.” Zara paused, listening for it. “It’s coming any—”

  Before she could finish her sentence, a woman called out, “Zara, it’s time!”

  Zara tilted her head and finished, “—minute now.” She smiled at D’Melo as she backed her way into the space cleared for dancing.

  Before the music started, Zara settled into the traditional opening pose—an arm bent over her head and a hand resting on her protruding hip, accentuating the female figure. The sweet shrill of violins pierced the air thick with anticipation. Zara curved her body slowly in waves to the enchanting cadence. She slid her arms side to side before her face, creating an air of mystery. In an instant, she halted and held the position. Then, she clapped her hands twice briskly. Drums entered, reverberating through the apartment. The tempo quickened to a fevered pace. Zara transitioned into rhythmic twirls, heel slaps, foot stomps, and graceful spins. The jubilant spectators snapped their fingers and whistled exuberantly.

  D’Melo gaped in awe at Zara. She moved like a sensual angel. He had never seen a dance so poignant and beautiful—a dance of joy, depth, mystery, and allure. A celebration of life. And who better to perform such a dance than Zara.

  After a couple of minutes, everyone joined in. Zara grabbed D’Melo’s hand and hauled him onto the dance floor. “It’s my birthday,” she said. “Remember?”

  “How can I forget,” he jested. “You remind me every five minutes.”

  D’Melo did his best to follow Zara’s movements. He instantly became the center of attention. They all loved that he was trying, although he looked like a fish flopping around, gasping for oxygen. The old folks giggled and cheered him on.

  He whispered in Zara’s ear, “What’s so funny?”

  Zara told him that men have their own dance, which was different and a lot less feminine than the dance that women do.

  “Oh, so everyone’s cheering for me not because I’m kickin’ it, but because they want me to continue making a fool of myself!”

  Zara hunched over in deep laughter. D’Melo couldn’t take his eyes off her. When Zara laughed, her eyes creased into a crescent and twinkled like the starry sky. The whole room glowed from her radiance. D’Melo’s heart was full.

  D’Melo was passed from one elderly woman to the next. He was laughing at himself now, as well. Zara shut her eyes to capture the moment, then mimed to D’Melo that she was depositing the moment into her “happy bank.” He knew that just like good words she loved, she saved up these moments to help her cope during the more trying times.

  Zara’s grandparents broke out the murzynek—a traditional Eastern European cake with a chocolate glaze. They asked Zara to make a wish before blowing out the candles. She glanced at D’Melo with a wink. He knew what she was thinking: There’s nothing to wish for. This moment is perfect. It doesn’t need anything else.

  A shade tipsy, her geriatric friends sang and danced their way out the door. Tomáš grabbed the broom and started to sweep the crumbs on the floor.

  “You know, Tomáš,” Babička said. “I’m tired. Let’s go to bed.” Tomáš was surprised, because everyone knew his wife was a clean freak. Babička shifted her eyes, not so subtly, in the direction of Zara and D’Melo.

  “Ohhh.” Tomáš caught on. He propped the broom against the stone kitchen wall. They gave Zara a final birthday kiss and shuffled off to bed. Zara fondly watched her grandparents disappear into their room.

  D’Melo broke for the broom. Zara’s eyes glistened at him. After sweeping and washing the dishes, they plopped down on the couch, exhausted.

  “Phew,” Zara puffed, inclining her head. “What a day!”

  “Well, it’s not quite over yet.”

  “Dude,” she said, wearily but excited. “I don’t think I can take anymore!”

  “Technically, I haven’t made good on our bet. So,” D’Melo slipped his computer from his backpack. “We’re gonna watch The Queen of Sheba.”

  Zara smiled deeply, as she nestled cozily into the couch.

  As the movie started, she kissed D’Melo lightly on the cheek and rested gratefully on his welcoming shoulder. Before the end of the first scene, Zara drifted off to sleep. D’Melo replaced his shoulder with a pillow and brought her down gently. He laid a blanket over her and tucked in the edges. He padded gingerly to the door. Just as he was about to turn the knob, Zara said drowsily, “Thanks for the best day of my life.”

  D’Melo grinned warmly and said under his breath, “Thank you for mine.”

  As he strolled home, his emotions eddied from euphoric to dread and back again. He had never imagined that he could feel so much for someone. At the same time, he also couldn’t imagine life without that someone when she left for Malunga.

  In her final lucid moments before falling back to sleep, Zara remembered her fear that telling D’Melo about her father would change their relationship. She realized that she was right, it did change their relationship. A quiet sense of bliss filled her body—they were closer now than ever.

  Chapter Nine

  Haki Inakuja Kwako

  Graduation was an eagerly awaited moment for most high schoolers. It held the promise of freedom, independence, and a fresh start in life. But for D’Melo, it had become a day to dread, one he would have gladly postponed for another year, or ten. Graduation marked the end of being cheered by Zara’s crescent-eyed laugh, inspired by her passion, and centered by her realness.

  D’Melo wallowed on the couch, waiting for Sunday dinner to begin. He noticed for the first time that the wall clock ticked with each passing minute. He was amazed that he had never heard it before. That day, each tick sounded like a tiny trumpet blast, warning that Zara’s departure for Malunga was fast approaching.

  The boyz arrived. Their jolly clamoring temporarily lifted D’Melo out of his doldrums. As a matter of routine, Jeylan asked him whether he planned to finally make a Kipaji meal. D’Melo shrugged off the question, then tried to nonchalantly drop a bombshell. He knew that what he was about to say violated their unspoken pact that Sunday dinner was their time together. “Well actually, we have a guest chef this Sunday.”

  The boyz eyed D’Melo with reluctant curiosity. Just then the front door swung open. Zara toddled in toting hefty bags of groceries and five chef hats, one hat already topping her head. Marley beamed. He shuffled to Zara and welcomed
her with a hug.

  Kazim greeted, “What up, girl? You must be tired—”

  Zara interrupted, “Let me guess, because I’ve been running through your mind all day again?”

  “No,” Kazim grinned slyly, “because you’ve been carrying those bags. Girl, you need to check that ego at the door.”

  Zara proudly offered the menu for the evening—pierogis, veggie goulash, and homemade bread. “And,” she turned to Kazim. “We’re gonna make porkolt. It’s a spicy pork stew.”

  “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Kazim gushed. “Y’all need to learn from this young lady.”

  Zara divvied up the chef’s hats. The boyz enthusiastically adorned their heads, except Jeylan. He cast his onto the couch.

  Zara always tried not to let on how heavy her heart was over D’Melo’s best friend’s rejection of her. But D’Melo saw her glance at the discarded hat, and he knew her too well to be fooled.

  He pulled Jeylan onto the stoop for a private word. His eyes were burning with rare acrimony. “Why do you treat her like this? What has she ever done to you?”

  Jeylan’s face tensed. “Who is she to butt into our special Sunday dinners? Man, you just don’t know how much these dinners have meant to me over the years. It’s the only time I really feel at home. We’ve all been tight like brothers since we were shorties. And now she comes along and, just like that, she’s part of our crew?”

  “Marley and Kaz don’t seem to mind,” D’Melo asserted, his voice trembled with controlled anger.

  “Those fools accept anyone. I don’t want to be around someone like her.”

  “You mean someone white!” Jeylan’s silence affirmed the accusation. “Listen, man,” D’Melo said, his tone softening with compassion. “I know your family has had a tough time with white people. But Zara isn’t white people. She’s Zara. Can’t you see her for who she is?”

  “I see her for exactly who she is. She’s the granddaughter of the Nazi who fired Tyreke!”

  D’Melo laughed, disbelievingly. “Man, you have no clue. That girl saved your life.” Jeylan gazed curiously at D’Melo. “She asked me never to tell you, but I can’t let this go on any longer. She saw us that night you vandalized the store. She knew it was you but didn’t tell the police anything because she didn’t want to ruin your future over a stupid mistake. Not only that, but she’s been kind to you all this time, even though you’ve treated her and her grandfather like trash.”

  Jeylan released a tense breath. His posture eased. A look of guilt crossed his face.

  He peered inside the house. Zara and Marley were sneaking up behind Kazim. They blew baking powder on his neck then burst into childish giggles. Jeylan laid a loose fist over his mouth. “I’m really screwed up, man. I’m just so angry.”

  “I know you are, and you have good reason to be. But your anger is directed at the wrong person.”

  D’Melo went back to the kitchen and started preparing the pierogis. Jeylan strolled in behind him, donning his chef’s hat. “So, Zara,” he said. “What am I making?” A smile flitted on Zara’s lips. She looked at D’Melo, baffled by Jeylan’s change of heart. D’Melo raised his shoulders, I don’t know.

  When dinner was served, Baba began his weekly toast.

  “I look around this table and see the love you have for each other, a love that transcends nationality. In this tiny gathering, several nations are represented—Chad, Japan, Sudan, Ethiopia, Kipaji, Nečzia—and South Carolina.”

  He got some chuckles.

  “And I think to myself, if only the world had more people like you, who embrace and cherish our differences, we could finally lay to rest all this unnecessary suffering. One day, the world will wake up and realize that the pain of one is the pain of all. You are a part of hastening the dawn of that day. Don’t ever doubt the tremendous impact you can have on the world. Margaret Meade said, ‘A small group of thoughtful people can change the world. Indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.’”

  “Truth,” they chorused. “Take ’em to church, Baba.”

  They raised their glasses. “Kwa uzima!”

  This week’s dinner discussion centered around everyone’s plans for their future. Kazim had received a basketball scholarship to a small university in central Pennsylvania. Jeylan expressed his longing to become a pharmacist, but his father needed him in the family auto repair shop. Marley casually dropped the news that he was not going to MIT, which had always been his dream. The scholarship the school had offered was far too small for him to afford going.

  “MIT said that my application lacked ‘unique life experiences,’” Marley bemoaned. “I was angry at first, but then I realized that they’re right. All I’ve done is work at Chubby’s and hang out with you guys every day. I haven’t done anything special. But, one day, MIT will regret that it didn’t give me the full scholarship.”

  “Tru dat!” they agreed, clapping Marley supportively on his shoulder.

  As for Zara, everyone already knew her plan to go to Malunga. No one dared to bring it up and reopen old wounds.

  Sensing D’Melo’s obvious discomfort at the thought of Zara leaving, the boyz skipped to a happier topic: their graduation trip.

  “In three weeks, we gonna be lounging on a beach in Jamaica and drinking mai tais,” Jeylan said dreamily. Baba cleared his throat. Jeylan chuckled. “Just messin’ with you, Baba. Virgin mai tais.”

  Jeylan popped the last pierogi into his mouth. Not a moment was wasted before the boyz launched into their ridiculous excuses to shirk cleanup responsibilities.

  The boyz gave Zara long goodbye hugs. She cried, of course. They disappeared into the night, their tomfoolery heard all the way up the street.

  After cleanup, Zara headed to the door.

  “Where you goin’?” D’Melo asked. “The night’s not over yet.”

  “D’Melo, I would treasure spending absolutely every possible moment with you before I fly off in the morning, but I don’t want to take away your special time with Baba—The World This Week.”

  “There’s a special report tonight about Malunga and Pharma,” D’Melo said, hoping to entice her to stay. “You should know what’s happening before you go.”

  Zara said nothing, then started for the kitchen. D’Melo and Baba shared a bewildered glance.

  “Popcorn,” she called out. “Can’t watch TV without popcorn!”

  The World This Week opened with a report on Kyle Sandersen’s latest accusations against Pharma. In researching his next documentary, Sandersen claimed to have uncovered proof that Wilem VanLuten paid President Dimka of Malunga with stock shares for access to the Shuja homeland. Sandersen also asserted that the culture and health of the Shuja people were being irreparably damaged, threatening a total collapse of the tribe. This had led to calls for a boycott of Pharma products. Wilem was interviewed for his response to the allegations.

  Wilem VanLuten: “Well, what you call allegations, I call unsubstantiated rumors. I appreciate you giving me a chance to finally put this to bed. We’re bioprospecting in the Nyumbani at the invitation of the Malungan government. There is no quid pro quo.

  “And in terms of the alleged harm we’re causing, I’ve hired twelve Shuja guides who make sure that we’re not trampling upon any sacred land. You may not know this, but when I served in the military, I worked closely with the Shujas in Nanjier. I became quite fond of the Shuja people and gained great respect for their way of life. So, I assure you, I would never do anything to desecrate their sacred land.”

  Zara blurted, “You slimy bas—!” She covered her mouth and glanced wide-eyed at Baba. “Oops, sorry.” She crinkled her nose. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

  Interviewer: “Why do you think Kyle Sandersen is so certain that Pharma has been colluding with Malungan officials at the highest levels?”

  Wilem VanLuten: “Sandersen is a
great documentarian. I’ve enjoyed his films over the years. So I can only believe that he’s being misled by people who want to do harm to Pharma. I welcome Sandersen to our operations with open arms. Maybe then he’ll put in his documentary how we’re actually benefiting the people of Malunga.

  “Did you know that we’re building a new prison there? The current prison is outdated and deteriorating. Four rebels have escaped this year alone. Having violent rebels running free isn’t good for anyone. So I offered to build a maximum-security prison. But not just any prison; it’s the most secure and harsh prison in Africa. An inescapable fortress. And, we hired psychiatrists to help us design it to break even the most hardened criminals, but within international laws, of course—isolation in ultra-tiny cells, dim and dank all the time, sleep disruption tools, temperature extremes, etc. It will deter anyone from committing crimes! Malungans are so afraid of the prison that they call it, ‘Ishogo Gereza’—‘Satan’s Lair.’”

  Interviewer: “Well. Thank you for being on our show.”

  “Did you see how the interviewer couldn’t hide his shock at that guy’s callousness?” Zara spat. “This,” she said to D’Melo, pointing a stiff finger at the TV, “is why I have to go.”

  “I know, Zar. You don’t have to convince me.”

  Zara rose from the sofa and gave Baba a tight hug.

  “Wow, that might be the hardest hug I’ve ever had. I think you cracked a rib,” he joked. Baba gazed intently into her eyes. “Go get ’em, Lioness.”

  Zara nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of what she was about to embark on. She shuffled to the door, kissed her palm, and blew it toward Baba. She laid both hands over her heart and swayed affectionately before exiting with D’Melo in tow.

  As D’Melo and Zara walked down the stoop, a glint from the alley across the street caught D’Melo’s eye. A tall figure slinked into the dark shadow. As they passed, D’Melo peered into the alley curiously. No one was there.

  The stroll to the drugstore was unusually subdued. No joking or teasing. They had a ton to say about their impending separation, but neither wanted to give voice to it and make it real. They arrived at the apartment stairs. D’Melo’s cheeks puffed, holding a sigh. He attempted to lighten the somber mood.