After the hospital, D’Melo returned home. He shut the police car door. The sound echoed in the lifeless, empty street. He climbed the stoop as he had thousands of times before. But this time, he wouldn’t be greeted at the top by Baba’s loving embrace. He numbly entered the house, hoping this was just another one of his gruesome nightmares. But the blood-stained floor where Baba lay dying just hours before jarred him into the reality that he was truly alone. He averted his eyes, trying not to relive the scene.
He trudged to Baba’s room and pried free the wood paneling behind the desk. A manila envelope was propped just inside the wall. As D’Melo held the bulky package in his weary hand, he realized, Baba’s been preparing for this day for years. Why would he think someone would kill him?
He headed to his bedroom and mindlessly packed some necessities. Leaden with mourning, he looked around his room one last time. He paused at the trophies lining the shelves—trophies that, at one time, symbolized accomplishment and conjured treasured memories. Now they were nothing more than dusty, twisted yellow metal—except for one. D’Melo picked that trophy off the shelf, which seemed tiny in his adult hands. He wistfully revisited the moment he received it.
When he was seven, D’Melo brought home his first report card with straight A’s. Baba wasn’t at all pleased that the school didn’t acknowledge his academic achievement. So he and Diata bought a trophy for D’Melo. The only non-sports trophy they could find was one with a figure wearing a crown. The inscription read, “To D’Melo. You’re the King of the World”—the famous line from Titanic, Baba’s favorite film.
Memories of Baba overran the banks of D’Melo’s brimming mind. There was hardly a day that he hadn’t learned an important lesson from his father, either through the abundant gems of wisdom Baba delivered or from simply observing how his father lived his life.
D’Melo tugged on the locket at the end of his necklace. “Mama, please take care of Baba.” His words trailed out heavily in the still midnight air. He lifted himself off the bed, knowing that Baba would want him to get started with his new life, whatever that may be. Just before clicking off his light, he noticed a hastily scrawled note on the nightstand. His heart thumped to life. He read Baba’s final words.
“Son, I don’t have much time. So please don’t take the brevity of this note as a measure of my love. There isn’t enough paper in the world that could hold how much love I have for you. Now that I’m gone, there is something I always want you to carry with you: Haki inakuja kwako.”
“That’s it?” D’Melo groaned. “Baba, why would you use your last moments to tell me something that you said all the time?”
D’Melo trudged toward the front door. As he passed the living room, he glanced at his mother’s drawing on the wall. He paused, then murmured, “Haki inakuja kwako? Were you trying to tell me something, Baba? Please, talk to me.”
After a moment of no answer from Baba, D’Melo grew frustrated. He cried out, “Wasn’t it enough to lose my mom, now you take Baba too? What did they do to deserve this? They were wonderful people. Where’s the justice in that!”
D’Melo pounded his fist angrily against the wall. With the impact, the drawing slid down and crashed to the floor, shattering the glass. When D’Melo picked up the drawing, he noticed something for the first time. It had a distinct shape when rotated—left side at the top. “I’ve seen this shape before,” he said out loud. He opened his phone and searched Google maps. “This is Kipaji!” Am I seeing things? D’Melo creased his brow, confounded. Why would Mama hide Kipaji in her drawing? Baba’s note flashed in his mind like a New Year’s Day firework.
“Now that I’m gone, there is something I always want you to carry with you: Haki inakuja kwako.” Did he want me to take this drawing? Why? And why wouldn’t he just say that? D’Melo slid the drawing out of the frame and rolled it up. He peered out the door, sweeping the area for the dark stranger. He hurried clandestinely to the bus station, full of questions and no answers.
D’Melo arrived at Ameka’s house just before dawn. She dashed out to greet him. D’Melo melted into her motherly arms.
“I’m so sorry, D’Melo. When I got your message, it felt like the world had ended. I loved your father so much.” Ameka led D’Melo to the room she had arranged for him. He crashed onto the bed, nearly asleep before his head even hit the pillow.
Nightmares marred his long but agitated sleep. He awoke with a start in a pool of sweat. For a moment, he could hear Baba’s voice, “Time to catch the worms, son.” He sighed painfully when he remembered that Baba was gone—a paralyzing sadness washed through him.
Ameka poked her head in. “I thought I heard you. You must have been so tired, my poor boy. It’s almost dinnertime. Come down when you’re ready.”
“Okay, Auntie.” D’Melo switched on his phone. It buzzed repeatedly for several seconds. Dozens of texts awaited him from people expressing their condolences. His eyes shot down the list of messages until they reached Zara’s name.
Zara: Internet’s back on! Plz tell me what’s happening? How’s Baba?
Zara: I’m getting worried. Plz let me know if everything’s ok.
Zara: OMG! Something’s terribly wrong. I can feel it.
Zara: I’m sooo sorry, D’Melo. Baba was the best man I’ve ever known. He was like a father to me. I wish I could be there with you right now.
“Me too,” D’Melo said under his breath. “I don’t know if I’m gonna make it through this.”
Zara: I know you’re thinking that you’re not going to make it thru this, but you will. We’ll get thru it together. I’m coming back as soon as I can get a ticket.
Zara: I’m scared, D’Melo. Are you ok? I haven’t heard from you and I can feel a terrible heaviness in my chest. I can barely breathe. Plz let me know how you’re doing.
D’Melo thumbed his response.
D’Melo: I’m living the worst nightmare I can imagine. I can’t believe Baba’s gone. I feel like he’s gonna walk into the room any minute, but he won’t.
D’Melo: I’m at Ameka’s. Baba said the LD isn’t safe for me anymore. I can never go back. I have no idea what’s going on or where I’m going next.
D’Melo: I’m gonna talk to Ameka now. Baba said she knows what to do. You’re not blue-ticking. You must be asleep. Plz call when you wake up.
D’Melo’s weary legs wobbled down the stairs. A traditional Shuja dinner awaited him, and not a second too soon. He was famished.
Ameka let D’Melo settle into his meal before gingerly breaking the news to him. “D’Melo,” she uttered softly. “Baba requested to be laid to rest in Kipaji.”
D’Melo took a moment to process this. “Okay,” he said. “When do I leave?”
Ameka sighed. “I’m sorry, D’Melo. You can’t go.”
“What do you mean? I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to my mom. I’m not gonna miss Baba’s funeral too!”
Ameka gazed at him intently. “Baba was hoping you would never have to know this.”
“Know what?” He straightened in his chair, waiting with bated breath.
“Baba was wanted by the Malungan government. And—”
“What do you mean, wanted?” D’Melo said incredulously. For what? There’s no way Baba was a criminal.”
“The government believes he has, or had, some information that if released would destroy some very powerful people.”
It suddenly dawned on D’Melo, “That’s what the thief was looking for.” He rubbed his forehead. “Well, did Baba really have it?”
“No. They’re barking up the wrong tree.”
D’Melo paused, relieved. “So what does this have to do with me being able to go to the funeral?”
“Well, it isn’t just your father they’re after. It’s your whole family. It’s the reason you guys left Kipaji. So going back there will be too dangerous for you.”
&nbs
p; A thought struck D’Melo like a battering ram into his chest. “Oh, my God.” He inclined in his chair. “I was right about my mom all along. It wasn’t an accident. That guy was trying to kill her . . . trying to kill all of us!”
D’Melo stared reflectively into the distance. “The last thing Baba said to me was, ‘You’ve never truly lived if you don’t have anything in your life that you’re willing to die for.’” D’Melo turned a resolute gaze to Ameka. “I don’t care what danger I’m in. I’m going.”
“Your father suspected that I wouldn’t be able to talk you out of it. I’ll do my best to make your journey as secure as possible. But you have to understand, I can’t guarantee your safety.”
D’Melo nodded slowly, considering her grave words.
“Kipaji doesn’t have its own airport and the one in Malunga is out of the question. The Malungan secret police will be on the lookout for you. The government doesn’t have food or jobs for their people,” Ameka said with disgust, “but they have millions of dollars to spend on state-of-the-art security technology.” She shook her head. “I’ll arrange for you to be picked up by my niece, Chipo Kayode, at the Nanjier airport. She’ll take you to the Hasira Bridge, which leads to Kipaji.
“You may not know this, but Chipo and your mother were best friends in college. They were birds of a feather, both fighters against injustice. Chipo hasn’t stopped. She’s still smuggling rebels across the Nanjier-Malunga border. So you’ll be in good hands. Once you make it into Kipaji, you’ll be safe. Malungans aren’t allowed to enter Kipaji without permission from the Kipaji Council. And the Council would never grant them access while you’re there.
“Chipo will approach you as you exit the airport. Malungan spies are everywhere. So for safe measure, Chipo will say to you, ‘Hatimaye itakuja.’ It means, ‘Your fate awaits you.’ She’ll then shake your hand with only four fingers. If this doesn’t happen, the person isn’t Chipo. Run as fast as you can back into the airport and take the next flight out of there. Also, a couple of years ago your father asked me to bring Chipo a flash drive to keep for you. He thought this day would eventually come.
“There’s a flight for Nanjier tomorrow morning. I’ll get your ticket. Now, when you return to America, you’ll go directly to Miami. I’ve arranged for you to live with friends there. The money Baba saved will sustain you for a while.”
Ameka then threw a cold wet blanket of reality over D’Melo. “You’ll have to change your name and you won’t be able to play basketball anymore.” D’Melo gawked at her, numb and sickened. “They know you’re a star basketball player. So if you play, they’ll find you. You’ll be in the newspapers, and even on TV.”
D’Melo’s world was collapsing around him. He forced himself to divert his thoughts from his future . . . if he didn’t, he would lose his mind. At that moment, his sole focus was getting to Kipaji for Baba’s funeral. He dropped his house keys on the table. “In case I don’t make it back,” he said soberly. “Baba would want you to have everything in the house.”
He trudged back up the stairs, his mind and body weighed by utter exhaustion. It didn’t help that there were no messages from Zara on his phone. He texted her.
D’Melo: Hope you didn’t buy your ticket yet. I’m coming to Kipaji for Baba’s funeral. I leave tmrw morn. Arrive Wed evening. If you can, plz come to the funeral.”
His phone buzzed.
“Zar?”
“Hey,” she said, her voice faint and scratchy. “It’s so great to—” Static.
“I can’t hear you. The connection’s really bad.”
“I said, it’s great to hear your voice.”
“You have no idea how much better it is to hear yours.”
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m mostly numb. It still doesn’t feel real. Are you able to come to the funeral?”
“Nothing could keep me away.” The connection continued to fuzz in and out. “I’ll be in Kipaji Thursday morning.”
“Great. See you then.”
“Edu.”
Dead air. The call dropped.
D’Melo tossed restlessly in bed. His addled mind twisted and spun, swaying his emotions wildly. He was anxious about being in Malunga, a country that wanted him dead for reasons he didn’t even know; afraid that he’d be killed before even making it to Baba’s funeral; overjoyed that he may see Zara soon; enraged that whoever killed Baba and his mother had gotten away with it; warmed that Ameka was so lovingly caring for him; devastated that he would no longer be able to play basketball; heartbroken that he may have seen his friends for the last time; but, most of all, overwhelmed with grief that he was about to say goodbye to his father forever. With fits and starts, D’Melo slipped into a tormented sleep.
Soon, his nightmare returned, with a haunting twist. It started out as it usually did, with his family driving to Ameka’s on Christmas morning. But this time, D’Melo’s mom turned around to him. A sparkly emerald dangled in front of her forehead. Her face was unfamiliar, a shade darker and more narrow. D’Melo saw the other car barreling toward them. He screamed, “TURN AROUND!” But his mother continued to gaze at him, her eyes teary and gleaming with infinite love.
“Don’t worry, Yabo. I’ll see you again,” she said, as serene as a lucid pond on a windless day.
As the final word fell from her lips, the other car transformed into a keen metal spear just before ramming them. D’Melo shut his eyes tight. He couldn’t bear to watch his mother die, again. The spear sliced through the passenger door and pierced her back and chest. D’Melo felt a liquid splatter over him. Strangely, it wasn’t warm or red like blood. It was cool and clear. Then, a jolt sent them tumbling. When everything settled, he opened his eyes. He could see his mother, but his vision was blurred and wavy, as if looking up through rippling water. “Always remember one thing—” she murmured. Dong, dong, dong . . . Her voice morphed into Baba’s, who finished the admonition.
“Later. Later.” Baba’s voice echoed faintly in the distance.
“Baba!” D’Melo shouted. “We can’t say goodbye like this. Come back!”
“Later. Later,” Baba repeated, fading into nothingness.
Chapter Ten
Haya – The Tree of Life
The plane descended toward Ushindi, the capital of Nanjier. D’Melo gazed out the tiny oval window. Africa felt as foreign as he had always imagined. The sunbaked expanse was spotted with clumps of dried brush. Dirt roads snaked through destitute villages of makeshift homes. The wheels screeched onto the runway. When the seatbelt sign dinged off, he was reminded of the shopkeeper’s bell at the drugstore. His head dipped as he reflected on his life, or what used to be his life.
A flight attendant jogged him. “Excuse me.” D’Melo snapped back to attention and realized no one else was on the plane. “Sorry, but we must finish clearing the aircraft.”
As he stepped off the plane, he was walloped by suffocating heat. His lungs worked extra hard to take in oxygen. Heat waves rose from the blistering concrete tarmac. As he entered the baggage area, Ameka’s caution crept to mind: “There are Malungan spies everywhere.” His eyes probed the sweltering airport, although he had no idea what a Malungan spy would even look like. He tried to blend in. But that wasn’t easy for a 6’4” young man in a Meek Mill T-shirt in a country where most people are diminutive and wearing traditional garb. He felt like an underdressed giant. He walked quickly, avoiding eye contact with anyone. As he reached the exit, someone grabbed him. His heart leapt.
“Hatimaye itakuja.” A slender woman, whose face was worn beyond her years, extended four fingers. D’Melo could now breathe. As he clutched Chipo’s hand, he remembered the story that Ameka told him. A few years ago, Chipo had been captured by the Malungan government. She was accused of smuggling rebels and guns into Malunga. She denied it. Her captors severed her right thumb to dissuade her from continuing her smuggling b
usiness, or to discourage her from starting one. It didn’t work.
Chipo ushered D’Melo into her ramshackle pickup truck. When D’Melo closed the creaky door, caked mud broke off. The truck rattled down the bumpy road, kicking up a brown cloud behind it. The sun, a glowing orange orb, was now just below the desolate horizon. As they ascended an incline near the Malungan border, the landscape became more verdant and the air cooler. Chipo made a call that lasted but a few seconds. She spoke in a low, clandestine voice, rousing D’Melo’s anxiety.
Chipo stopped the truck. “This is the Hasira Bridge,” she told him, “and that is the Hasira River below.”
D’Melo looked out his window at the raging river.
“It creates a natural border between Nanjier and Malunga. The Malungan side of the bridge is officially the Kingdom of Kipaji.
“A Kipaji Council representative will be on the other side to greet you,” Chipo assured him, gazing across the bridge. D’Melo felt like he was in one of the many spy movies he had watched over the years. He hoped it wasn’t one of the films with a sequel. He just wanted to say goodbye to Baba and never return.
“Oh,” Chipo exclaimed. “I can’t believe I almost forgot.” She snapped open a secret compartment in the truck and handed D’Melo the flash drive.
“What’s on it?”
“I don’t know. I’m only the messenger. But for your father to go through the trouble of getting it to me, it must be quite important.” D’Melo tucked it into his backpack.
“When you want to leave,” Chipo instructed, “make arrangements through Milpisi. He’s the Kipaji Healer.” Chipo wished D’Melo luck, “Bahati njema.”
D’Melo shook Chipo’s damaged hand gratefully. He took a settling breath before exiting the truck for the bridge. He attempted to look natural, but it was impossible. This was the most unnatural situation he could have ever imagined.
As he approached the border patrol booth, he noticed it was empty. Two cups of tea were steaming next to half-eaten meals on paper plates. D’Melo realized that Chipo’s call must have been to ensure that the guards would make themselves scarce when he arrived. Although the guards were Malungan, they were apparently motivated more by the money Chipo paid them than any loyalty they had to the Malungan government.
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