D’Melo jerked out of a fitful sleep, images of his mother’s dreadful murder marring his dreams. Beads of sweat tickled his forehead. He lay back down, but too afraid to close his eyes. Then the rondeval phone tweeted. He checked the time: 3:17. He reluctantly answered, worried that only bad news came at that hour.
“Hello?” he whispered.
“Hey, dude.” Hearing Zara’s voice immediately soothed him. “Are you all right?”
“Not really. But I’ll be okay.”
“I’m coming over,” she said. “Meet me outside in five minutes.”
D’Melo settled on the divan in the porch, crossing his arms to fend off the crisp night air. He fidgeted agitatedly until his weary eyes glimpsed the starlit sky. He fondly remembered the times Baba would drag him outside on clear nights to revel at “the handiwork of the Great Spirit.” He could never understand why Baba was so enamored by the near starless night over Philadelphia. But now he understood. When Baba gazed into the sky, he was imagining the glorious vault of heaven that glittered spectacularly above Kipaji.
A glowing orb crossed the thick woods. It pulsed glints of moonlight filtering through the forest canopy. D’Melo squinted for a better look. As the light flicked closer, he realized it was just Zara. She made her way to the porch and wordlessly slipped onto the divan, clutching his chilly arm.
“It seems you have a severe case of cutis anserina,” she said, showing off that she remembered the medical term for goose bumps that Baba taught her. She raised a finger, I’ll be back. She scooted inside and returned with a throw blanket. She stretched it over them and nestled her head on his shoulder. In an instant, D’Melo’s eyelids grew weighty. He struggled to stay conscious, not wanting to miss a second of the tender moment. But alas, his body was no match for Zara’s calming influence.
He arose. “I’m okay now. Thanks.” Before ducking inside, he glanced back at Zara, who was now spread snuggly across the divan.
She yawned, “Amani ndoto, punk.”
The delicate light of dawn trickled through the awakening forest. Zara headed to her rondeval and changed into workout clothes. After shaking loose her morning mental cobwebs, she loped along the Trail of Unity. This primal path circumambulated Kipaji, connecting the four mountain ranges that offered a natural protective rampart around the region. Within minutes she reached the summit of Amanzi Mountain. A river gushed over the ledge and drummed the Ukuqala Pool on its northern face. She paused briefly, running in place, to absorb the vista of the Hasira River and Nanjier across the bridge.
Zara’s eyes swung down into the valley. She was awed by the precision of the landscape design. The library was the most prominent rondeval in the Moyo. It was the central point around which nine elliptical paths connected the forested valley. Along the paths, clusters of rondevals dotted circular clearings. From her vantage point, Kipaji looked like a colossal atom.
Intrigued, she continued her run. Before long, she entered a fresh microclimate. A faint whistle shrilled through the dense woodland. She veered off toward the sound. As she trudged upward, she was greeted by a gale that was as passionate as she was. Her hair whipped wildly behind her, nearly horizontally. With her muscles tested to capacity, she took strategic cover behind the thick strength of ancient trees. They became her ally as she battled to the summit. Atop Upepo Mountain, thousands of wind turbines whirled vigorously. At their center, a generator converted the wind into usable energy. That’s awesome! she thought.
Zara quickened her pace, eager to see what else this extraordinary land had to offer. At the southern edge of Kipaji, she descended rapidly into a region that looked like how she imagined Mars to be. Unlike the other mountains, Joto Mountain had a significant plateau and was considerably warmer. Wet sulfuric heat rose from the harsh raw earth up Zara’s sweaty calves. The ground beneath her began to rattle, then quickly intensified into a rumble. She slowed to a stop, wondering whether she was experiencing her first earthquake. Suddenly, a burst of steamy water blasted a tower into the azure sky. It peaked three stories high, paused midair, then plummeted back to the earth, slapping down heavily against the craggy landscape.
The final leg of Zara’s run was Choma Mountain on Kipaji’s eastern border. It was the most ecologically diverse of the mountain regions. While it was largely forested, patches of rocky black surfaces swept over treeless portions along the mountainside. The petrified lava was the only visible evidence of an eruption that was said to have occurred at the time of the Spirit King. In time, it too would be weathered into the fertile reddish soil bursting with life like the other areas of Choma Mountain. Orchards of coffee, cocoa, orange, and lemon trees lined terraced rows down the western face of the mountain. The eastern side boasted nuts, herbs, and spices. The more tropical climate at the foot of the mountain was colored brilliantly by kiwi, mangoes, papaya, and other delectable fruits.
Zara marveled. Kipaji is the coolest place in the world—massive waterfalls, powerful wind tunnels, geysers, volcanoes, and all within three miles of each other.
As she circled back to Amanzi Mountain, kids frolicked in the clear streams. Their little faces beamed gregariously at the sight of Zara. A gleefully overzealous band even attempted to keep pace with her until their feeble legs gave way. One bright-eyed boy continued to trail her. Zara turned to let him catch up. He leapt into her arms. She swung him around until dizziness overwhelmed her.
Zara completed the loop, having traversed ten glorious miles. She sprung into D’Melo’s rondeval, feeling amazingly energetic, like she could go another ten. Jua had just dropped off the morning’s breakfast tray.
Their greeting was cut short by D’Melo shouting, “Hey! Hey!”
They raced into the dining area. An elephant was reaching its giant trunk through a window, curling food off a plate. D’Melo waved his arms frenetically above his head, while keeping a healthy distance from the elephant.
“Shoo! Shoo!” he yelled.
The elephant ignored him, of course. Zara and Jua broke into laughter.
“You’re laughing?” D’Melo said, eyeing the elephant with horror. “There’s a huge creature eating my breakfast!”
“Well actually,” Jua corrected, “she’s eating her breakfast. We feed Msada and her family every day. We help them, they help us. As you may have noticed, there are no vehicles in Kipaji. So the elephants offer rides and do some heavy lifting for us.”
Jua extended a reverent hand. “Msada, meet D’Melo, son of Kipaji.” Msada lifted her enormous trunk. D’Melo furrowed a brow at Zara, What do I do? Zara gestured for him to shake “hands.” D’Melo stretched his arm out as far as he could without having to move even an inch closer to the elephant. Msada dropped her thick prickly trunk into D’Melo’s hand. Then she padded off in graceful silence—a baffling quality for a creature so huge.
“Siku ya heri,” Jua excused herself.
“Siku ya heri,” D’Melo and Zara replied, clearly feeling good about having learned at least a basic Kipaji phrase.
After another bountiful breakfast, Zara waddled to the living room. She collapsed on the couch, massaging her stuffed belly.
“I don’t know how you can eat so much,” D’Melo asserted with a tinge of jealousy. “If I ate like you, I’d weigh three hundred pounds.”
“Dude, don’t start with me,” she retorted, her arm resting over her droopy eyes. “I ran ten miles already today. What did you do? Brush your teeth? And from the smell of things, you probably didn’t even do that.”
“Yo! That’s just wrong. Is that how friends do each other in Country Bumpkin, North Carolina?”
The woodpecker clacked. D’Melo went to the door as Milpisi ambled in.
“Ahh, the son of Kipaji. Siku ya heri,” Milpisi said. Then he asked, “Was someone sleeping in the porch last night? There is an untidy blanket on the divan.”
“I had an awful dream. So Zara came to comfort me.
”
“It’s beautiful that you call her for consolation in tough times. Life is a blessing when you have such a friend.”
“That’s true, but I didn’t call her. She called me.”
“She called?” Milpisi was puzzled. “How did she know?”
D’Melo shrugged. “She’s amazing.”
“Hmm…,” Milpisi pondered, tugging his beard pensively before broaching the reason for his visit. “If you have time, I can take you to your parents’ rondeval.”
“Sounds great.” D’Melo scratched a note for the napping Zara; he would meet her at the library at 9 a.m.
“Very well, then. Let’s go see Mujiza and your mother’s home.”
D’Melo’s expression must have given away his confusion.
“Oh,” Milpisi said softly. “You don’t know your father’s birth name?”
On the way to the rondeval, Milpisi explained that Baba never knew his parents. His father fought with the Shuja rebels in Nanjier and was killed only weeks before Baba was born. Then Baba’s mother died giving birth to him. She had a genetic condition that prevented her from bearing children. She lost four babies in the span of six years. Milpisi warned her that every time she got pregnant, she was putting her life at risk. But she insisted that the Great Spirit was impelling her to have a child. So she kept trying until she finally gave birth to Baba.
“So, your father was a miracle,” Milpisi said, the look in his eyes a mix of pride and anguish. “Hence, his name—Mujiza Mdogo. It means ‘the Little Miracle.’ You know, technically, you and I are related,” Milpisi added. “But not by blood. Baba’s mother and my wife were cousins.”
Soon, a humble rondeval came into view. It was tucked cozily among towering trees and a party of manicured flora. D’Melo was disappointed that he didn’t remember it. He wandered around, hoping to jog a memory.
“The people living here are doing a great job keeping it up,” he said. “It looks brand new.”
“No one lives here,” Milpisi said. “In Kipaji, your home is forever. We held out hope that your family would rejoin us one day. And you see, the son of Kipaji has returned. This rondeval is yours now.”
D’Melo felt a surge of excitement, but it was quickly tempered when he recalled his difficult situation. “But I’m not staying. So I guess you should let another family have it.”
“Well, you never know. If the Great Spirit wills it, you may once again return home to Kipaji.”
D’Melo remembered he was supposed to meet Zara at the library. “Milpisi, I’m so sorry,” he said hastily. “Zara’s waiting for me.”
Milpisi’s eyes smiled softly. “You must never make a friend like her wait.”
“Thank you so much for showing me my parents’ home—” D’Melo corrected himself, “my home.” He dashed for the valley.
D’Melo chugged up to Zara, out of breath but on time. They hurried inside, anxious to find out who killed President Amani. D’Melo clicked open the audio and skipped to where it left off.
“When I heard what was being discussed, my body went numb. The two people were plotting the assassination of President Amani. We stood there petrified because we recognized one of the voices; it was Vice President Dimka.”
D’Melo gulped. Now he understood why Baba went to such great lengths to keep his family hidden in America.
“The voices on the recording were discussing how to stop President Amani from signing the peace agreement. They thought that if they could somehow remove him, Dimka would become President and would cease the peace process. But they had a couple of problems. First, President Amani was beloved by the citizens of Malunga. And second, the peace agreement was wildly popular among common Malungans. So they had to devise a way to get rid of Amani and at the same time turn the Malungan people against the peace agreement. So the plotters decided to assassinate him and make it appear as if it was at the hands of the Shuja rebels. The Borutus would turn their anger of losing their President against the Shujas. And, in one fell swoop, both problems would be solved.
“They decided that the opportune moment to kill Amani would be the morning he was to fly to Nanjier. On his way to the airport, Amani would be vulnerable. They only needed to know which vehicle in the motorcade he would be in.
“Within fifteen minutes of the president’s car being blown to pieces, Dimka announced that the Shuja rebels were to blame. The Borutus reacted just as Dimka had hoped. They flew into a murderous rage. They killed any Shuja they could find. The slaughter escalated, leading to the mass extermination of the Shuja people. All the while, Dimka did nothing to stop the genocide.
“After hearing the recording, your mother ranted about how this was finally our chance to bring down the corrupt government of Malunga. She wanted to take it to the International Criminal Court. Although I knew she was right, I didn’t want to have anything to do with the recording. If it was discovered that we had it, Dimka would have our whole family tortured, then killed. I wasn’t willing to take that chance. I planned to return the recording to Jasiri the following morning, but the Great Spirit forced my hand.
“As you can imagine, I couldn’t sleep that night. Every little sound—sounds that I had heard my whole life—startled me. I would get out of bed and prowl around the house with a broom.” Baba chuckled at himself. “What was I planning to do, sweep the Malungan assassins out of the house?
“Against your mother’s insistence, the moment the sun rose, I went straight to the hospital. When I arrived, it was swarming with military personnel. I was immediately ushered to the cafeteria where the emergency care staff was being confined.
“I asked the hospital administrator what was happening. She told me that Jasiri had died in the middle of the night and within minutes soldiers appeared and cordoned off her room. The military claimed that Jasiri had come into contact with a person infected with the Ebola virus. Jasiri did not have Ebola. Our tests clearly indicated that she had consumed poison. But maybe the strangest thing of all was, the head of the military, General Nyoko, led the investigation. There was absolutely no reason for someone at his level to be involved with something like this.
“Soldiers started interviewing the staff one by one. They rummaged through purses and emptied pockets. At that point, I knew for sure this had nothing to do with Ebola. Sealing off the emergency-care wing was just a ruse. They were looking for the recording that was sitting in my medical bag.
“My heart was beating so fast. I couldn’t think straight. The only thought my mind could hold was finding a way out of there. I told the administrator I had to use the bathroom. She urged me to hurry because my turn to be questioned was coming. I slipped into the bathroom and climbed out through a window. I shot through the woods and didn’t look back.
“I reached our house, frantic. We wildly threw clothes into a couple sacks and started for the Nanjier border. Now, what I’m about to tell you is going to be a bit of a shock.”
D’Melo’s chest clenched apprehensively. What could be more shocking than Baba being wanted as a traitor because he had evidence that would bring down the president of the country? Zara clasped D’Melo’s hand, preparing for the worst.
“I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for not telling you sooner.” Baba paused, then said in a low, contrite voice, “You have a brother. His name is Kavu. He’s your twin.”
D’Melo stared blankly at the computer screen. His body immediately started to brew furiously with emotions, like the waves of the sea during a violent storm, colliding harshly against one another—anger that his parents never told him; sad that he grew up without a brother, when he actually had one; and peculiar joy that he was not alone in the world.
“Please try to understand. Telling you would have put all of our lives in danger, including Kavu’s. If you knew, you would have wanted to contact Kavu. But that wasn’t possible without the Malungan government findi
ng out. So we decided it was best not to say anything. We were going to tell you when the situation changed in Malunga, but it never did.”
D’Melo stopped the audio. He staggered out of the library and slumped down on a bench. Zara followed, and asked if she could sit with him. He didn’t respond. She took a seat anyway. After several ponderous minutes, D’Melo muttered, “Why me? A few days ago, I had everything. I don’t understand!” He repeatedly pounded his leg with a heavy fist. Zara clutched his hand and held it down.
“My life is over, Zar,” he said, sobbing, bitter tears burning his cheeks. “Everything I wanted, everything I planned, won’t happen. But you know, that doesn’t even matter. What makes this impossible is that I don’t have Baba anymore. What am I going to do without him?”
D’Melo buried his face in his hands.
Zara was devastated for D’Melo, but glad that he was finally allowing himself to process his emotions. Before this moment, she worried that he had been suppressing his feelings about Baba. But now she wondered, Why isn’t D’Melo talking about the assassination? The recording? Or his brother?
Zara drew long, even breaths, hoping D’Melo would follow. He did.
After a few settling moments, he rose from the bench. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Zara started for the rondeval.
“Where you going?” he said.
“You said, ‘let’s go.’”
“Yeah, back into the library to finish the audio.”
Zara was blown away by how much D’Melo could absorb. He had internal levels of strength that went far beyond anyone she had ever known, including herself. She would have been paralyzed with sadness, unable to get out of bed for days. But here he was, ready to take on more.
“I packed the cassette and recorder into my bag. Just as we were leaving the rondeval, Milpisi appeared. I’m sure you’ve met him by now and have already discovered that he is a very special person. Milpisi informed us that President Dimka had requested permission from the Council to allow some Malungan soldiers to enter Kipaji. Dimka told the Council that a Shuja rebel had escaped from their prison and was hiding in Kipaji.
Spirit King: Return of the Crown Page 23