In what I call my office or command center, there is a high-level communication setup and a hidden pantry-like room behind my closet wall, which houses my weapons arsenal, passports, and other accoutrements needed for my dispatch work. It slides open when activated by my palm print. The palm must be warm, with a beating pulse. The second room, my guest room, is for appearances only, because I don’t intend to entertain overnight guests.
When my parents pull up in their black Escalade with their driver, Keigel is next to me on the sidewalk. He is there as a show of unity, to let the neighborhood know anyone who comes to my home is under his protection—laughable because he has no idea that he is under my protection now. He will know soon enough. When I introduce him to Delphine and Noble Knight, if they accept him, the options for Keigel will be limitless. He could have whatever his heart desires, and he’ll have the support of me and the Tribe . . . if he plays his cards right and my parents accept him.
The driver, well armed, and another bodyguard exit the SUV. Behind them, another car, a silver Mustang, rolls to a stop, and more guards pile out. They all look around, no doubt wondering why a Knight daughter lives here.
Keigel whistles as the guards pile out. He begins searching the ground.
“What are you doing?” I say. The man has lost his senses.
“Looking for the rose petals and African drums.” He grins. “I mean, the king of Zamunda has arrived, right?”
All I can do is look at him. Perhaps this meeting was not my best idea.
“Zamunda?” Keigel repeats slowly, his eyes incredulous that I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Coming to America? Come on now, Eddie Murphy? Arsenio Hall?”
I shake my head as if clueless.
To increase my horror, Keigel breaks out in song. “Just let your soul-l-l glo-o-o.” His voice cracks, but his smile is wide and proud.
“Is that a religious sect?” I ask. The nearest guard overhears us, and his shoulders shake from his laughter.
“Sexual chocolate!” Keigel blurts suddenly, startling me. I’m beginning to worry he is unwell.
I frown. “Is what? A new candy bar?” I say, pretending I don’t understand.
The guard turns quickly, sneaking a peek at Keigel, whose face drains of all hope. It’s official: Keigel is indeed unwell.
“Okay,” Keigel says, taking a deep breath. “James Earl Jones was the king.”
A light bulb. “Ah,” I say, relieved we’ve gotten somewhere. “Yes, him I know.”
He expels a breath of air, shaking his hand in victory. “Finally. Finally!”
“James Earl Jones was Mufasa in The Lion King.”
Despair replaces Keigel’s brief relief, and by now, more guards are laughing at his misery. The name “akata” is mingled with their muted comments. The name is one we call Black Americans when we feel they are beneath us, a name I’ve never approved of and one I am disappointed the guards thought was okay to say. No one is beneath anyone, especially Keigel.
In a sharp voice and in Ewe, I tell the chuckling guards, “If you value your life, never again let me hear you call him that name.” I tilt my head toward Keigel, murmuring, “You know there is no country of Zamunda in Africa.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “Shit, I know that, but one can hope, right?”
As Keigel’s lanky body shrinks from disappointment, my nostrils flare as I try to remain serious. Later I’ll tell him Coming to America is one of my favorite movies. Lion King as well.
Keigel says, more serious than I’ve seen him before, “You know what gets me by each day I see one of my boys dead or watch all this crazy political shit going on? Knowing there is a real place out there. Knowing that Africa, in its entirety, is an amalgamation of Zamunda and Wakanda, and I can always go there if I need it.”
His words are the most profound and beautiful I have ever heard. They make me view those fictional idealizations of Africa in a new light, as well as Keigel, because he used the word amalgamation. And that is impressive.
When my parents complain that I live in a place they feel is unsafe, it is laughable, considering our line of business.
“This neighborhood and its people remind me of home,” I explain.
“Del, my dear, let her be,” Dad says. She sucks her teeth at him, and I know he will hear it during the car ride back to their flat. He follows Mum into their auto but calls over his shoulder to me. “Just make sure Network conducts several sweeps of this area, yes?”
Keigel stands with me, watching their caravan leave. Thankfully he has refrained from making any more stereotypical African jokes.