African Adventure

Walter would never live down the day he came to school with a gaping hole down the backside of his pants. He mainly kept to himself and the bags under his eyes, but that day he chose to carry, auxiliary to him, a Swiss army knife, which he thought was cool. What wasn’t cool was the way the contraption managed to rip right through the seat of his blue jeans. His peers called the event ‘the rift’. The moniker was not appreciated. He resided in a Podunk town, and he, himself, was quite rinky-dink. Nothing much happened to Walter.

Much like his pants he was torn apart by the seams that day. He was called down to the office on the intercom- “Oh great,” and when bustling down to the main office he was in for a surprise.

“Yes, you explain,” said the front office lady, Mrs. Laplante, who, with a phone pressed against her cheek, lazily gestured toward a man who was claiming to be his father. The man, claiming to be from Alta, a supposed African country, was here to procure Walter, as he was finally ready to fulfill his role as king. Walter couldn’t be more confused, but it was also nothing new. He was idiosyncratic for the reason being that the obvious truth was always clear, until it wasn’t, and life was simple, until it wasn’t. Not many of his peers thought like that.

However, the kind man from the ‘middle’ of Africa, now thunderously speaking of sacred rules, super sacred rules, in front of the front office desk lady, in any case, was clearly embarrassing himself. There was nothing in common between them besides perhaps having massive lapses on their respective grips on reality. He had a gaping hole between the teeth which could wedge a slice of string cheese from lunch. Sideways of course. As if there were a connection between him and this man, he wasn’t even from Africa, how could he be a king?

This was not going to be simple. He stood before a fictitious plenipotentiary as a scrawny high schooler. Though the grandeur of ditching this place for a chance at royalty, eventually missing school for a while would lose its zest. When projected upon for various things, there was some serious explaining to do. He wasn’t even from Africa, and most notably, there was no kingdom called Alta in Africa that existed, unless he missed that geography class. This was clearly a mistake, if not a sick joke.

Evidently the father thing was a ruse, and he was ushered into a suspicious looking van and carried off. As the school disappeared behind a hill, something else began to take shape. The entire vehicle morphed into a limousine. Soon people started pouring out from the corners, courting him, treating him well.

“Better?” Asked the man who went by Ozzy. Maybe he wasn’t just a kid. There was a lot to take in. It wasn’t too fretful, to his knowledge, of being in this place. Ozzy spoke up. “Imagine Temptresses sucking at the feet,” he said with a mischievous grin. It would be regretted immediately as to why he would live in a world where grapes weren’t fed by the mouth. Though the fun times ended when it was revealed that the kingdom was at arms and to be on the throne he should be prepared to-

“Do battle?”

With a grave gasp he slumped back. “There’s a battle?” Very quickly being king sounded less appealing. It was mercy just to be away from the world resembling a dog’s stool yet, he knew it wasn't simply going to be a game of tic-tac-toe to the death over some stupid kingdom. Maybe he was just whining. He could be convinced that his life mattered. In spite of only knowing now that he was a direct descendant of some ancient warrior. He was a quarter Dominican. Things often got complicated with genealogy, but this was more than a stretch.

More confusingly than in class, Ozzy would dictate they’d soon hear the trickle of the Zambezi. It would open up like a diorama where instead of a model home there would be a place fit for an African kingdom. The dash of something that compelled contact with a made man. Certain moments were decidedly laughable.

Evidently his nation was waiting within his pocket. A sunflower in a pot of dirt. Walter rolled his eyes, but upon arrival to a nice verdant, yet desolate field, Ozzy placed it in the ground, planting it in the ground.

“Great, you’re a gardener,” Walter exclaimed, “What’s the big deal?” Ozzy simply smiled, holding up a naughty finger. Before they could say some multisyllabic phrase, the plant, it expanded into a world that looked picturesque. Just like the pictures in his geography textbook. Textbook Africa, if that made any sense.

“Do you like it?” Ozzy asked.

As if it were nothing, shimmering people simply walked along. It was clear that it was that sitting before them was an expansive city. Everything opened up, the four corners, and it was apparent that souls were crashing through at speed. It was not a promotional stunt, but in the middle of nowhere, they were standing before, well, adjacent to the meandering men with weird things on their faces and shawls, and loincloths that seemed to ride up a little.

His head was 0n fire, not like in school, but a mention of how long division worked or Punnett squares would send him over the edge. He didn’t know how to divide, nor how to claim his rightful place as king. In fact, there was an inkling that perhaps they could be dropping the ball. Being welcomed into the position couldn’t be less disastrous.

It blazed into him a certain critique of his existence. By the looks of things his opposition would be in existence and outside of a video game. He was averse, in any case, of wielding a shield and a sword and supposedly going to fight another human with some cronies.

The complicated misunderstanding of meandering men right before him. An entire country in the palm of a hand. A laughable notion. It was considered to make a dash from the clamor. Before realizing that it was complacent to ask for more explanations. The nature of an escape from the suitcase that opened up into a country, stealing precious things right from under the noses of the higher ups and suddenly the class on classical antiquity was becoming a lot more appealing. Though the technology was a crutch for the many ways Ozzy, the man who went by Ozzy was telling it.

There was a laughable notion that this was bound to be fun. Doing weird things, wearing weird things. Maybe it was a phase but again, the loincloths rode up. This was not some promotional stunt, and with the intensity of the corners, the plane. And the food emitted a stench, really, it brought a tear to the eye. It was really, stingingly acrid, Africa. Sitting before everything.

He envisioned this going much differently, there was a chance that this was going slightly well, even given the fact that the supernatural state of things were occurring at such a fast speed they could barely comprehend it.

“It’s alright to feel overwhelmed,” Ozzy chided, “But this is just the beginning.” Right, the battle for something, he couldn’t put it together but for the moment, as the various channels of civilization formed the shape of an astute African nation right nearby to his school also raised some questions there was not too much logic to anything yet, it was clear that this might just be a bit better than seventh period biology.

He’d pick it up, if it wasn’t mind numbing enough. He wasn’t a numb skull, they were in Albuquerque, and the entire nation was so badly in need of a king, that it didn’t really matter whatever drivel they came up with, nor what face he wore. This was life, fight and all, and it made little logical sense. With some training, there was enough dirt to kick up and make some ground that he may simply nod along like it was a lecture.

More interestingly was the time before this. A creeping realization that the time for that extravagance was a prewritten dirge. It was a tumultuous world, and he was told in order to win to use the stars as reference points. As if some ancient deity may look on with eyes like his and change the inevitable.

Walter had never been in a competition with a mythical nation. If only he could have it delineated to him like in the video games. He was given a masquerade for a ritual. In any case it made him look tough.

He was given a strategy. Stick to it and he may win. The math theorems, the hokey town, they really didn’t seem too far off from school. Though the knife raised to the throat was new. Perhaps that superseded the benefits and tradeoffs of caring for a scary, long ago kingdom. Most notably, clearly, perhaps there was such a fictitious place, and as a high schooler, trading eventually commanding a secret foreign nation, truth be told, with essays, would be a mistake.

With enough belief, this was mind numbingly not his role. There was a mistake. They needed a king so bad he rather facetiously said yes. It was a simple question as to who would fill the role, that if it made any sense, he would one day know what to make of the lecture. He kicked up the wrath of the ground. The walls, the defenses of all time.

It was laughable but the heir to the throne thing was a hoax. “Now what?” Walter asked, and it was, in truth, the sick joke he was waiting for. He wasn’t king. Though this was immediately regrettable. Sucking on the feet, being fed grapes, the eternal knowledge that was not yet in existence. It was a lot to take in, maybe he should just disappear behind a smile.

Being the improper heir would slightly resemble the every day. It wasn’t a battle, though there were beans on the menu, not quite his favorite of their specialities, he wasn’t shrouded with a great cheer upon return. The kingdom of school was not in rapturous glee to see him.

He was king this way, all it took was weird glasses. He asked if he could keep any of the cool knick knacks.

“That won’t fly-”

There was a flailing, dropping feeling that he himself was not Harry Potter or Indiana Jones, or some other retched irregularity. It was mentioned he’d make it back just in time for class.

The sword, only wielded in a video game, doing biology was not as fun.

Regardless of that, doing biology was a blaze of ease, much easier than running an entire kingdom.