The False King

“I think there’s been a mistake,” I said.

“I’m afraid there’s no mistake, my friend,” he replied, shaking his head sadly. “I know it’s hard to accept, but you really are dead. From what I’ve heard, you put up a great fight. 4 years. That’s a long battle.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” I pointed at the door in front of us. “You said that this is where kings go after they die.”

He nodded.

“But...I’m not a king.”

“Oh, really?” he said doubtfully. “So they just let anyone dress like that nowadays?”

He was referring to the costume- and it was only a costume- I was wearing. It was from my most iconic role: an African superhero who was also a king. It was a sleek black costume, with a necklace with claws instead of jewelry. I know for a fact that I hadn’t fallen asleep in it, but I guess the afterlife worked under different rules.

“Look, I don’t pretend to be always up-to-date on human practices, but I know for a fact that what you’re wearing is reserved for kings.”

Clearly this man had never been at Comic-Con. “I’m telling you, there’s been a mistake. Yes, my character is a king, but I’m only an actor! I’m not a real king and I’m not a real leader.”

The man looked intently at me. It was beginning to get uncomfortable after a while, but I couldn’t break eye contact. Something about his stare wouldn’t let me go. He finally closed his eyes and sighed, shaking his head again but more frustrated than sad this time. “Good grief, ‘not a real king,’ ‘not a real leader.’ After all these years as an actor, I thought you’d know better by now. I suppose I’ll just have to show you.”

He grabbed my hand and we moved. Well not exactly. I could tell that we were still both standing outside that door, but mentally we were moving somewhere else. By the time I could process how any of this was possible, we had stopped in a bed room. It looked familiar and as soon as I saw who was in it, I knew why. It was my old bedroom.

And the teenager sitting at his desk and writing was me back in high school. It’s always strange to see old pictures of yourself. Not just because you look different, but because of how much about you have changed on the inside. The internal changes are often more extensive than the external ones, but a school yearbook can’t exactly show you that. 

Right now my younger self was completely focused on whatever he was doing. Curious about what kind of homework he was doing, I walked over and looked at his desk. I recognized the title instantly.

“It’s the play I wrote,” I said, feeling a strong sense of déjà vu.

“And do you remember why you wrote it?” the man asked.

“Of course,” I replied, still staring at myself writing. “It was in my junior year of high school. This kid on my basketball team was shot. I wrote this play to cope with it.”

“You know King David did something similar after he killed Goliath.”

“What?”

“Yes, they were enemies on the battlefield, but they were still brothers in the spiritual sense. After David killed Goliath, he felt immense guilt and remorse. He used those feelings to play a song on his lyre. He was quite good.”

“How could you possibly know that?” I asked.

He gave me a knowing look and responded, “I make it my business to know my ancestors. And my children technically.”

I wasn’t even going to ask what he meant by that. “I’m still not sure how this proves I’m a king.”

“A true king understands the pain of his people. You and David both took that pain and made art. If you’re still not convinced, I can show you more.”

He grabbed my hand and we were transported once again. This time we were at a theater. I instantly noticed myself in the seats, sitting among the other students. I was older and currently in college to study everything I could about movies and storytelling. Like in my old room, I was writing furiously, listening intently to my teacher and taking notes.

“Do you remember why you began acting?” the man suddenly asked.

“Originally I wanted to be a writer and director,” I explained. “I only took up acting to understand my actors, give them the best directions.”

“And you still don’t see how you’re a king? You worked with your subjects to better understand them. Isn’t that what it means to be a king?”

“The actors aren’t the subjects of the director. Well, I suppose if the director is egotistical enough they would believe that, but still, it doesn’t matter. I ended up becoming an actor instead of a director anyway.”

“Okay, how about this.” He raised one finger. “I’ll show you one more example. If you still don’t believe you’re a king after that, I’ll give up on trying to convince you. But I have a feeling three tries is all I’ll need.”

“Why three?“

He shrugged. “Three’s my lucky number.”

He transported us into another bedroom, but it wasn’t one of mine. From the posters of superheroes on the walls and the toys on the ground, I guessed that we were in a child’s room. I saw a Black boy- probably still in elementary school- writing at his desk. He was crying.

“Why is he-”

The man pointed at one of the posters. At the center of it was me, wearing the same costume I was in now.

“Oh,” I replied.

I looked back at the crying boy and felt a wave of sadness. I wanted to call out to him and tell him that I was okay now, but he wouldn’t have been able to hear me. Even if I was actually there, I doubt he would have noticed, he seemed like he was in his own world.

I looked over his shoulder to see what he was writing. It was a poem titled “The True King.” When I read who it was dedicated to, I felt like crying myself.

The man patted my shoulder and said, “Would you believe me if I told you that there were millions of others doing the same thing right now?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. My eyes were watering with tears now, but I wiped them away. “I'm ready."

He nodded in return. Grabbing my hand, we disappeared.