Page 1 of Craving a King

Chapter One

Preparation

Ella

At the insistence of an insufferable sovereign, I am placing my life on hold for thirty days.

King Kofi Ajyei is practically forcing me to come to Africa. He says I need to “absorb the culture” before I propose how my charter school network, Revolution Academies, may serve his Ashanti villages. My schools teach students the inner workings of law and public policy along with reading, writing, and arithmetic. I’m only tolerating his command because having an impact on public education in West Africa will be a dream come true for me and my organization. If he chooses us.

I’m pissed because this is not how the bidding process works! When I told him my status as a UN-approved contractor requires me to submit a proposal, not pitch it to him personally in his country, he scoffed. When I told him that no potential contractor would put their entire business and life on hold to live in another country for a “maybe,” he laughed! When I flat out told him no, he overnighted first-class plane tickets and accommodations at a five-star beach resort in Accra. When I threatened to send them back, he threatened to tell the UN I was not negotiating in good faith. Checkmate.

So here I am, ten hours before my flight to Africa with nothing of consequence packed.

Why do I always wait until the last minute?

Whether I’m going on a weekend jaunt to Kiawah Island’s beaches or a 16-day Mediterranean cruise, I inevitably leave packing to the day before. Thirty-day trips to Africa will now join the list.

I started at five p.m. Three hours and three glasses of Merlot later, I’ve only packed my hair products. This is actually a feat within itself, since my hair is an entire mood. Generally, I keep my hair in two-strand twists or braids that fall just below my shoulders. But something about going to Africa makes me want to wear my afro full and free. Plus, arriving in West Africa with braids is like bringing sand to the beach—the art of hair braiding is an integral part of West African culture. I plan to leave the continent with amazing braids. However, this decision has forced me to ensure I have all tools, creams, gels, conditioners, rods, and co-washes needed to tame the beast. Between that and the wine, the hours flew by!

I hear my doorbell ringing—must be my girl Maya. As usual, I called her to come and rescue me from myself at the 11th hour. I put my glass down and rush to the door.

“Hey, girl!” I say with a bit too much energy.

“Hey, lush!” Maya grins as I let her in. Even after eight on a Sunday night, she is stunning. “Ella, how do you plan to get anything done knee-deep into a bottle of wine?” I shrug my shoulders and close the door behind her.

I’ve known Maya for 15 years, since our first day at Spelman. She, like me, is an only child, and we hit it off the moment we met. She was my roommate, and even then, I was awestruck by her beauty. At six feet tall and 130 pounds soaking wet, she’s never ignored. Her skin is the color of onyx and smooth as silk. She has wide-set, almond-shaped eyes with defining flecks of hazel and a brilliant smile. Her jet-black hair is as long as mine, but always blown out and never in its natural coils, so it falls to the middle of her back. I’ve always thought she looked like Naomi Campbell, which is an appropriate comparison since she modeled in Paris and Milan for six seasons. Currently, she teaches African studies at Emory University. Not bad for an orphan that spent her childhood in the foster system. She’s an inspiration. Even now, she looks like a model in a bright green shift that would be too short if she were in heels. Instead, she paired it with brown Louboutin flats the same shade as her skin.I wonder where she got them.

I giggle and close the door behind her. “I’m not a lush! Well…at least not yet. I’m sure to be drunk if I have another glass of wine, though.” I grab both of her wrists and drag her into my room. “I need an intervention, Maya! I literally have no clothes. And my flight leaves at six tomorrow morning!”

Maya rolls her eyes. “If you come to the gym with me and work off 10 pounds, you can raid my closet in times of crisis! But since you refuse, I guess your beautiful size eight ass will have to shop your own closet. Now, let’s see…”

Maya immediately starts going through the clothes in my closet. The closet is my favorite thing in the house. I bought this house a little over a year ago in Atlanta’s North Decatur suburb after a devastating breakup with the love of my life, Marcus Banks. The house is on my favorite street, Ponce de Leon, but everyone just calls it Ponce. I designed every inch of the 4,000-square-foot space myself. Transforming the home became my therapy. It took 16 months to renovate and update the historic home into my personal retreat.

The smooth, whitewashed gray-and-blue interiors flow from the front door to the patio out back. My closet is no different. It has whitewashed Oak barn double doors, and the interior has beautiful blue walls. Blue is my absolute favorite color. There are rows of light gray marble-topped dressers and quartz shelving. Every purse and shoe lines up from lightest to darkest. My clothes hang on wooden hangers beneath the shoes and bags. I took special care to color coordinate clothes with shoes.Just the kind of obsessive-compulsive thing someone does when rebounding from a bad breakup.

Maya takes me out of my thoughts. “So, when you say you haveliterallynothing to wear, what you really mean is you havewaytoo much.”

“I know,” I respond, “it’s overwhelming.” Adding to my anxiety is the sight of Maya pacing in and out of my closet at an urgent speed, throwing items on my bed and pointing to suitcases, gesturing for me to begin folding and packing.

“OK, let’s focus.” Maya’s eyes narrow in on something in my closet, and she walks to the back. Her mumbled voice continues to speak, “Since you are going to Ghana to meet with parliament’s Speaker of the House, you need to look fierce and in control. I’m thinking lots of bold colors: reds, magentas, fuchsias, and oranges. I also want you in some sort of heel every day.” She steps out of the closet with a handful of items. “You know my motto: if you’re under five-nine, you always need a heel!”

My favorite pair of high-waisted fuchsia Max Mara pants hit my bed. I’ve had those pants since I graduated from law school almost eight years ago. They were the first designer piece I bought with my new salary and always make me feel like a million bucks. Before I started my initial career as a corporate attorney, I never even knew who Max Mara was. My mentors in the office quickly schooled me.

She follows the pants with a matching silk camisole and four-inch nude Jimmy Choo strappy heels. It’s another choice that reminds me I’m no longer the shy, plump girl at Spelman; I’m a beautiful boss. They are the sexiest shoes I own. When those hit the bed, I know I definitely don’t like the way this is going.

“Maya, I want to be comfortable. It’s Africain July. How about some nice sundresses and leather thong sandals? If it’s a business luncheon, I’ll throw a linen blazer and some pumps on. Plus, he’s not just Speaker of the Ghanaian Parliament. I’ve found out that he’s actually styled as a king.” I throw that last piece of information in to slow thisWhat Not to Wearepisode down. “I don’t want him to get the wrong impression of me from the way I dress.” Maya knows that unlike her, I hate the spotlight. It works; she marches back out with no items to toss at me.

“Right. God forbid he realizes you actually like to have fun. Also, if he’s truly royal, you definitely cannot afford to blend into the background with sundresses. You have to shine brighter than anyone else around. But wait, let’s establish what you mean by ‘king’? Please elaborate.”

I recall the conversation my Morehouse Brother, Adom Annan, and I had two weeks earlier. Morehouse is the brother school of my alma mater, Spelman College. During the first week of orientation, we are all assigned a sibling of the opposite sex, and Adom was mine. We have been inseparable ever since. Coincidentally, Adom is Kofi’s cousin, though they don’t seem to be very close. Luckily, Adom is like family to me and prepped me for my visit.

“Adom and Google are the extent of my research; he’s the head of the Ashanti tribe. Apparently, he sits on the Ashanti throne, which is actually a Golden Stool. I’m still not sure what all his ranks and titles mean. Adom’s explanation was short and not very in depth. But if the way he ordered me to Ghana is any indication, he’s definitely accustomed to being in charge.”

Maya places her hands on her hips and releases a sharp breath. “So, wait…he’s the Asantehene? Why didn’t Adom ever tell us his cousin was African royalty?”

My mouth flies open in shock.“You know what that is?! Adom told me his official title, but I still have no earthly idea what he was talking about.I also can’t pronounce it.”

Maya takes a seat on my bed and gestures for me to sit beside her. “Well duh. Of course you don’t! But if you asked your brilliant best friend that studies Africa for a living, youcould have easily found out.” Exasperated, Maya stretches the full length of her body over the covers. “Did I tell you how much I love this big ass bed? California King! I don’t know why I don’t have one yet.”

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