Chapter 9

The Return of the Father, the Fall of Steve, and the Chicken That Sold Out

The sun rose on a Saturday that felt too peaceful to be trusted. Simba was outside sweeping imaginary dirt off the veranda while Pastor Wings sunbathed dramatically on top of a brick pile. Natasha was nowhere to be seen—probably off filming another spiritual monologue, and Steve… well, Steve had locked himself inside the kitchen with a spoon, a sad playlist, and visible signs of burnout.

Simba sighed. Ever since Pastor Wings became famous, things had changed. Steve was no longer the only poultry with influence. Once the loyal manager, he was now ignored like a rejected politician at a youth rally. Pastor Wings, on the other hand, had started refusing to eat local grain. He now preferred imported maize meal labeled "for VIP birds only."

Simba checked his phone. One message stood out:

"Simba. It's me. Your father. I'm coming to visit."

Simba dropped the phone. Literally.

His father? The man who left when Simba was still trying to spell "chicken" without a K? The same man who once said, "You'll never be anything but a village clown"?

Now he was coming back?

Simba panicked. He started sweeping harder, then stopped, realizing he was sweeping a cement floor. He ran into the house, shook Steve awake, and screamed, "War is coming!"

Steve, half-asleep, bit the spoon.

Pastor Wings didn't move.

Simba paced around like a man on trial.

"What will I tell him? That I live with a chicken prophet and a bitter rooster? That I host fake miracle shows and once accidentally blessed a lizard on live video?"

Steve clucked with judgment.

Then Natasha walked in.

"I heard," she said. "Your dad's coming. Don't worry—I'll handle him."

Simba blinked. "Handle him?"

"Yes," she said confidently. "I'll tell him you're a visionary entrepreneur in rural content creation. That you manage poultry-based branding. That you're the future."

Simba nearly fainted.

"Do not say poultry-based branding, Natasha."

But it was too late. She was already planning the press release.

That afternoon, the village was tense. Steve wore a bowtie again, even though no one asked him to. Pastor Wings refused to move unless someone played traditional gospel. Simba practiced deep breathing while Natasha baked muffins that looked like confused stones.

Then he arrived.

A tall, serious man with eyes that could melt pride. Simba's father stepped out of a dusty car, looked around the yard, and sighed.

"This is where you live?" he asked.

Simba stood straight. "Yes. But it's temporary. I'm building… spiritually."

His father squinted at Pastor Wings. "Why is that chicken wearing beads?"

"That's our prophet," Natasha said quickly. "He performs miracles and revives churches."

His father blinked. Twice.

Simba tried to intervene. "Baba, things have changed. I'm doing digital comedy now. I have a following."

His father looked unimpressed. "So you're unemployed with followers?"

Steve gasped.

Simba was about to defend himself when a fancy car pulled up. A woman stepped out wearing sharp sunglasses and holding a golden envelope.

"I'm from CoopWear International," she said. "We're a global poultry fashion brand. We want to sponsor Pastor Wings."

Simba's mouth opened. Steve fainted.

The woman continued. "He's got flair. Confidence. And his gospel tour made waves. We're offering a six-month brand deal—beaded leg bands, golden feed bowls, influencer posts."

Natasha clapped so hard a muffin exploded.

Simba's father looked around slowly. "So… the chicken has a sponsorship. And you don't?"

Simba smiled nervously. "It's a family achievement, Baba."

Steve regained consciousness just in time to see Pastor Wings signing the contract by stepping on an ink pad and walking on paper.

The celebrations were loud. Pastor Wings was paraded around the yard while Steve stood silently, staring into the distance like a soldier who had lost a battle.

That night, things got real.

Steve packed his feathers.

Simba found him by the goat pen.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

Steve turned slowly. His eyes were tired.

"I built this empire," he clucked. "I gave you structure. You were nothing but a hungry boy with cracked sandals. I pecked deals into existence. I marketed your nonsense. And now… I'm background poultry."

Simba was speechless.

Steve continued. "Let the chicken prophet enjoy his golden bowls. I'm flying solo now. If I don't come back, tell Natasha I never believed her muffins were edible."

And he left.

Simba sat alone. Natasha came and sat next to him.

"Steve's bitter," she said.

"He's right," Simba replied. "This life… it was his vision, too."

They stared into the night. Somewhere far, a chicken crowed in confusion.

But the drama wasn't over.

The next day, Simba's father woke him up.

"I've made a decision," he said. "I'm staying for a month. I want to understand this… life of yours."

Simba's heart dropped into his toes.

"Baba, are you sure?"

"Yes. I will attend one of your shows. I want to see how fake it is."

Simba knew this was a test. The ultimate test.

That week, they planned a backyard show titled: Father, Forgive My Followers.

The stage was a wooden table. The mic was working. Pastor Wings had new beads. Steve was still gone.

Simba stood before the crowd. His father sat in the front row, arms crossed, looking like a principal waiting to suspend someone.

Simba started.

"Good evening. I once lied to impress a girl. I told her I was studying rocket science online. She asked for proof. I sent her a picture of a bus ticket. I told her it was my boarding pass to space."

The crowd laughed. His father didn't blink.

"I once tried to motivate a goat. I told it, 'You can be a lion if you just believe!' It ran into a thorn bush."

Laughter.

"I created a fake life. Then the fake became real. I got famous with chickens, offended real pastors, and lost a friend who believed in me more than I believed in myself."

Silence.

Simba looked at his father.

"I know I've made a circus of my life. But at least I'm feeding people's spirits… even if it's through laughter."

His father stood up.

Then… clapped. Slowly.

"I still think you're mad," he said. "But at least you made madness useful."

Simba smiled. Natasha cried. Pastor Wings flapped.

Then Steve walked back into the yard wearing sunglasses and dragging a small bag.

"Did I miss the joke?" he asked.

Simba laughed. "No. You are the joke, Steve."

They hugged. The crowd cheered.

And that night, Simba knew—The Legendary Fake Life was no longer just fake. It was becoming a movement.

Next chapter: Simba is invited to perform in Harare, Pastor Wings becomes too famous for the village, and Natasha's muffins are found to have side effects.