Stolen Artifacts

“You’re seriously still in bed?”

Omar didn’t hear his son come in, but pride outweighs his embarrassment, so he owns up to it.

“Dammit Lawrence, I’m retired. I can do whatever the hell I want. ‘Bout to get up anyway.”

“It’s noon, dad. Retired or not, it’s not a good look.” Lawrence, tall like his dad, bends down to pick up a mostly empty take-out container. He spots a few more in the overflowing trash bin of Omar’s dreary studio apartment. “I guess you like the Thai place I turned you on to.”

“The curry is okay, but they charge extra for rice. Should come included.” Omar finally pulls the covers off and gets on his feet. Boxer briefs and an old shirt from a family reunion ten years ago cling to his septuagenarian body. He keeps his head down as he moves around the room, tidying up. “Ain’t it Saturday, anyway? You used to sleep ‘til two o’clock on the weekends if me and your mama let you.”

“No, dad. It’s Thursday. We’re supposed to go to the bank, remember? Get my name on your accounts? You do remember, right?”

Omar turns his head to glare at Lawrence. “I remember. Just testing you.” Lawrence cracks a smile first. Omar was always proud of how good-looking his son turned out to be, from gangly teenager to a genuine man, reminds him of himself. “Well, let’s get going then. You got places to be.”

“You know, I was thinking…” Omar braces himself for what Lawrence is about to say. He always starts conversations about how Omar is getting older with the same phrase. Yeah, I know, yeah you were thinking, and now you what…wanna take away my car keys? Give me a spending limit? Put me in a home where I can rot properly? “…maybe you’re tired of being retired?”

Omar hides his surprise by slipping his t-shirt off and donning a fresh collared one. He lets Lawrence continue.

“It’s just that you don’t leave this apartment much…unless I come get to you.” Lawrence takes a seat at the tiny kitchen table, barely room enough for one. “And I don’t come to get you that often.”

“Don’t go feeling guilty. I’m doin’ fine.” Omar picks up a pair of shorts that already has his belt looped through, pulls them on. Tired of being retired. Omar hadn’t really thought about it much the past few years. Retirement didn’t use to be so…tiring. The past six years without Clea, his wife of thirty-two years, had definitely been a lot less fun. “What’re you thinking anyway? Wanna put me to work at a Walmart?”

“Nah. You’d be a terrible a greeter. Nobody wants to see your frowny-ass all day.” Omar chuckles, then Lawrence. “No, there’s an opening at the museum. Security guard. You just gotta stand there. Make sure people don’t touch nothing. And maybe I could take lunch during your breaks sometimes.”

Omar loves the idea. But he doesn’t want Lawrence to get too excited. Who says anyone would wanna hire an old coot like him anyway. “Alright,” he slips on his shoes, then pockets his wallet and keys as he makes for the door. “I can give it a shot.” Lawrence beams at his father. “Now quit your goofy smilin’ and get off your ass, we both got places to be.”

__

Omar stands in the corner of the African Artifacts exhibition room in his new uniform, walkie talkie at his hip. He’s pissed.

The white woman who had assigned him to his post had smiled without showing her teeth the entire walk from the administrative office to here. “It’s gonna be a good surprise. I think you’ll love it. We moved some people around so you could be in this specific room.”

Got a Black man, gotta put him with the Black shit. It hadn’t occurred to him that he’d be in the same room day in and day out. On the walk over to his new post, they passed a hall of statues and busts, rooms of renaissance paintings, another hall of cubism and surrealism and expressionism, more rooms of portrait paintings of dukes and ladies. He was relieved when they passed by the pop art gallery, and disappointed when the woman looped her arm in his to carry him away from the room of romantic landscape paintings. That would have been nice, getting lost in the hills and mountains and skies.

Here he stands, in the African Artifacts room, feeling like a prop amongst the mish mash of so many idols, effigies, tools, weapons, instruments, textiles, headdresses, masks. So many disparate things from so many different places from such a massive country. It’s dizzying.

He sits down in the chair behind him. He’s allowed to, intermittently. Soon he’d have to get up and walk the perimeter of the football field-sized room, with an occasional zig-zag between the large glass cases that made up the aisles. Only seen two people come through here all day, and both times they were taking a phone call. With a sigh, Omar pushes himself to his feet, adjusting his belt and walkie talkie before starting the round.

__

A new zag this time, turning down the aisle with the broad label of West Africa. With a zig to the left, Omar realizes he hasn’t walked through this part before. Guinea, Sierra Leone, Liberia, Côte d’Ivore. Then, his breath catches in his throat.

Standing in front of the Ghana display, Omar leans forward, face-to-face with a woman, her eyes closed with a smirk on her lips. Beautiful. Just a bust, neck up, made from some sort of cool, grey ceramic material. The arch of her eyebrows so welcoming, full and detailed with a simple hash line every quarter inch along the length of each eyebrow. Her rounded nose sat symmetrically over slightly pursed lips. Her ears small and unadorned. On her forehead, an elongated stripe with a smooth contour ran from between her eyebrows to the edge of her hairline. There, the soft shape of the forehead met a simple line, made of the same every-quarter-inch etchings, that framed her face like halo that slipped down.

Omar exhales, searching the case for a placard that would tell him more.

Unknown Woman, 17^th or 18^th Century. Ghana. Of the Akan Peoples.

A Ceramic portrait sculpture, known as a nsodie. Often found in memorial graves called asensie where prayers, libations, and other offerings can be placed. Some scholars believe the sculptures were commissioned by the Akan to memorialize specific royal personages before death, others say the heads are stylized effigies embodying the wisdom and experience of many people. It is thought that elderly women artists fulfilled these commissions.

Omar eyes scan the length of the glass cabinet, looking for more busts, more clarity. Mounted and propped nearby her are carved fertility idols and bronze masks with hollow eyes and no backs. Nothing else had that same cool quality of her earthenware face. She is the only one.

__

“So you like it then? You’re having a good time?” Lawrence was again beaming at his father with that goofy grin.

“It’s alright.” Omar twirls his fork inside his burrito bowl with a smile.

“Really is like the tables have turned, you’re the teenager and I’m the parent tryin’ to pull more than a few words outta you. It’s been two weeks! You gotta give me more than that.”

“I like it. I didn’t think I’d like it, I like it.” Omar takes a bite of food while staring out the window of the museum cafeteria.

Lawrence eyebrows raise. “Are you…? Did you….?” He struggles with the next question, excited but not believing it yet. “You meet somebody? Got a crush? You got puppy dog eyes and been sighing like a cartoon character for the past thirty minutes!”

Omar laughs. “I got a crush, yeah. Crush on a statue. In love with some marble. Gonna run away with a Roman replica.”

“Okay, whatever. I’m just happy you’re happy.”

__

Panic hits Omar like a tidal wave. She’s gone.

“I got a problem,” Omar’s voice cracks as he speaks into his walkie-talkie. “African Artifacts. West Africa aisle. Somebody stole the nsodie! The whole plaque is gone and everything! Check any bags, block the exits, m-maybe it was an inside job? Still a few minutes to opening right? Who came in on Sunday! Check the cameras!” Omar finally releases the button on the walkie, pacing in front of the glass case while waiting for a response.

The sound of sneakers running on the parquet floor. Omar whips his body around in the direction of the sound, eyes wide with fear.

Lawrence, still wearing his white conservator gloves and facemask required in the archives of the museum, rushes to his father’s side. “What are you doing? Losing your mind on channel one? What the hell is going on?”

“It’s gone. The nsodie.” Sweat forms on Omar’s forehead, he pictures her forehead and that simple shape that ran down to between her eyebrows.

“Dad. Chill. It’s being sent back.”

“What do you mean, sent back where?” He squeezes his eyes shut and sees her face, serene.

“Back to Ghana." Lawrence pulls his facemask down. "We found records, proof that it was looted from the Asante region. The British took a bunch of stuff before they blew up the whole city in 1870-something. It’s going home. Other stuff, too. Textiles, some tools." He puts a hand on his father's shoulder to steady them both. "Hey, this is a good thing. Are you okay?”

“Ghana.” Omar opens his eyes and sees his son looking back at him. His handsome son. “Okay. I’m okay.”

“I didn’t know you’d take this job so seriously.”

“Nah, I just, I’m okay. Sorry ‘bout that.” Omar pats Lawrence on the back while wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his other hand. He forces a smile. “Go get your ass back to work.”

Lawrence half-chuckles. “You too, old man.”

__

“Yeah, I’m sorry too. No, it wasn’t nothing you did, ma’am,” Omar smirks while holding his cellphone to his ear. “I just need stretch my legs a little bit more than that room allowed me. Thank you, ma’am. You, too. Bye-bye.”

Omar puts his phone in his pocket and picks up his duffel bag, moving into the shuffling line of other passengers waiting to board the KLM flight to Ghana.