Pointing to the sculpture, Mena described the materials used and the composition. She’d practiced her presentation dozens of times over the weekend in preparation for the opening lecture. She scanned the faces of the crowd, recognizing a few of the other conservators at the gallery. Isaac Gatobu sat in the aisle seat on the second row, his scrutiny was palpable. The meticulous conservator scribbled notes. Mena had no doubt he planned to provide feedback, constructive of course, to her in front of the entire team. He hadn’t hidden his displeasure with her selection to lead the lecture and considered it almost sacrilegious to let an American teach Africans about the prominent work by a renowned African artist.
Wangari had ignored his complaints and maintained her decision, encouraging Mena and educating her about the cultural differences regarding presenting in Africa compared to what Mena was used to from her training in American institutions.
Sitting next to Isaac was Grace Kadenge, a mediocre conservator and aspiring socialite of the Nairobi fashion scene. Grace was a smart woman but didn’t apply herself as much as Mena thought she should, preferring instead to work on her social media presence to attain the fame she desired.
Mena’s eyes drifted to the front row, where Wangari sat next to her husband, the Director of Public Prosecutions, Okeyo Lagat. Their hands intertwined, Okeyo whispered into Wangari’s ear. As a sensual smile spread across her lips, she nodded, then nudged him to pay attention to the presentation.
Mena felt a twinge of envy, scanning the room once again for Julian. He still hadn’t arrived. Why had she pushed him to pick up the mask this morning? With the horrendous traffic and rain, she should have known he wouldn’t make it to the museum in time.
“The transformation of these common and simple materials into a complex lattice tapestry of a massive scale is the hallmark of Anatsui’s work, making him one of the most impressive African artists of our time,” Mena said, ending the formal portion of her presentation.
Applause erupted in the hall, sending a jolt of adrenaline through her body. She’d nailed the lecture, despite what Isaac would probably say later. He never missed an opportunity to criticize her in some way or another. She almost found it laughable now, his need to tear her down to assuage the threat he thought she represented. She wasn’t the first fellowship recipient he’d had to work with since the museum opened, and she wouldn’t be the last. She couldn’t understand why he disliked her. For some reason, Isaac had decided she was unworthy of the fellowship and the experience of working at the Tribal Museum. Mena had become resigned to suffering through his ridicule and derisiveness for another eighteen months.
Beaming, Mena gave a short nod to the crowd. The applause grew louder, and she raised a hand to quiet the room.
As she stepped behind the podium, her eyes were drawn to a man in the back. Mena looked away, then stared back at the lone figure standing at the door.
It couldn’t be him. Could it?
Was she imagining him, or was he really staring at her?
Dizziness overwhelmed her. Mena took a sip of water, trying to regain her composure. She still had a Q&A session to facilitate. She couldn’t be distracted by his presence.
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Mena focused her attention on the crowd and fielded questions.
Ten minutes passed, then twenty. He was still at the back of the room, watching her. She tried to relax, but it was impossible.
“Any other questions?” Mena asked after a silence settled in the air. Scanning the room for any raised hands, Mena saw none. She nodded and then announced Wangari Irungu to come forward for closing comments.
Stepping to the side, Mena looked toward the back of the room again.
He was gone.
Her eyes darted across to the doors, and the side walls.
There was no sign of him anywhere.
Mena inhaled deeply, hoping he’d been a figment of her imagination. The last thing she needed was a ghost from her past intruding on her present. Smoothing a strand of her dark hair behind her ear, she tried to calm her frazzled nerves. She was overreacting. There was no way he would cross the Atlantic to find her. What would be the point? They had nothing to say to each other. She didn’t know who that guy was, but he couldn’t be—
“Mena, is that right?” Wangari asked.
Mena sputtered, not aware of what Wangari referred to. Taking a guess, she decided to agree with her boss and gave a confident nod.
Mena forced herself to focus.
“Now, for those of you who purchased the lunch with the lecture, please follow our intern into the reception hallway to be escorted to the private dining area. I truly hope you enjoyed our lecture on the work of El Anatsui and hope to see you again for future lectures. Good afternoon,” Wangari concluded.
The director slipped an arm around Mena’s shoulders as the crowd meandered out of the exhibit hall.
“Great job today. You were excellent. The passion in your voice for this work captivated the audience, and that’s exactly why I knew you’d be perfect for the presentation,” Wangari said.
Mena nodded, her eyes searching the crowd for Julian again. He’d missed the entire lecture.
“What’s wrong? I thought you’d be a little happier about how today went,” Wangari said.
Mena tried to smile, but she wasn’t fooling her boss and friend. “I’m a bit distracted right now.”
Mena slumped down in a chair across from the podium.
