Chapter One
Sin
You Don’t Send a Saint to Catch a Sinner
“Activity detected.”
It takes me a minute to remember that I installed a surveillance camera in the tiny office I’ve set up in the apartment I share with my boyfriend.
I didn’t the set up the cameras because I suspected him of him of anything, but I decided to keep it to myself.
In the nearly two weeks I’ve been away, he’s only been in there once and that was to drop packages from my PO Box on my desk. I feel guilty for not telling him so I decided I wouldn’t watch anymore unless I had a reason to.
I check the time on my phone. I’ve got ten minutes until my appointment, and the last thing I want to do right now is worry about my failing relationship.
Tomorrow would be soon enough.
Today, I’m focusing on the things that make me happy. I put my phone away and cross Constitution and head toward the National Monument.
There’s no place prettier than Washington, DC, in the Spring.
This first week of April has been spectacular.
The weather is a nice balance of cool mornings and balmy evenings.The cherry blossoms are in bloom, but the season is almost over so the tidal basin isn’t packed with people.
My braids are fresh and not too tight, my jeans feel good, and my jasmine body oil is turning heads.
If “not looking like what you’ve been through” was an Olympic sport, I’m pretty sure I’d medal.
The last two weeks have been some of the most trying of my life. I clawed my way back to standing and after two weeks of hard decisions and heartbreak, I’ve earned a day where all I do is what makes me happy.
I promised myself today would be for things that make me happy.
I walk up the path to the entrance of the National Museum of African History and Culture excited about my behind-the-scenes look at the items that will go on exhibit later this year.
I’m proud of the role I played in making that happen. But it hurts that someone else got credit for the work I did. It will have to be enough that the stolen artifacts I wrote about are on their way back to their rightful owners.
I stand in line with the rest of the ticket holders and marvel at how, nearly ten years after it opened, it’s still one of the few Smithsonian's popular enough to require a reservation.
I came down to visit it for the first time and went with my entire family. My father told anyone who would listen that the architect who designed the ten-story building is from Ghana. Just like him.
It’s true that the vision for the design came from a Ghanaian man. But the unique corona shape of it was inspired by the pillars used in Yoruba architecture. The nearly four thousand aluminum panels that make up the bronze facade are carved with intricate patterns that are an homage to the ironworks designed and made famous by Black Americans in cities like New Orleans and Charleston.
I too owe my singularity to the melding of several cultures. The kinship I feel for this museum and the history it holds makes every visit feel like stepping on sacred ground.
“Welcome. How can I help you?” A young man stands in greeting as I approach the desk at the center of the gigantic main hall.
“I’ve got a three o’clock with the Senior Curator of Special Collections.”
“Just one moment.” The young man at the check-in swipes his mouse around and studies his screen and nods. “Ms. A. Sackey?”
“That’s me.”
“Here you go.” He hands me a printed name badge and then pointsto his right. “You’ll take the elevator to the fifth floor. Use your badge to choose the floor. They’re expecting you.”
I do as he asks but promise myself I’ll take the escalators on my way down. The view from there is magical.
On the fifth floor, I’m greeted by a young woman with gorgeous shoulder length locs. “Welcome Ms. Sackey. I’m going to show you to Mr. Mends’ office. You can wait there for him.”
