She shakes her head. “No, sorry. He has a British accent but I’m pretty sure he’s Ghanaian or Nigerian. He’s very tall. So probably Nigerian,” she muses.
“What else?” I ask and press the voice notes button on my phone.
She shakes her head and toys with the end of the long braids that spill over her shoulder. “I knew he was trouble. It was stupid to start sleeping with him and staying there.”
I agree but hate to pile on. I give her a sympathetic pat on the hand. “You’re doing the right thing. I’m glad you came to me.”
“So you’ll help me get my things back?”
“I’ll do my best. It’s been a while since I jimmied a lock but it’s like riding a bike.”
Violet claps her hands. “Oh! I forgot.” She leans over to rifle in her purse and pulls out a small plastic card. “This is my access card.”
She puts the key down in front of me. “I have no idea what his schedule is. I’m not even sure he’s in town, but this should help.”
I smile at the card. Maybe luck is finally on my side. “It will. I need to do some surveillance, figure out the best way to get in and out, and make sure that I don’t run into him.”
“You can’t let that happen. I’d rather not get my stuff back than for him to find out I sent someone to his place.”
A knot of dread forms in my gut before I can remind myself that I was good at this part of my job. “I’ll be careful.”
“Thank you,” I reach for the access card and pause before I put it into my purse. “Will he be able to tell it’s been used?”
“He doesn’t know how to check the logs.”
“Okay. I’ll see if I can confirm that.” I make a note in my journal and close it. “No promises but I’ll try.” I give her a placid smile meant to manage her expectations.
Inside though, fireworks are going off, and I am itching to leave and get to work.
I decide to walk the half mile to my office to give myself time to think about what to do with the gift that just fell in my lap.
I’m not sure how to do this. Not without significant risk.
And not without the backing of a publication.
I’ve been content with my column. It’s not the life-changing journalism that I used to dream of writing. But it was the life-changing opportunity I needed when I accepted it.
Months in, I can’t deny that I’m bored.
I didn’t choose this incredibly cut-throat profession to add to the numbers or take up copy space.
I saw the journalist Charlayne Hunter-Gault speak in my final year of high school and knew, immediately, I wanted to do exactly what she did.
It wasn’t an easy road, but I loved every challenging inch of it. I wrote stories that neededmyvoice. I centered people who are often side characters that create a foil and serve to reinforce bullshit hierarchy that oppresses more people than it elevates.
It was that passion that led me to this story about the battle to repatriate plundered art, jewelry, and relics to their rightful countries of origin, and it feels like the perfect piece to do that.
The pieces, from monuments to handicrafts, were more than decorative pieces of art and priceless jewelry.
They were the record of a history, a culture, and a people whose very existence they affirmed and immortalized.
What was more universal and human than our connection to our heritage?
What was more fundamental to our cultural identity than the symbols of it? When I asked my editor how we’d feel if the Statue of Liberty was stolen by North Korea, she understood and agreed to give me a budget, and I was off to the races.
I was sure the story would help me clinch the promotion she’d dangled in front of me like a carrot for years.
When it didn’t and the story was scooped, I thought I was done.
