AHMM, September 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "A gift from your parents.” Miriam handed her the knife.

  Nana sniffed the blade. “Onions,” she said appreciatively. She finished opening the gift and the two women admired the African cloths sent for each member of the family—cloths, frankly very much like those sold here at the Shabazz Bazaar or on 125th. Still, this made a reasonable present—thoughtful, really—and completely unlike those odd little statuettes Miriam hadn't yet decided how to deal with.

  "We must call and thank them,” Miriam said carefully.

  Nana gave Miriam a quite strange look. The Obadah family didn't have a phone. “We'll get a prepaid phone card,” Miriam explained. “We can use the pay phone outside.” Never mind that this afternoon's temperature was ten degrees Fahrenheit—cold, very cold.

  Nana appeared dubious, but Miriam insisted that such a considerate gift needed an immediate response. Nana countered that her father and mother worked very hard and weren't inclined to come to the neighbor's phone, except for emergencies. “You've forgotten how things are at home,” Nana told her cowife. “Not like here. If we write them a letter, they will like that much more.” And, she added, her parents would find a phone call that didn't include Kofi highly improper.

  Miriam knew all Nana said to be entirely true, but Miriam's nature bore a relentless streak. When she was trying to solve a puzzle, she would allow nothing, even good manners, to get in her way.

  A half hour later they were at the phone on the avenue, prepaid card in hand. The wind blew meanly in their faces and seemed to want to sweep them back into their home. But Miriam persisted until the Mensahs were dragged from their own abode to the place of the telephone lady, who provided connections to any in the village who had no phone.

  Miriam waited impatiently while Nana saluted her parents and conducted some obligatory chitchat. Luckily, the girl was not a great talker and she seemed to quickly bore with the exchange. Making a significant face at Miriam to say she was fed up with the whole enterprise, Nana handed over the receiver.

  When alone together, Miriam and Nana spoke mostly English, the official language of Ghana—so that now, faced with having to conduct an entire dialogue in Twi, Miriam found herself slightly at a loss. Her Twi was not so good anymore. Still, she persevered.

  Thanking them politely for sending their lovely daughter to help her in caring for their husband, Kofi, Miriam also expressed appreciation for the lovely cloth and ... the other package.

  But the Mensahs had sent no other package, and Miriam apologized for being so confused. How perfect the cloth was, however, and how kind they were. The conversation ended with many cordial sentiments from both sides of the vast Atlantic Ocean.

  * * * *

  All night long Miriam berated herself for having thrown away the packaging. Some other family would be without a Christmas present sent from Africa by a loved one. She had looked at the return address but of late wasn't able to read close script very well. She'd meant to buy a pair of glasses in the drugstore, but with one thing and another coming up she hated to spend the extra few dollars. Nana had an aching tooth and must go to the dentist; Miriam had found a nice thick wool sweater Kofi's size at the thrift store; the rent had gone up again for the next two years.

  In the morning, Miriam made a checklist of all the apartments in the building. She intended to see if anyone was waiting for a package from Africa.

  Easier said than done, even with only twenty-four apartments here. But how could she give up? She had something in her possession that didn't belong to her, a fact she wasn't about to admit to either Kofi or Nana. The account would be too complicated anyway.

  Miriam stood outside in the cold for a while, asking people who entered or left if they had relatives or friends in Africa. This elicited many interesting discussions about that far-off continent and what the Americans called the “black diaspora,” but no positive response. For most in the building, the only African they actually knew was Miriam herself—and they didn't really know her, except by sight.

  She would have continued standing there, too, despite the pain of the frigid wind and Kofi's annoyed look when he left for the market, except that when the drug dealer came to stand outside in the exact same spot, she felt intimidated and left.

  Later, when the drug dealer was gone and Miriam went outside again, Nana joined her, flirting, even if only via her eyes, with the male bypassers. This disturbed Miriam's sense of decorum, and she had Nana run upstairs for the grass and frond baskets to sell at the market.

  When Nana returned, Miriam discovered the statuettes in her cloth bag along with her merchandise. Of course. She had hidden the weird pieces there herself. Why not display them at the market in case the real owner came along? What a fine idea.

  How cold the day was, she realized, when they arrived and she put her goods and the statuettes on top of a cloth on the ground. At least the little stalls shielded her from some of the wind. She knelt beside her baskets. No wonder she had arthritis now in her old age.

  Miriam stood periodically, became tired, then sat. Nana departed for “home,” or probably to gossip with the hairbraiders from Ghana in the store on Lenox Avenue.

  When Kofi sold a big carved wood piece, Miriam's heart lifted. She smiled at him.

  His buyer, a thin white man bundled in a very stylish wool coat, came over to the poor few items spread in front of Miriam. He stooped, his eyes big, then searching hers. He returned to examining the products on display. Miriam's hope of selling a basket soared. But the man reached for the more primitive of the two statuettes, the thoroughly uninteresting, skillessly made male.

  He cleared his throat. “How much?” he asked.

  "Oh, no, not for sale,” she said. “Just decoration.” Then suddenly she realized it might be his. “Do you live nearby?"

  "No,” he answered curtly. Ah well. “I want to buy the figurines."

  How much might she charge for one? she wondered. Fifteen dollars? As much as twenty? But they weren't hers to sell, so she repeated her refusal.

  The man looked around as if to see how crowded the market was. It wasn't crowded. Miriam smiled at Kofi again, who stared at her and her customer.

  The man stood, then vanished, leaving Miriam disappointed. But a few minutes later, a church woman bought several of Miriam's little frond donkeys. “Jesus rode a donkey,” the woman said. Miriam smiled brightly. She must make more of those tonight. Being Asante, Miriam wasn't a Christian, but Christmas could be good for business.

  She might as well leave the market today on a positive note. She'd go home and make a Nativity scene with lots of donkeys. A manger would be easy to weave. She knew the story of Jesus’ birth, of course. She'd gone to a Catholic-run school until the age of sixteen.

  Walking out the exit of the market, Miriam headed toward Fifth Avenue. She liked to walk up Fifth and around the west side of Marcus Garvey Park, where many beautiful townhouses had been renovated. And with the lack of pedestrian traffic she was less in the way when she walked slowly.

  Although the hour was still early, the winter solstice was near, and the afternoon sky grew increasingly dark. If only she could make a bit more money with her crafts. She'd like to buy Kofi and Nana each something nice for the season.

  Miriam intuited rather than saw someone hurrying behind her. She tensed automatically but never genuinely thought herself in any real danger—until, at once, in an astonishing moment, she was pushed to the ground. Oh no! She was being robbed. This had been her nightmare for thirty-five years.

  She and her black attacker stared at one another—she on the ground and he crouching over her, pawing at her, looking for something. She offered up her purse. He threw it aside. “Where are they?” he asked. She looked at him blankly.

  She heard hurrying feet. Someone rushed to save her. Miriam's attacker looked around and took off. Where are they? he'd asked. Where was what?

  Her rescuer, a stocky black man, helped her up, then reached down and fetched her the discarded purse.
/>   "The neighborhood is supposed to be safer now,” the man said in disgust.

  Miriam thanked him several times and let him walk her to her street. She was shaken, distressed, hurting, and surely badly bruised. Where are they? He'd tossed aside her purse, so what had he been looking for? He must have mistaken her for someone else. All she'd had otherwise had been those pathetic figurines, which remained with the parcels Kofi would bring home for her.

  The day's mail in hand, Miriam ascended the steps, stopping on the second-floor landing. While she rested a moment, she looked at the front page of Kofi's one indulgence, The Ghana Express, and saw immediately the answer as to why she had been mugged.

  MORE MALI ARTWORK STOLEN

  A PEOPLE'S CULTURE IRRETRIEVABLY LOST

  The story of the peoples of the Niger River Basin is all but vanished with the chipping away at artifacts for illegal export. The latest of these disastrous raids demolishing history occurred last week when an exhibit of terra-cotta sculpture, circa A.D. 1000 to 1300, was hit upon by thieves. Eight precious remnants of a once proud race disappeared into the night.

  Another flight of stairs and Miriam stopped to view the pictures. She nearly fainted. Those Mali terra-cotta pieces included the two figurines received by her in the mail, now safe on Kofi's cart.

  Why us? she nearly wailed out loud. She must go back to the market so her husband would not be knocked down as well. But if she left the building again today, she could be set upon once more by the black man whom the white shopper undoubtedly hired to get the statuettes. And if she showed up alongside Kofi, her husband would definitely be marked for attack later on.

  She ought to go to the police. Or, better yet, the postal authorities. But that would be like saying to them, Deport me, please; I'm an illegal immigrant. At least she thought she was an illegal immigrant, but how would she know? Her husband didn't like to discuss any such “men's” business with Miriam.

  Miserable stem to stern, all she could do for now was go inside their apartment and fret—agonize while sweeping the floor and worry while making a stew for their dinner.

  * * * *

  Never one to let circumstances get her too far down, Miriam hit upon a plan to capture the despicable importer of priceless Mali cultural relics. Didn't he know he was violating the history of not just one race, but of all mankind? The thought of such a crime against human culture was staggering. And while she wished someone else could be the defender of antiquity, she understood that in opening the package so carelessly, she'd become responsible for stopping the smuggling. Also, she acknowledged to herself, she was probably better suited to getting the job done than law enforcement. She knew full well their approach could be unwieldy. She had seen this time and time again on many amateur sleuth TV shows.

  Despite her bruises—and she had one big, blooming lump on her left leg—Miriam chose to return to the market at a little after noon the next day. This time, she would keep Nana around and had instructed the girl in what to do if the white man came by again—for surely he was the one who had set the attacker upon Miriam.

  Today was a little warmer, and grateful for small favors, Miriam set out her own crafts, plus one priceless piece of Mali's history. She trembled to study it and know the truth. Of course, the statues were crude. They had been beaten about by the centuries. Or, really, they were not crude, she realized—just a little different from what she had expected. The male figure in front of her now was perhaps somewhat humorous.

  She was so absorbed in studying the little man that when a shadow appeared above her, she didn't notice at first. But once she finally looked up, the white man dropped down, and they regarded one another straight on. Miriam gave him her most haughty expression. “What do you offer me?” she asked.

  "One hundred dollars for the both,” he said.

  Since these were of such a value that the newspaper article hadn't even ventured a figure, she knew they could be sold for a price much higher than any amount she, Kofi, and Nana could, together, earn in a lifetime.

  "Three hundred dollars for this one,” she said, pushing forward the little man. She was sick at heart and sick to her stomach to be taking such a risk with this precious fragment of a once flourishing black kingdom.

  "Five hundred dollars for the two,” he bargained, awkwardly taking out his wallet while balancing on bent legs.

  "Three hundred for this one today, and then I will sell you the next. Five hundred for that one alone. But not both today. Today, only one."

  He acquiesced, and drawing out a suitable number and denomination of bills, handed them to her, then took the little figure into his slender hand. “I'll wrap it,” offered Miriam.

  As she rolled the antiquity into a piece of the New York Times grabbed from a trash pile, she coughed as if her lungs were badly ailing. Was Nana at all paying attention? Likely the girl was away flirting with one of the vendors.

  Miriam let go of the statue and the museum robber was off like a shot. Miriam's heart pounded with fear and the terrible audacity of what she had done.

  Two milliseconds later, she watched Nana streaking after the crook. Ah. Nana would follow the villain to his lair, and they could then report him anonymously to the police. Might such a plan work? Waiting for Nana to return with the man's address, Miriam had the sinking feeling that her strategy was doomed to fail.

  She had given every warning to Nana to stay safe, but when the young woman didn't return at once, Miriam began to worry to the point of tears. If she was the cause of any harm to Nana, Miriam would never forgive herself. Never.

  Luckily for her, the anxiety didn't last long, since Nana came back a short while later. Miriam rose awkwardly from the ground and tugged her worn coat into a semblance of order.

  "I'm sorry, Mama,” Nana said. Her eyes rolled skyward as if she was afraid to talk directly to her cowife.

  "Tell me everything,” insisted Miriam.

  "I chased the white man every which way. To the bank machines, to the little convenience store where he bought some cigarettes, to the drugstore.” Now Nana made a face that showed she was displeased. “Finally he went into the subway."

  "Ah. The subway."

  The two women looked at one another in dismay. “I don't know how to do the subway, Mama,” Nana said. “You never taught me how to do the subway.” Her look was a blend of accusation, abject apology, and puzzlement.

  "Yes,” agreed Miriam. She reflected the apologetic portion of the girl's tangled emotions. “I don't know how to travel on the subway, myself. Maybe Kofi knows, but I don't think so."

  "Oh, Mama. You've never gone anywhere?"

  "No,” said Miriam. She had never gone anywhere and knew no more of this vast city than on the day she'd arrived in Harlem thirty-five years before. But her mind wasn't on the circumscription of her life right now; her thoughts were on the little man of baked earth she had risked and lost. How horribly foolish she had been. What an imagination she had, thinking she could catch this criminal, this despoiler of history, just by wishing it so.

  The rows of stalls were quiet now, though the day was pleasant. People weren't flocking to buy African goods as Christmas presents. Miriam had sold one basket for seven dollars earlier and was pleased for the earnings. At the same time, she was conscious of six fifty-dollar bills burning inside the deep pocket of her dress. She wasn't used to carrying large sums of money, and moreover, this particular money was not her own. If only she had a safety pin to secure the bills against ... but what worse could happen than the losing of the little man?

  She wished she knew more about African history. But the teachers at school had taught them very little of that. She packed up her baskets. The day was over for her.

  At home, she put the three hundred dollars under her mattress. No thief would think to look for money there.

  * * * *

  Miriam brooded so much over the loss of the little man, that night she dreamed of him. He took her into the subway to seek him out. The place was gloomy
and reeked of danger. The little man asked to rejoin the terra-cotta woman and go home to Mali.

  In the morning, Miriam couldn't force herself out of bed, and when she finally did, she stayed in her nightdress. She decided not to go to the market while she thought, and Nana, though Miriam urged her to leave the house, kept vigil with her.

  Late in the day, the two went to the little grocery on 126th, Nana sticking right by Miriam's side. When they passed the subway at 125th, both turned to peer into the entrance but could see nothing of significance.

  In her own foolish way, Miriam had generally been successful at everything she'd ever tried to do. Failing to keep hold of the little man, failing to track down the smuggler, these were fiascos much greater than any she'd ever experienced. She grilled Nana on where the smuggler had visited, in which direction he had gone (downtown), and anything else that might provide the slightest hint of where he might be found.

  Then, suddenly, Miriam remembered the other weight pressing down on her. She'd promised to sell him the second figurine. She'd completely erased that part of the transaction from her mind.

  And that meant she didn't have to locate the criminal at all. She had one more figurine. The crook would find her. But rather than risk the female of the set, she had placed it ... not under the mattress where it might get smashed, but under the bed where she stored many objects she and Kofi (and recently Nana, as well) rarely used. Miriam lay on the floor and peered to see if the hidden piece was readily noticeable. No, too much was under there.

  "What are you doing, woman?” Kofi asked when he came into the bedroom. Miriam hadn't heard him enter the house.

  "Oh,” she said. “Nothing.” Gracelessly, she picked herself up, flustered at her husband's sudden appearance.

  The next day, Miriam awoke early and prepared to accompany Kofi when he left at ten A.M. He gave her odd looks, since she rarely left the house at that hour. Nana seemed as subdued as yesterday, apparently upset at having let the man get away, and she quickly tagged along.