The Ethnic Museum

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The$Ethnic$Museum

A"Short"Story"of"Madness"&"Rep3les

By B. Tyler Burton


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Ledron Publitzer left his house twenty minutes late and ran no less than six full city-size

blocks to reach the nearest bus stop. Rounding the corner from his block to MLK, one

careless misstep plunged his shiny new loafer into a steaming pile of fairly recent dog

excrement, which he discovered only after he had stood a few moments beneath the thin,

three-sided shelter with its benches that must be rocked into place for one to sit

comfortably, watching the departing figure of the intermittent downtown bus make its

way further downtown.

Aw....shit, he muttered, only then smelling what was afoul. Oh no, oh shit, oh

what??! Ledron found a small stick and tried to perch upon the bus shelters signature

skinny benches, not bothering to rock them into place, sitting instead as was ill-advised,

upon the skinny side, and then he set to work wedging the fresh dog poo off his new

faux-Italian leather. As he worked, he cursed this neighborhood that he lived in, and

would soon be rid of, once he landed this job at the Ethnic Peoples Museum of Oakland

and could afford one of those condos in the new upscale minority development

downtown--after which he would walk to work. The sudden anger and the ferocity with

which he chiseled away at the dog dung which stuck worse than chewing gum was

enough to set him off balance, and quickly Ledron Publitzer, nascent chief ethnologist

and formal head of research for the Ethnic Peoples Museum of Oakland, found himself

butt-first, smack against the pavement, his rear end in the same place his shit-smeared

shoe had only recently occupied.

Aw, mother dingle fucker... Ledron exclaimed.

Normally, one did not meet Ledron in this fashion. Were we not flies on the

proverbial bus shelter wall, hungering only for excrement, we would indeed witness

quite a different picture of Dr. Ledron Akumbe (ne Publitzer).

Lets, instead, greet him at work, forgetting all about the dog poo incident. Indeed,

facades are what this story is realistically all about, and one cant glimpse a facade and


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study it believably if they are busily thinking about the shoddy job of nailing thats been

done on the other side.

He made it to the museum doors a few minutes after nine. He was pleased to see the

light inside, as that meant that Raina was already there and he wouldnt have to scold her

for being late. Across the way, at the recently opened Starbucks, a few whites hung

around outside with the looks of buzzards circling some invisible carrion. Ledron

sneered into the glass at them and thought about what Jimmy Freed had said. They

might be paying customers. Yes, true, they might, he thought. For his boss sake, and the

sake of the museums struggling treasury, he would never refuse their ten dollars

admission, but also neither would he ever advertise upon the Community Board that

Freed had said was put up inside with some colored paper flyer. They must come to him.

Yes, that must be the way it would happen.

Good morning, Dr. Akumbe, Raina greeted him. She was short, about five-foot-

six, and the counter that hed had built to accommodate his six foot stature perfectly

made her look even shorter still.

Good morning, Raina, Ledron said, as pleasantly as he could. Has there been

any correspondence?

Well-trained, Raina knew to recognize what the good Doctor meant, and pointed

him to the back room where they were to lay all deliveries pending his inspection. There,

on the metal lab table, a large box stood unopened. Ledron grabbed a box-cutter and bore

down. Kwanza wreathes from Brooklyn. He had been aware they were on their way, but

looking at them now he felt the same sick feeling in his stomach as he had when Jimmy

Freed had informed him of their shipment. Nausea was not uncommon to Ledron. His

peoples reaction to the whites cultural sensitivity of the past years was a thing of horror

in his eyes. Much like a dog that has been beaten will come and lie down beside his

aging master who now no longer possessed the strength to beat him, so had his people

laid down beside the oppressor and given up their anger for something petty: a seat at the


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table.

He made himself an espresso. After the Starbucks had moved in next door, Ledron

had found that the old drip coffee maker that Freed had left in the back room, and which

had up to that point served sufficiently in its purpose, was showing its wear. He imagined

that he tasted something off about the coffee that it produced, and so with a bit of the

grant money he had ordered a new machine online, at wholesale, using the museums

non-profit status. Yet this was only after he had snuck, one evening, after closing up all

alone, across the street and sampled what this gourmet coffee roaster had to offer.

Now that he thought of Starbucks, he thought of her, too, his Ashante princess, his

black priestess of the high desert, the barista who had pulled him out an espresso and

hadnt even charged him for it on account of his being the director of the little frequented

museum across the street. Her name was Ibi and she spoke to him in the pleasant melodic

tone of colonial English. Enamored by her beauty, and in love with the way she spoke,

the Director of the Ethnic Peoples Museum was abruptly caught tongue-tied.

My name is Akumbe, he said, hearing the heavily false tones of his improvised

African accent land squat upon the table like a sack of bush meat.

Oh, she said, surprised, You are African? Because, indeed, the name meant

king in a slew of dialects, as our man Ledron was well aware.

Arent we all, sister? Ledron had intoned, recovering some of his cool, and

slowly merging the thickly fake tones into something more sustainable and anonymously

academic.

She wrinkled her brow at the question, but soon her face was awash in mirth. I like

that, she said. This is what I like about America. Of course, her being a single woman

and he not having a ring upon his beautifully light toned fingers had something to do

with it.

So what do you do over there in your museum? she asked him.

Ledron covered for himself. He switched on the dialogue he had recited a number

of times before, concerning the history, culture and legacy of their people, and the


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parasitism of the whites which had destroyed all that, leaving the original peoples a

handful of out-of-the way patches of land that were better for building casinos than

hunting buffalo.

Ibi, being something of a positivist, brushed this all away. But you have nice

moneys for sweaters, ya?

Ledron had smiled his Dr. Akumbe patented grin of understanding. He then made

an excuse about some prior engagement and, with a breath of fresh air, escaped into the

night to walk the few blocks to his furnished top-floor condo, where he would light a

stick of incense and conjure up her face again for more devious, hormonal reasons.

The noise of children broke through his reminiscence and there was Raina, staring

at him from the open doorway. She often looked at him queerly. Some days it was

enough for him to want to let her go, but firing her wasnt in the cards. Who then would

he get to replace her? His ad was consistently torn down in the housing project front

office, and how many folks had called in regards to the line-item in the New African

Herald? Of course he did have stacks of applications from white folks. Imploring,

searching diatribes written by a guilty hand. There were kids from The City, from

Berkeley, even one from Dublin that wanted to use this experience to work towards a

cultural achievement award. Why couldnt his people be so motivated?

He peered over Rainas shoulder and took in the crowd. They numbered twenty,

maybe thirty, children from the Berkeley magnet school system. He had learned to

recognize the district from their ethnic makeup, and while Berkeley and its environs were

something of a melting pot of the ethnic dispossessed, there were also more children of

the white parochial variety than there would be from San Leandro, which was

predominantly Hispanic, or Union City, which was mostly Chinese; plus the kids were

always immaculately dressed.

Ledron shook his head slightly at Raina, wondering if shed pick up the signal as

hed trained her. Their eyes met and her gaze burned through him momentarily. To


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counteract this, he often pictured how it would be to have his way with her. She broke

the stare abruptly, leaving Ledron to the dregs of his espresso.

The crack of a slave masters whip and call to work told him Raina had started the

first exhibit. He was off the hook for at least twenty minutes.

After they had seen the slave galleys and the plantation houses; after the smallpox

blanket diorama and the seething of the Cultural Revolution; Ledron met them in the

lobby. Ostensibly, this was to ask them what they had learned in the process, but the

museum manager was well aware of one unexpected benefit of staging these little talks

in the lobby so close to the gift store. Ledron had carefully placed some of the most

irresistible things, like the African Masi warrior and boar playset, just behind the glass

where the accompanying Sounds of the Ethnic Diaspora literally called the children

nearer like some pied piper of the underclass. Gathering himself together, Dr. Akumbe

began the speech that never came out the same way twice:

Children children... I am so glad you could take some time out from your busy

schedule to grace our little establishment, and I myself am glad to look upon some of the

future slave masters of the United States. The teachers face shifted from calm

detachment to sudden shock. Her brows bit down over her eyes and her mouth opened

and shut. Ledron pointed at the lone black kid. You boy, you better run once you get

home, run far and never come back because these kids they dont know nothing about

tolerance. A few who were renowned bullies in the class almost seemed to smile. They

ust know ice cream and peppermints and tear gas until your eyes fall out.

EWWWWwwwww, intoned the group.

Yes, ewwwww... Ledron continued. But dont forget that we are all here under a

more powerful watchful eye, and that eye is not beneficent, no lawd.

The teacher had caught herself up in her own manners. In her head, she was

gathering the children up and getting them out of the building. Indeed, many educators

before her with stronger wills had done exactly that, but Kathleen Conneley had nothing

of the spine of those former educators, and while she pictured herself leading this revolt


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it was only her tissue between her hands that she rent in two.

Reptoids children, Dr. Akumbe continued, his eyes aflame. Yes, thats right. I

think you in the back with the Asiatic features and the Samoan nose, yes, you know what

Im talking about, dont you? They live among us. They talk like us. They look like us.

But once they get home, they take off their skin masks and... Ledron mimed the

removing of his face and once again the children burst out into a collective: Ewwww...

That isnt nothing, though, because the Yetis they are our friends. At the bare

mention of the word friend some of the more hopeful and jubilant kids brightened up.

These were mostly the ones with social functional disorders, kids whose parents were

software programmers or some other esoteric field that required the abstraction of

thought to the point that bits of the genetic code itself were acutely severed.

Yes, sir. Dont you forget it. They were the ones who caused the tsunami, the

Reptoids. The yetis tried to stop it but they were too late because the Dalai Llama, who

holds the sacred amulet of light in a box on the exact border of Tibet and India--so that

neither nation can lay claim to it-- the teacher smacked her face with her hand

involuntarily, dumbfounded as she was-- But he was too late, you see. I called him. I

called out to him. I told him, Dalai, Mr. Llama Dingle Doo you gotta get these people up

and out of safety. Call on your trumpet and send the blast high and far because these

people, they deserve to live.

Some of the more fragile kids were crying at this point.

Yes, its tough to look the truth in the face, Ledron continued. But Ill tell you

how to spot them Reptoids. Their attention focused back on the speaker. Now they real

good at hiding, you see. But I know how to spot em. You just gotta look for the cracks in

their faces. Theres seams here-- he drew a firm line like a dagger around the

circumference of his throat-- But dont go looking too hard, because if it is a Reptoid

the next thing he do is probably have you for dinner. The children trembled. The closest

ones to their teacher grabbed hold of her skirt for safety.

Ledron took a deep breath and piled on for the finish, Im looking around here and


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I dont see any though, he smiled wickedly. So I think youre safe with you friends, if

you know what I mean. But dont be too sure. Gift stores this way, now. Ask you

teacher, but maybe shell be okay with you spending some of your slave dollars here.

The children were trained effectively to notice their cue. They dragged upon their

teachers skirts, no longer out of fear but out of need and desire, the call to spend some of

the money that burned holes in their little pockets.

The teacher, flabbergasted, allowed them ten minutes. She hung near the front door

of the museum while they browsed through Uncle Tom Playsets and scores of Randy

Eyed Sally dolls. When Ledron drifted over to give his customary end-of-tour chat, she

mimed a call coming in on her cell phone, and talking to no one, carried out a

conversation that lasted the length of the childrens browsing period. After she had

worked out with herself what dinner plans would be, she fake-hung up and ushered the

children out without another word.

Raina met Ledron in the back and sauntered casually over to the coffee machine to

pull herself an espresso. She always found herself in need of stimulants after one of his

speeches, to which she was always party, being only a few feet away manning the gift

shop desk.

Another home-run, Dr. Akumbe, she uttered sarcastically, knowing he had no

understanding of that emotion and that it didnt matter how she said it, just that it was

good.

Ledron nodded. Ill be going out for lunch. Hold all my calls, he said. He rose

and walked straight towards the door as if he was possessed.

Probably heard that in some action movie, Raina grumbled.

Indeed, Ledron was possessed, in a way. He had glimpsed through the glass the

Nigerian woman at the coffee counter, Ibi. She was about a half-block away, strolling

slowly with white ipod headphones dangling, the sun in her eye.

Ledron caught up to her and, after panting a few moments to catch his breath,

which she found endearing, he asked her what she was up to. Nothing much, Ibi said.


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You would like then maybe to see my apartment.

Ibis face darkened.

I mean, because its right up there, Ledron pointed.

You live here? Ibi said brightly.

Ledron allowed her a minute to review the highly-impressive facade.

Yes, he said. Would you like a drink?

Demurely, she accepted. He let her into the smallish lobby. It smelled of recent

bleach; for each their own reason, they delighted in that smell, in the fresh chemical odor

of clean. The elevator descended purringly and opened. They rode to the third floor and

exited.

Oh wow, Ibi whispered. Ledron had never liked the art in these hallways. It

reminded him how much his culture had been ripped off, chummed and reconstituted for

gross profit.

You like this? he asked the girl. Well, yes, its nice. Nothing too original

though.

Ibi felt she should agree. After a short walk, he keyed them into his suite.

Oh my god, Ibi whispered as he led her inside. The large windows revealed a

quarter-section of downtown.

In many ways, it was not the prettiest view, but it was a view above the rest, even

though it may have been mostly of roof-tops littered with construction waste. With

childish exuberance, Ibi rushed to the glass and looked out, trying to pinpoint something

in the distance.

You can almost see my house, she told him.

Ledron had smoothly pulled the cork from a bottle of port wine and now he came

up behind her with two glasses, filled halfway. Please, he whispered closely behind

her. His nearness made her jump. Quickly, she recovered, beaming largely.

They both took in the view wordlessly for a moment before she spoke. You have a

very nice place here, Dr. Akumbe.


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Please, he said, Call me Badu.

You mean like the singer? Ibi asked mirthfully.

No, like the crocodile god, Ledron told her coldly.

Ibi giggled. She couldnt help herself. When she was nervous, she always reacted

like this. Of course, his name was Bad-thu, the one he referred to; but she didnt want to

sound rude. To wit, this man of opulent means had invited her up here. She wondered

what her father would say of such unbecoming rudeness. Likely, he would say she hadnt

changed much, Ibi thought deleteriously.

Port in hand, she knew she had to say something, so she turned away from the

window and looked upon the walls for a bit of inspiration. A few masks hung like sullen

warriors, with an obvious reproduction of a Kenyan quilt beside them. Ibi thought of the

rock posters upon her own walls and felt very childish. Who was she to judge a mans

style, particularly an independent one of such means who had just invited her up to share

a free drink. Certainly, for someone coming from Africa it might have looked a little

higgledy-piggledy. Certainly, she wouldnt have hung the mask of Gola next to Badthu,

as they were mortal enemies and just their symbolic closeness here, even as dead fetishes

hung upon the wall, made her twitch unconsciously. But who was she to say how silly

this mans things looked. He would probably laugh that she had a Lee Scratch Perry

poster up beside The Clash.

Thank you, for the drink, Dr. Akumbe, but I really must get going. She finished

half of that sentence before the stereo system sprung to life and the sounds of Ethiopian

azz stopped her right in her anxious tracks. It was a cliche she had been weak in the

knees for since the days of her youth, and now coming from the finely tuned speakers

recessed away flush against the wall she took it in like magic, like some wild incantation.

She knocked back the glass of port and let the jazz shake her limbs free.

Ledron just stood there watching as she limbered up, as her feet began to move and

then her hips to sway and then, finally, her arms began to trace lazy circles in front of her

closed eyes. The song itself was thirteen minutes and forty-five seconds, and at about


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mark five he took a deep swig of the port in his own glass and felt the liquor coat the

back of his throat. Its taste was musky and sweet, kind of like blood. He had never

thought about that before, about the similarity between port and blood.

Momentarily, he moved to touch her, for there was nothing he would have liked

more; but as he moved to lay his hand upon her shoulder she moved too, just enough to

be out of his reach. This annoyed him and he wanted to let her know this before her

approached again, but Ibi was lost to him. She moved, instead, in a dream of Fela Kutis

making. Ledron told himself hed do well to remember this. Instead of pushing to get

closer to her, he moved instead to the kitchen island to fill his drink once more.

After thirteen minutes and change, the song abruptly quit. Ledron, expecting this,

had ready the stereo remote in his hand, making sure the CD did not continue. Ibi smiled

at him warmly, her skin flushed both from the booze and the dancing.

I am so happy, Akumbe. You cant know how much that kind of music makes me

happy.

Ill do well to remember, though. His eyes flicked reptilian gestures towards her.

She knew he was hiding something, some seething annoyance that lay beneath his skin

that he would not talk about; but she was not going to foolishly elicit that demon. At least

she had grown in that respect.

Ibi thanked Ledron for the alcohol and the Fela, but told him in all honesty that she

had to leave, for her brother was flying into town the next afternoon and she was worried

that shed have too little time to get her apartment cleaned up.

Oh, you must be excited then, Ledron bellowed.

She nodded gamely. Ledron told her to bring her brother by the museum. Again, she

merely nodded. He took no notice of her reluctance.

You can find your way back to the elevator? he asked.

Yes, she told him.

He declined to walk her out. The door closed and for a moment Ledron hung in

wonder at the scene that had just transpired. Maybe next time, he thought. Maybe she


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was into something more forceful. He poured himself another glass of port, and pressing

the play button on the stereo he imagined the girl swinging her large, full hips for him in

the middle of his living room as if shed never left.

The next morning, there were three tours of children to embarrass and demean

before he had a chance to break free from his obligations. Raina also had to take her

lunch break. The museum was slow, however; word was getting out amongst the

educators. Indeed, it was not the fault of any one teacher for bringing their students here,

the knowledge of what new things there were to avoid for your pupils usually took a year

on average to catch up with what was wrong and what was right, and the Ethnic Peoples

Museum had only been open seven months at the time of this narrative; but word was

getting out. Had Ledron given credence to (or even opened) any of the numerous letters

of confused correspondence that the museum received he might have known his

histories were not going over well. Instead, the business of opening these and

disposing of them, or collecting them, was left to Raina. After the forth or fifth, she, too,

had begun to throw them away, because it had occurred to her bluntly that without this

museum she would probably have to go back and work on her fathers taco truck in West

Hayward, and if there was one thing she hated it was the smell of the El Pastor. Still,

she read their letters, and commiserated with their sense of horrified wonder at the stories

this supposed educator espoused.

In addition to taking care of the nasty hate mail--Dr. Akumbes fan letters, as she

called them--there were also the standard cast of bills to pay and a lions share of junk

mail to dispose of. The packages that arrived, however infrequently, were the only things

Ledron had instructed her to leave for him to open. This, too, had annoyed her at first,

but she only had to think of the smell of the El Pastor and she quickly slipped, like

someone under the influence of their favorite drug, into a haze of complacence.

UPS, Fed-EX and even a DHL, today. There was something off about that last one,

its label written by a mentally distressed hand, its contents secured too many times with


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clear packing tape. Nonetheless, she set them all upon the table in the back and waited

for Ledron to embarrass them once again. After that, it was lunchtime.

The tour group came and went. The children, who she had once feared for, bought

pencils and pens and one even took home the Mammy Joe playset. Each dollar was

one hundred pennies, she told herself. Now where had that come from? Oh yes, she

remembered, and with it came the smell of the dreaded El Pastor, the hot tub of lengua,

all the various aromas that followed her father like a shroud; and which, even with a

shower, he nearly always failed to wash off.

You can take your lunch break now, Raina. Joy. Ecstasy. One half-hour away

from this place. Raina took it heartily and was on her way within the minute. Ledron

walked haughtily to the back room and fixed himself an espresso. With that in hand, he

now set to work opening up the packages.

Two were expected. Jimmy Freed was meticulous in letting him know what he had

scored from rich donors on the East Coast who he convinced by phone or email to buy

into the greater dream of owning something that was theirs, some piece of the Ethnic

Diaspora. Ledron set aside each of these: one a fly swatter, a big swath of ox tail on a

leather-bound stick, which Freed had more than likely purchased for a few pennies on the

value of the dollar hed extracted from the donors; the second was a small doll stitched

with a rather human looking face that Ledron did not enjoy looking at. Finally, he came

to the box with its address label written by hand and the many layers of packing tape.

Something about it excited him. Something other than just the fact that he had no

shipping manifest. He removed the tape, and the many layers of newspaper within; and

when he gazed down on this thing inside the box, Ledron knew someone up there had

noticed his work. He had not even to read the card that accompanied it, he just knew,

without a doubt in his heart, that this was the Reptoid mask of the recently deceased

Senator from Hyannis Port, one Teddy Kennedy.

But how? And by whom? And what to do?


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Ledron grasped the mask against his stomach and eased slowly towards the door.

He peered around the corner and inspected the empty lobby and the glass entrance way

from afar, but nothing, despite his attention, looked amiss. A flurry of preparation

followed.

Raina was just returning from her lunch break, having thoroughly forgotten about

some thing Ledron had done this morning, some expression that had disturbed her, some

terrible mannerism. Having forgotten about it almost entirely--except for the sure clarity

that she had been disturbed--Raina told herself that what was best was just to forgive and

forget, or at least to bury and forget, because every day she came home with some dark

cloud hanging over her head and it wasnt helping her relationship with Paco Guardi at

all.

She pulled open the glass door and the cacophony of nailing and slap of wood

paneling dropping heavily to the floor assaulted her. Being from East Oakland, she

flinched involuntarily, but nearly as quick she regained her composure. A drill whirred to

life. A screw bit down into a hole and stopped short. She eased slowly into the museums

foyer. The noise was coming from the main event room, but Raina knew well that they

were scheduled to hold the Civic Leaders of the 60s cufflinks display for at least another

month until the Harriet Tubman stuff arrived. Leaving her purse at the desk, she ventured

closer.

Ledron had conceived of the design for the museum such that one could not see

anything of the exhibits from the lobby--the peanut gallery as he called it--so it was not

until she was fully around the sharp corner that led into the main exhibit room that she

saw it. Hanging at eye-level, with the lighting now trained upon its surface, the stretched

skin of some vaguely recognizable face yawned back at her accusatorially.

Oh sweet Jesus, Ledron, Raina uttered. She threw the museum director off

balance. He had not heard her enter. Verily, he had forgotten she was even coming back.


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Momentarily startled, the light he was holding just in place while fastening down its

screws swung out of line and up towards the ceiling.

Ledron glowered at her. Raina, he bellowed, Can you come help me with this.

And for whatever reason, she did just as she was told. After the screws were tightened,

Ledron seemed to relax. He stared now at the properly lit face-mask and walked slowly

from left to right, as he always did when sizing up the setting for a new display.

But Ledron...er...Dr. Akumbe, what the hell...? What the hell is that thing?

Its history, Ledron uttered, never removing his gaze from the hollow, empty eye

sockets of the mask.

Isnt that?

Senator Edward Kennedy, formerly of Massachusetts. Yes, Raina, it is.

Well, what are you doing with his face on the wall of our museum? The reality of

the situation was starting to seep in. At first, it had just seemed out of schedule, and then

out of place; now she wondered just what Ledron Akumbe was doing in the back room

on the company internet all those hours. Could you buy a thing like that on Ebay, she

wondered.

He doesnt need it anymore, Raina, Ledron said. He took his eyes now, for the

first time, off the mask and looked her direction. A fire she didnt recognize burned

inside them, so that she was even more convinced that this was gained of a strange

underground smuggling network. But why here? Why hang it on the wall?

He was a Reptoid, Raina. And someone, some brave soldier, has sent us his face.

But...

Its just a mask, Raina. Ledron reached out to touch it, teasing the skin a bit more

than one would do with a real, dead mans face. This did not reassure her.

You mean...? You believe...?

Yes, child, Ledron told her in a voice more reverent and soft than he had ever

used in her presence, in the same tone he had used with Ibi in his condo. Dont you

worry, this here is history, and we are finally going to be part of it.


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What? Ledron, how can you say were not part of history? She looked down at

the floor and noticed the Civil Rights display, the placards she had tediously cut and

mounted to fit for each. The cufflinks themselves lay scattered inside the plastic box

wherein they were contained, scattered like the dead butterflies of a lazy entomologist.

Ledron, every day here we make history. We make it come alive. (That, she told

herself, was something she had poached from the History Channel. She felt guilty a

second, but she realized Ledron wouldnt get the reference. He never watched TV, or

read anything but those screeds of insanity on the internet.) Dont you see what youre

doing here, Dr. Akumbe? Dont you see that this isnt real?

Ledron glared at her. This was too much. She could be a doubter, but not a non-

believer. He told her coldly, Well, Raina, if youre not prepared then I guess you should

collect your things and take your leave.

Wait, was he firing her? Raina snapped to, some sad sense of self-preservation got

hold of her tongue, some thing that smelled of El Pastor. Where would you like me to

put these? she asked, pointing towards the display box and its rattled cufflinks.

Ledron scowled at the thing, so dead, so insignificant. Still, he was not

pathologically insane--at least in his own opinion--the museum works had to be

circulated and taking a second to trip through the back catalog in his brain he tried to

remember just where the cufflinks were bound to next. Check my desk, Raina. Theres a

promissory note in the bottom-most outbox that will let you know where to send them.

She nodded and began to move. Raina... he stopped her. Come here, he said.

She did as she was bidden. They were now close enough to smell the lunch on each

others breath. You are with me on this one, right?

Raina didnt know how to respond. She merely nodded once again and swallowed

her pride that did not taste of hot sauce or guacamole or any of the other condiments that

wafted nightly from the large white truck he left parked in the driveway.

Ledron was apparently satisfied with the nod. Good, he told her, Now Im going

to go back and prepare a placard for this. Can you mount it once Ive finished?


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Again, she nodded simply.

Good.

She stood staring once more at the sad face of the recently deceased Senator. It

seemed glossier than skin, and she wanted secretly to touch it, to satisfy her own

curiosity, because she was sure it wasnt real. But what if?

Raina?!

Right, the cufflinks. Ill check your desk, Dr. Akumbe.

Thank you... She was still transfixed by the face despite his kindest efforts.

GO! he bellowed.

That did it. She went.

Ibis brother Wakume was not the sort of person she was proud to admit being

related to. Of course, family being family she would do anything for him in a pinch.

Thats why he was here in the first place, because Ibi had problems saying No to their

mother, and in this instance their mother had thought it best if Wakume get away from

the country for awhile.

He have too much thoughts of riches, Ibi, their mother had told her over the

phone.

Well, mama, Ibi had pleaded. Bring him here wont help no one bit, rich money

stinks everywhere round here. Everyone want the big car and the big house and no talk to

anyone.

Oh really, Ibi, it cant be as bad as Nigeria. At least there the money they is

around. Here, unless you a killer, or you work for Gharimi-- the local witch doctor--

then you got no money.

Money is strange, mama, but if you say so: you want Wakume here, I guess I take

Wakume here. You know, take him around. But he no just gonna come and make trouble.

He stay on my floor, in my room, but him no gonna just sit around and smoke cheroot.

Nah daughter, he do better, I beat that one into him good...


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So Wakume had come.

Ibi met him in the terminal and he was all arms and kisses, but his sister had a

feeling that would not last long.

Ay sisa Ibi, Wakume exhorted as they hugged tightly.

Ay broda Wakume, she whispered back.

They hopped the BART train back to the East Bay. Walking the whole route to the

platform, Ibi played the role of competent sister and guide. Wakume was impressed. He

had never seen anything like this outside of the television box, the opulence was grand

and all-encompassing, and for once he really did feel something greater than the urge to

scam. Verily, it was probably that same urge, and Wakume knew it as well as anyone, but

he was not dim, he didnt believe for a second that anything of such great magnitude was

ever built upon honest labor and fair dealing. These rails had been built on the words of

lawyers, crooks in expensive suits. Wakume knew something of a feeling of belonging

the moment he stepped off the plane, a sense of homecoming to the West he had never

known, and the people who had shaped it in their blind stab for money or power, or

shortly thereafter in the period of gross dispensation of the humanitarian variety that

usually follows the hoarding of great wealth.

The train shuttled them from the airport and Wakume was amazed at the scope of

the city, it seemed to go on forever. When the subway system swallowed his view, he

turned his eye towards the people on the train. So many beautiful women, Wakume

thought. And he was not unaware that some of them cast their gaze in his direction. Most

were probably thinking them a couple; Wakume didnt mind. He knew that Ibi was

integral to him establishing his footing here, and that, despite where they came from,

women always felt more secure glancing at a man who was already with a woman than a

man who traveled alone.

They surfaced in the East Bay and soon were walking towards the bus stop. Ibi had

planned a dinner of roasted goat and potatoes. Shed left the slow cooker on at her house,

and already she thought about her roommates and hoped they werent too uncomfortable


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with a man being there. She knew Cindy wouldnt complain; in fact, she felt suddenly

protective towards her little brother, but she knew she should have rightly worried about

Cindy, her brother could take care of himself.

The path from the BART station to the bus stop led them by the Starbucks where

Ibi worked. She was anxious to show him just what she did every day, despite its

unglamorous nature; he was her brother after all; and she could use a coffee after waking

up early to cut and tenderize the meat for the stew. Wakume was happy to oblige. She

introduced him round the place and soon enough they had exchanged the proper

pleasantries.

I will see you soon, Wakume promised Carol, the young, pale girl of twenty.

Ibi was happy to get out of there.

Why cant you just stop and enjoy the scenery, she scolded her brother once they

were on the sidewalk outside.

But I was, sister, Wakume smiled sinuously. She is good scenery. There is much

good scenery. In proclaiming his love of this place, Wakume swept his arms wide. He

looked up and down the mostly vacant street, and then his gaze fell upon the facade for

the Oakland Museum of Ethnic Peoples.

I think there is a man waving at you from inside the glass there, sister. So dont tell

me about just enjoying the scenery.

Ledron had just finished mounting the card next to Teddy Kennedys death mask

and he was stalking through the lobby trying to think of what to do next, of who to call.

By chance, hed looked out through the glass and there she was, his beatific African

princess, standing not alone but with a man, another man, of suitable darkness to

complement the tone of her skin.

Ledron was incensed. With a clenched jaw, he waved at her. Ibi waved back

happily. The whore, Ledron thought scabrously. The couple across the street began to

make their way towards him.

They met just outside the museum. Ledron was fuming and the boy Ibi was with, he


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was barely twenty four, too young for her and too simple.

Ibi, my darling, so glad to see you. And your friend here, whats his name?

Ibi chuckled deeply and her breasts rose and fell. Oh, he is Wakume. This is my

brother.

Ohhhh, Ledron smiled. Your brother, well... Nice to meet you, brother... What

did you say his name was?

Wakume, Wakume said crossly. He had met men of a similar character, and

things always turned out poorly between them.

Ahhh, little Wakume, Ledron said. You are a child of the spider then. Ledron

was right, for once. His Mythology, though sorely muddled, was much better than his

History. Well then, this is a special occasion. How are you liking it here in America, so

far?

I like it very much, Wakume told him.

We had best be going, Ibi chimed in. She was in a hurry not to get away, but to

get off her feet. This was her only day off this week and she did not wish to spend it

entirely outside where she spent her other six days.

Oh, but not so soon, Ledron cooed. First, you have to witness our newest

acquisition.

He led them into the room which had been properly darkened throughout so as to

highlight the deaths head that hung upon the wall. Ibi lost her appetite for goat nearly

instantaneously; the iced coffee drink perspired on her fingers. Wakume was also taken

aback, but intrigued as well.

Who is this, you say?

A US Senator. He only recently died off, or switched bodies, you never can tell

with these creatures.

What do you mean? Wakume walked right up to it, studying the length and breath

of the mask.

You ever heard of the Reptoids?


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A faint sigh was heard from the entrance to the exhibit. There, Raina stood, purse in

hand. Ive boxed up the cufflinks, Ledro--er... Dr. Akumbe, she said. Im going to

head home, if you dont mind.

Ledron waved his hand in her direction, but that was all. Raina had learned to take

that as a Yes. She exchanged looks with the other two black folks. They didnt look too

officious. She wondered how theyd come to get roped into this, and figured they were

probably thinking the same thing.

What you mean, Reptoids? asked Wakume.

They are not of this earth, my brother, they come from the stars, from some planet

far away. They come here to steal our resources. You ever wonder why theres that face

on Mars, and why its eyes are so thin, like slits in a melon? Well...?

Ledron was getting feverish. Indeed, he was starting to scare Ibi a bit. Dont you

think we best be going, broda? she asked Wakume, giving him three small and secret

pinches upon his shoulder, a little sign from their childhood.

Oh no, not yet. Please... Ledron begged. He took a few steps back to where they

stood, and turned to gaze upon his newest acquisition. Remarkable, isnt it? But why us,

why come all the way across the galaxy and mess around with us primitive apes, unless

there was nothing in between? Or unless youd already been to our sister planet? Unless

Mars had been your home and now that youd sucked it dry you were just going to move

on to the next one in line?

Wakume had been taking this all in silently. He knew his sister would have liked to

have been five minutes gone already, and the poor Hispanic girl, pretty as she was, she

had no backbone to stand up to this guy. As for Ledron, well, Wakume knew the type,

and he knew just what to do.

Hey broda, he looked over at the Director of the Ethnic Peoples Museum.

Pssst, he inclined his head towards the far corner of the room. Wakume touched his

sisters shoulder lightly, I be just one minute, promise. Ledron followed.

They stood now, apart from the two women, still gazing at the improbable mask of


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flesh hung upon the wall.

Wakume took a deep breath. You know, he said, This is so amazing. I had

thought I had seen the only example of this long ago. Ledron gazed fixedly at the young

man. Oh yes, Ive seen this. Before, in my village, a man named Garimi took me out

into the desert to a small chapel in the middle of nowhere. Most men dont get within

fifty feet of this place. They shoot you down as you walk, you see. They are very

protective. But I was with Garimi, and so I was ok.

Yes, yes... Ledron begged impatiently.

Wakume looked once at his sister, then in a low whisper he told Ledron, I saw one

before. They have one. I can get it for you.

Ledrons face lit up as big as the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. You mean

it?

Oh yes, I got connection. You got money, I can get you a face.

Ledron indicated with his eyes and his sweaty palms that he did indeed desire such

an object.

It wont be cheap, Wakume told him.

Please, dont insult me, brother. It is for science, eh?

Wakume smiled broadly. Yes, indeed, for science. But dont tell my sisa, please.

She is a woman, and you know how they can be.

Ledron nodded conspiratorially. Of course. Of course. But whose face is it?

That I cant say, Wakume smiled.

Please, Ledron crowed, I know you are holding out on me. Tell me who it is.

Jesus.

You mean?

In response, the Nigerian simply nodded.

Then money is no object. Please, Ledron pulled a card from his breast pocket and

slipped it to Wakume. My email and phone number are here. If you dont feel safe

coming to the museum, just let me know what I must do.


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You send the bank routing info, Wakume said, And I will get you the face of

Jesus Christ. Ledron was nearly bubbling with excitement. But not a word to Ibi,

Wakume reminded him.

Yes of course, not a word.

A few minutes later they bid their farewells, and soon the two Africans were on

their way.

What did you two talk about? Ibi asked her brother.

Oh, nothing, Wakume said.

But I saw him give you his card. What was that all about?

I just sold a bridge, Wakume told her, smiling.

What is that supposed to mean? You dont own a bridge, Wakume. You are

delirious. What you need is some good goat soup.

Yes, I think youre right. Wakume grinned at her and past her, looking at the

dusky city and the buildings which had all been erected going on one hundred years ago.

I think Im going to like this country, he said. There is so much promise here.

Lets hope so, Ibi chuckled, After what you did in Lagos, I dont think they want

you back in Nigeria.


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Copyright 2011 :: B. Tyler Burton

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The Ethnic Museum

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