It is my first day at work. I am happy like anyone in my shoes should be.The joy in me is the open mouth of a crocodile in new waters. I have always fantasized about working in a museum. Now that I have the job, I feel like I am about to accomplish everything I've ever set out to do. I greet the cleaner, the handsome woman that's full of life, and walk past her to the adjoining hall. I am wearing my lip gloss and Brazilian hair. The latter left my neighbour's drawer, and it means I have some explaining to do when I return home. The bottomline is that I am shining like the sun and no one ever could smell the unbelonging-to-ness of the Brazilian hair on me. Good for me. My girl, Quressa, will be there killing herself over who high heels fit and who they don't. Well, me, I must wear my high heels even though I am 5ft 8" tall. I love my heels! I am in the corridor leading to the office of my boss. I greet one more person before I reach his door. I knocked. I turn the doorknob. I entered. Gently.
"Good morning, sir!" I greet you.
"The new employee, right?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Good. Sit down. Don't mind me, it's not like I don't remember faces. I just had a harrowing experience this morning. You are Sarah."
"Correct, sir." I smile.
"That's beautiful. It's nice to have you on the job. I trust you will do well. I believe in you."
"Thank you, sir." I say, blushing red as peony.
"You are the first fair-skinned lady I have employed ever since I took this seat two years ago. Welcome aboard!"
He proffers his hand for a handshake. I take it.
"Thank you, sir."
"The pleasure is mine. Come let me walk you around."
"Alright, sir." I set about to follow him. He stands a whole six feet and a inch.
***
"I believe you already know your job. You know, sometimes, people walk in here in the name of seeing our paintings and end up doing enormous damage to the pieces of art. We don't want that happening anymore. You've got to be vigilant, meticulous and eager to alert the security at any given time. We have our cameras, but those can only detect when someone is trying to steal the paintings. Stealing is different, damaging also. Together with the other girls, you mustn't lift your eyes off the paintings. Do you understand?"
"Absolutely, sir!"
"That's good. Come with me to my office. I need to enter information about you on our database. Welcome to the Happy Day Museum."
"Thank you, sir."
***
The next day. I am standing at the centre of the big display hall. There are paintings on the four corners of the hall. Mostly oil-on-canvas paintings. There are two paintings by the Nigerian female painter who recently set an auction record at $95.9million for Flying With Clipped Wings and Bubble in a Smoke. There are amazing paintings on the wall, but only one seems to have captured my attention utterly. Not the Mona Lisa on the wall that comforts me with a smile when I am depressed. It's The Portrait of Mr. Dunga by Yetunde Obi. It is a portrait of a good-looking black man with a broad moustache. It is a portrait of him smiling. It is a trompe l'oeil painting. Large as the painting is, it is a perfect matter – occupying more space than the other paintings. There is something about this painting that drew me closer to it. I cannot tell exactly what the thing was. You know, the thing with paintings is that they make you wonder or smile, or both. The Portrait of Mr. Dunga seemed to be doing more than that for me. One look at the painting, a myriad of ideas begin to race in my mind. Many ideas running, tumbling inside my head. And as I still stand close to it, none of the ideas stood boldly to present itself. I remember what I should be doing and step back. I am watching the viewers with the other girls. Mr. Dunga should not make me forget my job. Afterall, I am here to watch over him too.
***
And so there is no day at work that Mr. Dunga does not draw my attention to himself. Always looking at me. Always smiling. Always his handsome self. And even with all the trials and temptations, I did not tell my mother. Nor did I tell Quressa. I kept everything to myself. Still keeping it. And today being Friday, there are more people at the museum. It is the beginning of the weekend. And weekends being weekends are when people are free from work and can relax in whichever way they deem fit. There are many viewers in the hall, each looking at a painting at a time. Many hands touching my Mr. Dunga. Hands caressing or abusing his face. And not for once did Mr. Dunga stop smiling. Fine painting that's worth a lot. I stand, watching the people touching The Portrait of Mr. Dunga closely. Easy on the painting, folks!I say. Or Easy on Mr. Dunga. You break it, you fix it!I am obviously fond of this painting.
I keep shouting at people trying to mishandle The Portrait of Mr. Dunga. Soon, it is evening. I return home hoping that Mr.Dunga is safe.
***
My emotion for Mr. Dunga rises on this Monday of a brand new week. There, on the wall, is Mr. Dunga in his usual position. Of course, he is staring and smiling. Hanging there, staring at me. Begging me to steal him. And I stand wondering why it must be me. He keeps smiling and staring. Whenever I lifted my eyes off the painting, it seemed Mr. Dunga was crying behind me and begging me to just take him away. To anywhere. Maybe home. Anywhere. I shake my head, trying to say no to Mr. Dunga. But no, Mr. Dunga had made up his mind to disturb my peace. He keeps pleading and pleading, never stopping for a moment to catch his breath. Oh, he won't stop! And, now, I decide to please him. I have to please Mr. Dunga because it is only fair that I do so. And so, I plan to take him away on Wednesday.
***
Wednesday. I hid after work, creating the impression that I had gone home to prepare for work the next day. My plan is neat and elegant. Oh my, who knew a chick like me could really make such an elegant plan!I watch from my hiding place until the guards are away. What is it they say about cats and mice? Oh, that when the cats are away, the mice will play. I step out of my hiding. Carefully, silently. Quickly, I push myself into the hall. Gently and fastidiously, I take The Portrait of Mr. Dunga off the wall. I escape with it to an empty room. An empty room where I must stay till the next day when the locked entrance door will be opened. I put the painting into the big traveling bag I came to work with on Tuesday. I lock the door. I lay on the floor and tried to sleep.
***
Thursday. I am amazed that my plan is about working. I open the door and greet someone, pretending I just came to work and decided to fix my clothing or look in there. I have to get away before anyone finds out that Mr. Dunga is gone. No, I mean I have to get Mr. Dunga away and return back to work. So I pass the big gate and smile at the gatekeeper. I am feeling joyful, enormous joy like when the younger version of me used to play in the rain. Ode to Joy is playing in the background of my heart. I catch myself as I almost trip from my high heels. I stop a taxi and tell the driver to take me to 16 Martins Close. Truth is I am a bubbling cauldron of untamed wild ambition. I drop the bag of luck at home and return back to the museum.
Now, The Portrait of Mr. Dunga is missing and no one must know I took it. I walk into the hall. I notice the magnificent chiaroscuro of the hall, but I'm far too gone with anxiety to appreciate it. I am on tenterhooks, Lord knows. I walk towards the adjoining display hall on time to hear one of the girls that work with me screaming, "It's gone!The portrait is gone!" I want to meet her. But instead, I beat a hasty retreat. I walk into the ladies' room and pretend I am having a running stomach. I pretend to be vomiting. I open the door. I step out holding my stomach and putting up a silly face.
"The painting is gone!" Chika shouts on seeing me.
"What painting?!" I ask, holding my stomach tightly.
"The Portrait of Mr. Dunga."
More workers have heard the news and are crowding the hall. My boss is approaching.
"How did it happen?" I ask.
"We don't know." one man says. "That's one of the most expensive paintings at Happy Day."
"Sure, it is!" another says.
"How did this happen?" my boss says, looking at the spot which Mr. Dunga used to occupy, which is now vacant. "Can somebody tell me how this happened?!"
Nobody seems to know how it happened. How will they?
"We really don't know, sir!" one man says.
"That's pure rubbish!" my boss shouts. "Now, you guys should put TEMPORARY CLOSED at the gate. We need to solve this first."
The boss asks that everyone stays behind while the case is being investigated.
There is a bar in the museum building. Everybody is nervous. I am nervous. I am at the bar. I have never stolen anything in my life. I am extremely nervous, and I am downing shots and shots of Tequila.
"Easy on it, Sarah," the bartender says to me. "I never knew you could drink."
I am downing shots and shots of the premium Tequila drink. Each time I try to stop myself, it appears someone is trying to force an emu to fly. I am downing shots and saying something I don't care if others hear. I don't even know what I am saying. The next thing I know, people are grabbing me by the hand, by the leg, by the neck. People are grabbing me by any part of my body they can lay hands on.
Later, surrounded by cops, having been brought out from my cell:
"How could you, Sarah?" Chika asks. My boss and some workers are looking at me. They came to see me.
"How could I? What do you mean?" I ask, rubbing my hurting neck.
"How could you steal The Portrait of Mr. Dunga?"
"What?! Are you crazy? How dare you accuse me! Who gave you that crap?"
"You!" my boss says. "You confessed while you were drunk."
Ah! Ah, Sarah! Why? I curse myself, blaming my drinking too much. My ship has hit an iceberg. O mighty Tequila, be you not proud!I whisper to myself in anguish. Anguish an elephant's tusk through my ribs. I clutch my head with my hands, thoughts upon my mind like soap suds. I know I am in trouble. Pure, undiluted trouble. How can I tell the cops that the stealing was Mr. Dunga's idea? That he was always staring at me with imploring eyes? Oh, they won't understand. They won't understand that I was doing Mr. Dunga a favour. I look at them and wonder what I should do: argue that Mr. Dunga begged me to steal him and thus claim that I stole the painting so I could sell it and travel to study abroad and ask for forgiveness. I peel courage off my heart and allow myself to coil deep within, into the rind. I weigh the two options, shake my head. Then I go with one.
Bio:
Marvel Chukwudi Pephel, also known as Poet Panda, is a Nigerian biochemist, writer and poet. He has contributed research papers to the field of Biochemistry as Nwachukwu Godslove Pephel. As a poet, Pephel's work explores themes of love, life, nature, and social issues, with a unique blend of creativity and scientific insight. His poetry is characterized by its lyrical style, depth, and emotional resonance. His work is a testament to the intersection of art and science. He is a fan of the surrealist painter Salvador Dali, and writers Helen Oyeyemi, Ray Bradbury, Irving Washington, Edgar Allan Poe, Frank G. Slaughter and Philip K. Dick. He calculates what he calls "Creative Functions", an experimental but effective way of writing short story endings before their beginnings.