Chapter Fifty-Four #2
“Is that truly the only reason?” I press.
“He hasn’t asked me for anything in twenty years.
” He smiles wistfully. “Can you imagine how I feel? Being so rich and the son I did it all for doesn’t want anything to do with it.
I’m sure you wouldn’t have turned your nose up at your parents wanting to pay to for college.
” He looks at me expectantly and I realize it wasn’t a rhetorical question.
“No, I wouldn’t have. I mean, I didn’t. My parents paid for all of us to complete our bachelor’s. The rest was on us. I write Nelnet a check every month and I would be very happy to be putting that money into my savings.”
“See? Do you know Kwame had student loans until his mother passed away?”
I do know that, but something stops me from telling him so.
The way our conversation landed on Kwame makes me distinctly uncomfortable.
“I was very sorry to hear about the passing of your wife. I understand that The Palms was her pet project. The only article I could find on her was from right after your purchase. She said it was love at first sight. Was it the same for you?”
He stares at me so intently for a full minute that I’m certain he’s not going to allow me to pivot.
“I don’t believe in things like that. I bought this property because it was the most expensive piece of real estate ever listed in the state of Virginia.”
“Yet the first thing you did was tear it down.”
“As it should have been centuries ago. This land was stolen from the people who first inhabited it. The first European colonists brought disease that wiped out the indigenous people and then used enslaved people to build grand homes with walls painted white to try and hide what they’d been and what they stood for.
I tore down those ugly, tainted buildings and built on the only part of the property that hadn’t been inhabited. ”
“Was this stretch of Great Falls Road appealing because of its moniker as the Gold Coast?”
He sneers. “No. Can you imagine calling this rocky stretch of wilderness the Gold Coast? Colonizers always have delusions of grandeur.” He smiles more to himself than me.
“But it does add a sense of poetic justice that I own the largest house in a state where, if I’d been here at its establishment, I would have been chattel. ”
“So was that why you tore down the original residence?”
“I tore it down because I could. My direct ancestors may not have toiled here. But their oppressors came to Ghana, tried to steal our land, and make second class citizens of us.”
“So this house symbolizes a reclamation?”
“No, it is the embodiment of the siren song America uses to lure people.”
“But you called it a siren song. Which is used to lure people to their deaths. You’re very much alive.”
“Not everything is literal. I am alive. It is a death of something that most immigrants experience once we realize the America dream is just that…a dream. What’s real is that if you’re willing to work harder than everyone else and if you are willing to bet on yourself, and nowhere else on earth that a man like me can buy his way into the history books. ”
“So for you, this is about legacy?”
“Yes. And about enjoying my money and building something that, just like the houses that were here when I bought it, will tell the story of this time and reflect the way the world has changed. The way power has shifted.”
“So then why have you hidden it away from the public? Limited access not just physically, but with the restriction on pictures?”
“Because I didn’t want the Daughters of the American Revolution at my front gates raising hell about me tearing down the things that they saw as their ancestral connection to the land. My wife saved most of the trees, but the palm trees that line the drive used to be hickory and pine.”
We spend the next hour walking through the thirty thousand square feet of living space. It’s a beautiful property with priceless artwork from all over the world and finishings that scream of no expense being spared.
By the end I’m in awe of what he’s built.
He’s got a fascinating story.
If only he’d let me tell it.
This is a beautiful home. It’s new construction mortared with history. Everything it’s made of may be brand new, but it melds with the past in a way that makes you think about the future.
It’s a monumental achievement that seems to be a testament to the power of opportunity. He wasn’t born with anything but his own talent and determination. He’s made his money honestly. Thirty years ago, he had more of it than he could spend in two lifetimes and somehow, that wasn’t enough.
It sounds like he sacrificed his relationship with his only child in pursuit of more.
I’m grateful that Kwame somehow found something else to motivate him because as nice as it’s been, this kind of wealth is impossible to enjoy if you have even a little bit of a conscience and don’t live in a bubble.
At the end of my eight hours there, I’m still in awe of the fact that this mansion is one person’s home and that I’m a guest here.
It’s heady to walk through a house that smells like a resort and is the kind of luxury I’ve only seen in Bond films and my favorite rich family television drama Billions.
I understand why the house was set so far off the road.
People would slow down to gawk, take pictures, want to know who lived there.
Some would be awed, but plenty more would be shocked to see the size of a home that housed three people at the height of his family’s tenure.
It’s the ultimate symbol of his overwhelming success and the perfect place to hold court and hide your treasure. And your sins.
This man is a legend in the true sense of the word. Everything about him is larger than life. Except for his authenticity. He seems so calculated. Every word is measured, rehearsed, stale.
As wonderful as it’s been, this isn’t the kind of story that excites me.
It’s moving, but besides the public fascination with seeing what’s behind those white gates, I can’t see a lot of interest being garnered by that alone.
I pivot to the only fact about him that I find somewhat compelling. “Kwame said you have some artifacts, bronzes and stone carvings from Mali that used to be on loan to the Museum of African Art, but are now back in your private collection. Is that housed in this property or elsewhere?”
All of the art on display is contemporary.
“Oh.” He raises on eyebrow, his eyes twinkle with interest. “Do you have interest in ancient art?”
“I do, yes,” I reply eagerly, smiling genuinely. “I was actually instrumental in the return of the pieces to the Government of Benin and the Brong-Hafo people last year.”
He straightens his spine. “I funded that exhibit, I believe. Instrumental in what way?”
“Oh, I see.” I blink, surprised by that information.
I hadn’t known that. “I wrote the story that put pressure on the Metropolitan Museum in New York and the Prussian Cultural Heritage Museum to return the Benin Bronzes. I’m quite proud of that work.
Besides seeing things returned to their rightful ancestral owners.
I get to see and feel the weight and history of things most people will only ever see in a book.
They are thousands of years old, but the blood of the people they belonged to runs in my veins today.
It…” I sigh and search for words. “Makes me feel connected to the past at the same time it grounds me firmly in the present.”
“Well, you’re passionate. That’s good.” He claps his hands together and leans forward. His eyes narrow and watch me intently for a moment before he speaks. “Can I show you something very rare?”
“Is the world still turning?” I ask in response.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He smiles at me genuinely for the first time and I smile back.
“It was an absolutely yes.”
“This is not for public consumption and any mention of it in your article will lead to consequences you won’t like.”
I have to stop myself from stamping feet to hurry him along. “I understand. Can we see it now? I’m starting to feel desperate.”
He laughs. “I like you.”
He abandons his desk and walks slowly to the wall of curtains and draws it back. I watch in astonishment as the wall swivels a full one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and then wish to God I could go back in time and said absolutely not.
“That’s the Prestige Stool,” I gasp, my eyes wide in shock and horror.
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Yes, of course. How do you have it?” I turn to face him unable to keep the accusation from my voice.
“It’s a replica,” he snaps and walks over to the panel next to the glass case and presses a button. The door revolves and closes.
I sag in relief. Of course it is. It couldn’t be anything else. “Did you know that the original was stolen?” I ask.
He nods. “Yes, I heard. I don’t know why it wasn’t better protected. The first time it was taken, the thieves had guns, and the Ashanti’s weren’t able to fight back. They get it back after two hundred years and the first thing they do is lose it again.” He curls his lip in disgust.
“They didn’t lose it. It was stolen.”
“Do you know what the stool means to the Ashanti?” His tone is clipped, his question posed more like a challenge.
“My parents are Ashanti.”
“Your parents,” he says it with disgust. “Shame they didn’t teach you to see yourself that way too.”
“I was born here. I’m American.”
“Only on paper. I’m not surprised your parents haven’t instilled this in you.”
My back stiffens. “My parents did everything they could to keep us connected, but this is where I was born and where I grew up.”
He shrugs. “If you say so.” He opens the panel again. “Did you know that each stool is carved out of a single piece of wood?” he asks.
I nod before I realize he’s not looking in my direction. “Yes, I knew that.”