Chapter Fifty-Four
Sin
The Emperor is Fully Dressed
When you’re a little girl with a loud voice in a world that values your compliance over your conviction, muffling yourself is often an act of survival.
The examples of what happens to women who dare to make enough noise to be heard over the maddening crowd is a catalog of tragedy and unsettled grievances.
Careers derailed, reputations ruined, their names become synonymous with words like difficult, polarizing, angry.
So, when I had something to say that could only be said in a loud voice, I wrote it down.
First in my journal.
Then in my school newspaper under the plum de nom that would become my byline.
A. Sackey, for its simplicity and androgyny.
Even before I was a working journalist, I understood that in such a male dominated field, the barriers to entry for women start at the top of your resume.
The lens with which your work is viewed becomes clouded by ingrained misogyny.
I graduated from college in the age when social media was still about connecting with people you knew rather than building a platform. No one cared about the person behind the writing and so I didn’t correct people's assumption that I was a man.
My nom de plume helped me punch through the glass ceiling with the kind of ease that can only be created by the universe’s lubricant made of impeccable timing.
Those high rates of acceptance of my submissions allowed me to build a career and a body of work that was undeniably impressive and always got my foot in the door.
And that is all the chance I’ve ever needed.
I wasn’t very interested in telling his story, if I’m honest. I was genuinely excited to get this scoop. But writing about a billionaire known for doing business with anyone for the right price and throwing excessive parties isn’t exactly what I’d call compelling.
I wasn’t worried though. Making the rest of the world understand why the people I choose to write about are extraordinary has become my specialty.
I spent weeks learning everything I could about him.
Kwame’s stories of his father have one note—mistrust. They didn’t spend much time under the same roof, and when they were together, it was heavily orchestrated and full of ceremony.
He couldn’t even confirm that the birthday on Wikipedia is correct.
Given that he’s never done an interview, everything that’s been written about him is pure speculation. So I’ve decided to begin our conversation by getting his biographical information down.
I was prepared for Mr. Palmer to be skittish and to need his ego stroked before he’d open up.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. As soon as he walked into the room, it was clear that Al Palmer doesn’t need anyone to remind him that he’s extraordinary.
He was born knowing that he was special and has made it his life's mission to ensure that the rest of the world knows it, too.
All while not saying a single word publicly.
He’s rarely photographed and some of the attendees at his infamous party leave uncertain whether they actually met him.
So face-to-face time with Al Palmer is rare.
I note that for someone who doesn’t like the spotlight, he’s dressed like a modern-day Mansa Musa.
He’s wearing a vibrant purple silk suit that’s lined with gold satin fabric.
There’s a gold ring on every finger, and he carries himself with a gold-handled walking stick dangling from his hand that he clearly doesn’t need at all.
It’s ostentatious but tracks with everything else in his house.
Larger than life, unmistakable symbols of wealth that run so deep, it’s endless.
He’s got the kind of power that’s rooted in myth but is real enough to move markets, influence lawmakers, and demonstrates its dominance without regard for authority.
At its most potent, it moves in silence.
You never see it coming but you always know when you’re in its presence.
When we’re done eating, and I’ve gotten his background information squared away, his fashion choice is the first thing I ask him about.
“When you’re bigger on the inside than the outside you have to distract people from that fact or you’ll never get anywhere.”
His small stature is somewhat of a surprise but only because his son is so tall and broad. He’s petite, for lack of a better word. But it only takes a few moments in his presence to forget all about it. “Do you really think your height has something to do with your success?”
His gaze narrows. “I wasn’t talking about my physical size.”
Heat steals up my neck. “Oh. I’m sorry. I just assumed—”
“It’s fine.” He waves my tongue-tied excuse away with the flick of his elegant wrist. “I learned at an early age that if you can’t convince the world that the deficits they see when they look at you are immaterial, then you’ll find yourself famished for things like acceptance, compassion, tolerance…
approval and praise,” he adds with the lift of one of his heavy gray brows.
A knowing smile tilts up the corners of his severe mouth as if he knows how viscerally affected I am by what he's saying. It’s like he’s reading straight out of sixteen-year-old-me’s diary.
I swallow hard. “Right.”
“So, you either live with less than you need or you figure out how to make the world give it to you.”
“Is that what you did?”
“I couldn’t live with less. Not when I knew what I was capable of.
So I chose to distract them by being confident before I had any right to be.
By taking risks no one else would and being a very gracious winner when they paid off.
I did that until my name became synonymous with power and prosperity.
Until they needed me more than I needed them. ”
I nod, understanding the notion of proving everyone wrong. I refer to my notes and grimace at the next question. I act like the writer I want to be and ask the question. “How do you deal with failures? Like the chain of hotels you financed that went bankrupt last year.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “You’ve done some digging.” He’s smiling but his voice is hard.
I nod, unabashed. “I call it research.”
“You say potato,” he says, his voice losing some of its edge.
“I wanted to be prepared.”
He smiles. “Of course. I don’t call anything a failure, and I don’t air my woes.”
“So, for you, the perception was more important than actual success?” I ask for clarity.
His nostrils flare. “For me, the perception that my stamp of approval is akin to a Midas touch that makes heads of state who used to tip me without looking me in the eye want to rub shoulders with me is winning. I know who I am. I also know what I look like. I’m not going to let people’s biases and shortsightedness define and limit me. Tell me how you plan to portray me.”
“You’re a modern-day Jay Gatsby but with the confidence of the Asantehene himself, Mr. Palmer.”
He snorts but nods in approval “I like that. Very iconic imagery that almost everyone will understand. You’ll make it clear that my backstory isn’t fabricated. I know they like to speculate that I started with a leg up in life,” he says with a twinkle in his remarkably clear eyes.
“I will. But only if I can confirm that,” I advise him. “There’s very little public information about you before Jubilee Field was discovered. Is that also deliberate?”
“Yes. Who I was before I was rich is the least interesting part of my life. The man you see before you wasn’t created out of thin air, but that’s what I’ve worked very hard to make people believe. I’ve thrived in anonymity and plan to continue doing so even after you publish your story on me.”
He gives me a warning glance.
I nod. “As you know, for now, this story doesn’t have a home.
I will pitch it but the conditions we agreed to will apply when I find a publisher for it.
No pictures of you shall appear in any publication.
No references to your height. No references to your age, your business dealings, or the composition of your family.
This conversation is limited to your acquisition and ownership of the property and its history,” I recite the list of restrictions in the NDA I signed.
“Very good. Kwame was very protective of you in his negotiation with my team over the documents I asked you to sign as a condition of this meeting,” he says with a dry, humorless chuckle.
I flush. “I signed them all the time and didn’t have any issues.”
He shrugs. “I don’t really care how you feel about it as long as you abide by it.
If you don’t, I’ll sue you for so much money that your grandchildren will be sending mine checks.
” He delivers this threat with such alacrity that the menace in them takes a few seconds to resonate.
And somewhere in the back of my head, I wonder if he’d feel that way if those grandchildren were his.
I push that thought aside. No need to get ahead of myself.
“You don’t need to worry. I won’t print anything you’re not happy with. Even if it’s not explicitly listed in the NDA,” I add solemnly.
He purses his lips and folds his hands on his lap. “Said every journalist who was given an inch and used it to create a mile of lies. I’ll be convinced when I see the article that goes to print.”
I shift in my seat and have my first niggle of doubt about the wisdom of this. It’s not unheard for people to sit down willingly and then have “source remorse” that derails the whole story.
I don’t want to risk walking away with nothing after spending time here and pitching the story to prospective publications. “Mr. Palmer, if you’re so unhappy about this conversation, why are we having it? You certainly don’t need the publicity.”
“My son asked me to,” he says with a simple smile.
The simplicity of his answer warms me to him. I know he and Kwame have a complicated relationship but it’s clear he loves him.
He’s been my family’s boogeyman for too long and Kwame has told me too much about him for his subtle but potent charm offensive to make me forget that he’s a greedy, self-centered strategist.