He lifts the aardvark by the base. Underneath, in one corner, engraved deep into the wood, is a little geometrical figure, a hooked cross, and you do not need confirmation from Olioke to understand what it is.

“So you’re afraid of it,” you say, and Olioke smiles sympathetically at you, like you can’t help that you’re dumb.

“To the contrary,” he says. “The Herero believe that the way against oppression is to wear the skins of the enemy. By wearing the skins of the enemy, the power of the oppressor is diminished, reappropriated.”

You smirk a little when Olioke tells you this. You can’t help yourself. You’ve never really been comfortable when it comes to serious stuff like oppression, like genocide, and despite the fact that you have every reason to believe Olioke, the notion that some, like, rando tribe in Namibia knows about the gigantic taxidermied blue-eyed aardvark currently lodged in the back of your Chevy Tahoe in the garage of Asher Place Townhouses in Foggy Bottom tickles you, gives you the giggles, and that’s when Olioke, well versed in your immaturity and that of Your People, whips out his phone.

He shows you a picture of a group of modern Herero, costumed in what appear to be ridiculous Victorian outfits.

“The Herero are very serious about wearing the enemy,” Olioke says, and look at the men, he says, even today dressed in the costumes of their oppressors, as German cadets, and look at the women dressed in blooming Victorian dresses sewn from African fabrics, replete with puffed sleeves and bodices—and as you look at the costumes of the Herero, the image reminds you instantly of Ronald Reagan, of the vast collection of clothes imitating the former president that you’ve amassed in your closet upstairs, which no one on Earth has ever seen in full:

You have Reagan’s same wide silk ties. His shiny tie pins. His silk handkerchiefs. You have his gold silk formal vest, his loafers, black and gleaming, several of his oxfords with the signature French cuffs, his V-neck cashmere sweaters, his sky-blue pajamas and, of course, his Bill Blass bathrobe, your personal favorite. In your closet also hangs Ronald Reagan’s long black woolen coat, which you wear in winter. You wear his tan raincoat for everyday. His silk scarves are the color of ejaculate—you wear those too—and although you’ve never ridden a horse in your life, you also have the same pale blue cowboy shirt that Reagan wore, the same straw cowboy hat, and it is all a growing assemblage of items awaiting the day when you buy the 688-acre ranch in Virginia that you are one day hoping to buy that reminds you of Rancho del Cielo, Reagan’s 688-acre “Heaven’s Ranch” in Santa Barbara, and you wonder who has it backward, you or the Herero: should a person wear the clothes of their enemy or the clothes of their hero?

One word Olioke used makes you worry that you might be in the wrong. That word is “skins.”