On the drive to Accra from the Hohoe, I quizzed Nadine about the business names with God or Bible references. Even the tro-tros overladen with luggage and passengers, had biblical expressions painted on their windows or along their sides. Hand-painted signs proclaimed His Beloved Son shoe repair, Finger of God nails and Jesus is the Answer cell phones on shops in the small towns we passed. One of my favorites, a fast food chop joint, declared God is First. I guessed the chop meant “chop, chop” like we used for quick. Maybe generations of missionaries had been successful in their conversions.
Nadine explained Western religion’s deep roots in Ghana dating to the early Portuguese and Dutch colonists. Along the way, traditional spirituality and ancestor worship mixed in with organized religions. Naming a business with something religious conveyed the blessings of God onto the business. Or so the owner hoped. I agreed it made complete sense until the Mickey Mouse burger place. What kind of blessing would the mouse bestow?
Upon our return, Ama greeted us with hugs and cold drinks. She listened to my excited ramblings about monkey love as if I were the first person to ever feed a monkey a banana. I’d missed her. I had.
Even more so, I’d missed my hot water heater and air conditioner. I kissed my fingertips and lovingly touched both when I returned to my room.
In light of Nadine’s explanation about the business names, I dubbed my appliances Blessed by God Electricity. Famous for rolling blackouts, Ghana’s electrical grid often gave out and a little help from the divine couldn’t hurt.
After a hot shower, a little time with BOB, and a change of clothes, I joined Ama on the veranda. A new crowd of unfamiliar faces occupied most of the tables. Amid them sat a group of handsome men who fit Ama’s description from the other day. Their crisp khakis and cotton shirts stood out amongst the eclectic clothing of the other patrons. One man laughed loudly, his voice rising above the others in the restaurant. I turned at the sound and my heart paused. His blond hair looked longer and a little disheveled, his skin tanner.
When he turned in profile to me, his long, hooked nose confirmed he wasn’t Gerhard.
I shook my head and tried to rejoin Ama’s story about buying clothes at the Makola market. My selection of conservative neutrals and stripes were boring and at odds with the riots of color and pattern worn by Ama and some of the Ghanaian women I’d observed. She generously offered to take me to the market to order some skirts. Like everything here, contacts needed to be made in order to find the best deal and quality.
“We’ll go tomorrow. I know the best seamstress. She’ll keep your measurements on file. Some don’t. They’ll charge you for new patterns each visit. Rebecca also has a great sense of color.”
“Sounds perfect. I’m over my khaki clothes.” I observed Ama’s skirt decorated with colorful purple and orange umbrellas.
Sarah interrupted us to ask Ama about a bill, leaving me alone at our table.
I eavesdropped on the group of men drinking their beers and gin and tonics. They could have been in any bar where businessmen gathered after work. Already the men sounded foreign to me after my weekend with the monkeys. My mind drifted with memories of big brown eyes and elfin bodies in the Kente village.
A cough from the group of men brought me out of my reminiscing. I met a pair of hazel eyes. Apparently, I’d been staring at their table.
“Care to join us?” a deep voice asked. It belonged to a pudgy man with glasses and dark hair. The sleeves of his pale yellow button-down were rolled up to his elbows.
“Sure.” I shrugged and walked over.
“You want something to drink?” Not Gerhard asked.
“I’ll have a Star, thank you.” I looked around the table. Expensive watches subtly displayed each man’s wealth. The majority of left hands bore wedding rings, except Not Gerhard.
“American?” Pudgy asked.
“Yes, from Portland. Oregon,” I volunteered.
“New York,” Pudgy said. “But the rest of these guys are from the Netherlands.”
My ears perked up.
“What brings you to Accra?” My interest was piqued.
“We came for a conference on sustainability in micro-lending next week. Doing some sight-seeing before it begins.” Pudgy acted as the mouthpiece for the group.
“Sounds fascinating.” It didn’t.
“And you? Wait—” He interrupted himself. “—Let me guess.”
This should be amusing. I caught Not Gerhard’s expression and subtle frown.
“You’re here to work on an orphanage. Or a school.” Pudgy’s eyes roamed my chest as if my cleavage held the answers. Perhaps the size and scope of my breasts would provide support to his assumption.
“Medical clinic,” said a man with dark hair and a wrinkled blue shirt. The third man at their table agreed.
“And you?” I asked Not Gerhard.
He tapped his index finger on his chin and studied my face. After a moment, he spoke, “Organizing women to form a co-operative.” He paused. “Selling beads or some sort of craft.”
“Interesting,” I said. “You’re all wrong.”
“Missionary?” Pudgy guessed again.
Missionary? As if! “Academic.”
“I was close! I said school!” he whined like a child.
“Close, but I’m not a volunteer. I don’t even like children.” Or adults who sound like them, I wanted to add but didn’t.
I explained what brought me to Accra, making it less salacious than I typically would have. Pudgy, despite his wedding ring, stared at my chest too often. The Pudgys of the world were one of the reasons I distrusted marriage.
With his constant chatter, he also made it impossible to chat up Not Gerhard. Luckily, Ama rescued me when she asked me to join her for dinner. I said farewell to the group, making eye contact with Matt aka Not Gerhard. I didn’t bother remembering Pudgy’s name.
REBECCA’S STALL IN Makola market contained floor to ceiling stacks of neatly folded Dutch wax cloth. Wild patterns featured every imaginable color. Possibilities overwhelmed me. I wanted everything. Ama and Rebecca pulled bolts of fabric and piled them on a narrow table in the center of her open air stall. Rebecca measured my waist and hips, complimenting me on my abundant curves. I loved her.
After selecting fabric for four skirts, we said good-bye with a promise to return a couple days later to pick up my purchases.
Makola churned with vendors and shoppers—the Ghanaian equivalent of Whole Foods on the Wednesday prior to Thanksgiving.
Ama led me through the food section of the market. At Makola, the familiar and bizarre mixed together under a high roof blocking the hot sun. Giant aluminum bowls held gallons of fresh ground peanut butter. Chilies from tiny to enormous filled baskets set on the floor and tables. Pyramids of living snails the size of geoducks sat next to ordinary tomatoes and eggplants. Tailless beaver-looking animals called grass-cutters sat inside cages near chickens. Ama explained they weren’t for pets.
My senses went into overdrive from the smells and sights, as well as the crowd of shoppers and vendors. Women shouted conversations to each other across aisles, laughing at inside jokes. At the edges of the market, tro-tro and taxi drivers jostled and argued over customers and parking spaces.
Ama pulled me by the arm into the shade on the other side of the road and handed me a bag of filtered water. “You’re looking a little peaked.”
I gulped some water. “Thanks. Wow. The market was overwhelming.” I exhaled and fanned myself with my hand. A pair of stray dogs sniffed around a stack of crates in the sun at the market’s edge.
“Makola always is. You’ll get used to it.”
I’d heard ‘you’ll get used to it’ countless times since arriving. “Not sure about that. I might have to live off of chicken and rice at your place.”
“There are modern markets in Accra. You’ll be fine. Or you can stay with me.”
I blinked at her while I sipped water. “I can’t. I’d love to, but my budget doesn’t allow for months of hotel stay.”
“No, not at the hotel. I have a little house. You could rent a room. You had planned to rent a place, right? Rent from me. I’ll accept whatever you were planning to pay.”
I couldn’t believe my luck. “Are you serious?” I asked, needing confirmation I wasn’t hallucinating from my near panic attack.
“Sure. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d worry about you staying at some random apartment on your own.”
I shot her a dirty look, my hackles rising. “I’m fine on my own. I’ve always been on my own, since school. And I’ve been fine, thank you.”
“I’m sure you’ve done just fine on your own, but one thing you’ll learn, is no one is alone. You need community to survive. For Ghanaians, it’s their family and tribe. For us Obruni, we have to make our own tribe.”
The little village of Kente weavers. The communal table at Ama’s.
“Did you imply it takes a village?” I asked, my tone laced with sarcasm.
“Aha!” She gave me an indulgent look and patted my arm. “You’re beginning to understand.”
We walked in the direction of High Street and the hotel. I noted a bookstore I would revisit later. Ahead stood a polished new building with the letters TNG on the side.