“Can you use a hammer? Or make adobe blocks?”
Shaking my head, I whispered, “No.” I sighed. “I’m hopeless.”
“If you’re wanting to do something charitable, do it. Don’t do it out of some misplaced white, European guilt.”
“Like what you do?” My realizations from the afternoon made me feel prickly and defensive.
“You think my motivation is white, European guilt?” he scoffed and crossed his arms, resting his elbows on the table.
“Didn’t you call yourself Robin Hood?”
“I think that was you.”
“Right, yet you’re working for the better good, freeing slaves, or whatever it is you do, out of a sense of honor.”
“And you think my work has to do with lingering Dutch heritage in Africa?” His voice lowered and held an edge.
“Maybe.”
“You know nothing. I do what I do because it needs to be done.”
“It’s a big assumption on your part.”
“Is it?”
“Afua told me not to confront the American because nothing I said would change him. Made me think really, nothing we do will change anyone or anything.”
He rolled his eyes. “Here we go again with Selah’s theory of being eternally bound by history.” He leaned away from the table. “If everyone was the same as you, trapped in the past, studying musty old sculptures for an exhibit only a tiny percentage of people will see or care about, nothing would ever change in this world. You have to be the catalyst for change.”
“Wow.” I crossed my arms and gripped my biceps. “Nice to hear what you think of my work.”
“Hey, you were the one who said you should be doing more, something important, while you’re here.”
“I did,” I huffed, glaring at him.
He ran his hands over his hair, making it stick up. It had grown shaggier the past several months.
We sat in stiff silence for a few minutes. Or hours. It dragged out like hours. The tension between us thick and spiky while we stared in opposite directions, neither making eye contact nor speaking. I poured the last of the water from my bottle into my glass, stewing over his words and how they made me feel. I was used to people minimizing my work and writing, but hadn’t expected it from Kai.
With his hands resting on the crown of his head and his eyes closed, he finally spoke, “Is this our first fight?”
I waited for him to look at me before replying, “Possibly.”
Chuckling, he rolled his neck side to side. “I’m sorry for what I said about the exhibit. It’ll be hugely attended and important.”
“No, it won’t.” I joined him in laughing. “But thank you for saying so. I’m sorry for what I said.”
He shrugged. “You’re probably right. I was spoiled most of my life. A few years don’t change my position of privilege.”
I leaned across the corner of the table to kiss his cheek.
“What was that for?”
“For apologizing.”
“You aren’t stuck in the past.” He pulled my hand into his lap and entwined our fingers.
I laughed softly. “Oh, but I am. I’m stuck in a past which isn’t even my own.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“Be the change?”
He nodded, kissing the inside of my wrist. “Volunteer with Ursula. From what I’ve seen, the women in the collective mainly sit around and gossip. You’d fit right in.”
He caught my hand so I couldn’t slap him. “So violent. Afua was right to stop you. You might have unleashed real mayhem.”
“I’ll show you some mayhem,” I said, letting my hand drop to his thigh.
“Will this be make-up sex?”
“I suppose.”
He wiggled his eyebrows before turning to find a waiter. “Bill, please!”
FOLLOWING KAI’S ADVICE, I met with Ursula for a late lunch to talk about volunteering.
“Why the sudden interest in helping out?”
“It’s not sudden,” I defended.
“You’ve been here for months.” She peered at me over her glass. “Did you and Kai break up?”
Laughing, I said, “No. Nothing like that.”
“Are you sure? Why the sudden free time?”
“It’s nothing bad, I promise. I realized half my stay is over and I need, no, I aspire to contribute with my remaining time.”
“Tick tock?”
“A little.”
“Why my group?”
I told her Kai’s comment about the gossip and she laughed. “That’s probably true.”
“Honestly? I prefer women over kids. Most volunteering centers around children.”
“Kids are terrifying. You should stay away from them for sure.”
“Stop mocking me. Kids don’t like me.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.” She paused and studied me. “Okay, maybe it is true. You’re scary.”
I sighed. “So I hear.”
“I’m joking with you. I’ll bring you to the center tomorrow afternoon if you want.”
The next day I met Ursula outside of the workshops for a tour. In a courtyard sat beehive-shaped kilns and molds along with piles of colored glass bottles waiting to be recycled into the glass beads. Under a thatched roof with open sides, women strung beads together to make bracelets and necklaces.
Everyone warmly welcomed Ursula, inviting us to sit and join them. I couldn’t follow all of their conversations, but I laughed when I understood the gist of the subject. Kai had been right. They laughed and chatted away while they worked. The sound of their giggling reminded me of book club meetings with girlfriends where more wine was consumed than books discussed.
Quietly observing the group, I noticed a handful of the members were younger women, even teenagers. Shy smiles greeted me, and when I made eye contact with them they would giggle and turn away. I could relate to teenage girls; some days I still felt like one. One girl brought over her bin of beads and elastic to my bench. She showed me how to string the beads and then tie off the ends. My fingers weren’t as nimble as the other women, but they encouraged me even after the beads from a bracelet broke free and bounced over the packed dirt of the courtyard.
A couple bracelets made and a wonderful hour spent with the women, Ursula finally dragged me away after the sky darkened.
“You enjoyed yourself?” she asked.
“Very much. When can I return? What can I do to help out?”
Smiling, she said, “Slow down. Come later this week. They liked you. We’ll figure out how to use you best.”
“My bracelets sucked, didn’t they?”
She pinched her thumb and forefinger together. “A little, but I have hope for you.”
I had hope for me, too.
THE HAZY, LATE October sun bounced off the small domestic planes sitting on the hot tarmac at Kotoka Airport. Next to the giant 777s for international flights, they looked miniature and toy-like. Kai had arranged our tickets to Tamale, never telling me the plane flying there had propellers. He crouched when we boarded the minuscule plane. Even with four seats per row, the plane looked tiny by my standards.
“Remind me again how long we have to be inside this tin can?” I asked, taking my window seat.
“This plane is huge compared to ones I’ve flown in with some of my projects.”
“Not helping.”
His eyes crinkled. “Under an hour.”
“And how long would it take to drive?”
“Thinking of changing our plans?” He stuffed my bag into the tiny overhead compartment. “Driving takes at least eight hours, typically longer.”
I tapped my fingers on the narrow armrest.
“Selah?”
“I’m thinking.”
He sat down and buckled his seatbelt. “We’re not driving there. We’ll drive back.”
“How? We don’t have your car.”
“We’ll hire one and visit Kumasi.” He pecked my cheek.
“If we live that long.”
“You’re worse than Cibele. She’s a much better flyer than you.”
Rarely did he mention his daughter. They video chatted often, almost every day. Between us there existed some sort of unspoken rule about talking about her. We didn’t. I wasn’t sure if it was me or him.
“Thanks for the compliment.” I wrinkled my nose at him. “Flying isn’t something to be enjoyed. It’s a means to an end.”
He had the nerve to laugh at me. Interlacing our fingers, he said, “You’ll be fine. Think of the views.”
Once the little plane settled at cruising altitude, the view over Ghana was gorgeous. The deep green hills along the coast and Volta River faded to rolling, sepia-hued land as we headed north to the arid land closer to the Sahara.
KOFI MADE ARRANGEMENTS for us to have a driver meet us in Tamale and take us the short distance to Mole National Park.
If I had been excited about Mona Lisa, nothing compared to my anticipation about the elephants. To torture me, Kai scheduled a detour for us to visit the ultra-modern looking Larabanga Mosque outside Tamale. Dark spikes protruded from its fresh white stucco exterior, giving it a surreal appearance unlike any mosque or church I’d ever seen.
Cool.
Interesting.
We took tons of pictures.
Not elephants.
Leaving the mosque, I insisted on sitting up front with the driver to play Spy the Pachyderms as soon as we crossed on to the rough, unpaved red dirt road from the main gate of Mole leading into the park.