Missionary Position(8)

“Come. Sit. Eat,” Ama instructed, leading me to a table near the railing. “I only have a little jollof and some kelewele left. How about a Star beer? Fanta?”

I chuckled at the mention of Fanta, favorite soda of the tropics. I only drank it with any regularity when outside of the US.

“Star please and whatever you have will be fine.”

Turned out, jollof and kelewele were delicious. The spicy rice was the Ghanaian equivalent of Mexican rice, only spicier and richer. Kelewele tasted similar to spicy French fries made from plantains—sweet, peppery, and addictive. I’d done my research on Ghana prior to the trip, and anticipated spice and lots of peanut butter, but I hadn’t expected to love the food right away.

Soon my table matched the other guests’ with plates practically licked clean next to an empty glass and beer bottle.

After charging the meal to my room, I returned to my room to take a shower. Relatively clean, I sat on the bed with a towel around my torso. The hotel had Wi-Fi, slow and spotty, but it worked well enough to check my emails.

Nothing from Gerhard.

I hadn’t expecting anything. Of course not.

I looked at my phone, which remained turned off. I’d need to find a SIM card tomorrow to avoid roaming charges.

Ghana might be an emerging country but with Wi-Fi and a cell phone, I wouldn’t feel alone for my stay.

Lonely, maybe, but not alone.





THE NEXT MORNING not even the hum of my air conditioner drowned out the crowing rooster. I rolled over and checked my watch. I itched to check my cell phone, but I would have to wait until I exchanged money and bought a SIM card.

My hair stuck out in a wild mess from my late night shower, and I attempted to tame it with a scarf headband.

I needed coffee and breakfast. Hopefully both would be as tasty as my meal last night.

I sat at the same table from last night, thinking of it as mine already. A few people ate and chatted, but the empty tables outnumbered the occupied ones. The view from the railing surprised me, revealing the rolling ocean only yards beyond the last row of rooms. Palms and other tropical plants added green to the grounds around the brown colored buildings.

“Morning. Coffee?” A young woman stood next to my table, startling me from my observations. “There is a breakfast buffet.” She gestured over her shoulder to the row of universally popular chafing dishes.

“Good morning. Maa-che,” I said, practicing my greetings.

“Maa-che.” She smiled shyly, clearly pleased.

“Coffee, yes. Please.” I stood up with my plate to check out the breakfast offerings. A movement beneath the next table caught my eye and I yelped, dropping the plate.

A huge, gray lizard with an ochre-colored head froze near the steps, its beady eyes staring at me. Maybe not huge; it couldn’t have been any longer than my forearm, not that I would ever be close enough for an exact measurement. I figured he wouldn’t eat me. I racked my brain trying to remember if carnivorous lizards lived in Ghana. Or anywhere. At least it wasn’t a python, but I wasn’t comforted by that fact. Laughter from the other tables made me turn around.

“You’ll get used to them,” a blonde woman with a thick German accent said. “They’re everywhere. Look, more are over there.” She pointed behind me.

I followed her finger to where two additional lizards sunned themselves on the edge of the veranda.

I prayed these weren’t the lizards Ama referred to last night. With a deep breath, I turned my back to the reptiles. In spite of my squelched appetite, I approached the buffet. To be polite, I took some of everything to make up for the broken plate. When I bit into the most amazing mango I’d ever eaten, I thought of Gerhard. The pineapple, papaya, and mango tasted better than any fruit I’d tasted at home.

The same thing couldn’t be said about the coffee. Unfortunately, it tasted like instant, both bitter and weak. Adding milk didn’t help. Nor did adding sugar, something I normally didn’t do.

“You’ll develop a taste for it, or you’ll drink tea or cocoa,” Ama said when I frowned at my mug. “May I join you?”

She sat down with a plate of pancakes and a cup of tea.

“Everything else is delicious,” I complimented her.

While we chatted, I noticed her accent didn’t sound Ghanaian, or much less so than the waitress’ or Kofi’s.

When I mentioned it, she laughed.

“Oh, I’m not Ghanaian. Not by birth. Ancestry probably, but I grew up in Philly.”

My mouth gaped.

“I assumed.”

“Well, you caught on quick. Nah, I’m Diaspora. Retired here after teaching for thirty years and opened the hotel to keep myself company. A teacher’s pension goes a lot further in Ghana than in the States.”

“I can imagine.”

“You a teacher?”

“Professor.” I explained why I came to Ghana, and we talked about teaching while my coffee grew cold. Surprisingly, it tasted more palatable cold than hot.

Ama filled me in about the typical patrons of the hotel, explaining most tended to be European, African Diaspora like herself, or aide workers of some type. A couple of other academics from the States dined here as well. The occasional entrepreneurial investor types came for drinks and dinner, but typically stayed at Euro-style hotels and newer resorts built for the country’s recent fiftieth anniversary of independence. Ama’s eclectic guest list suited me perfectly.

She wrote down everything I needed for my morning errands, and offered to call Kofi to drive me. Given everything was located within a short distance, I decided to walk around and learn the city.

Before my errands, I followed the path down a bluff to the beach. Waves roared where they crashed against the brown sand, hinting at a fierce undertow. This section of beach wasn’t for lounging and drinking cocktails. Long, narrow fishing boats pulled ashore crowded the sand further down, and two men on horseback rode around a group of thin boys playing soccer in the near distance. The Atlantic stretched out gray and dark beyond the waves, reminding me of the eye color of a certain Dutchman. I shadowed the wet line of sand for a bit, looking for shells or rocks. Sadly, trash, fishing detritus, and plastic outnumbered anything collectible. In spite of its location on the coast, Accra was far from a sleepy beach town, and it showed where the Atlantic met Africa.

Passing official looking government buildings, my walk to the bank lasted only a few minutes. Standing in line to exchange money took over an hour. My newly acquired Ghanaian cedis created a colorful rainbow alongside what remained of my Dutch money inside my travel wallet.

First purchase with the cedis? A SIM card.

With the card installed, my finger hovered over the screen where my phone told me I had ten new text messages.

I struggled to control my emotions, which teetered on obsession.

What if he hadn’t texted?

What if he had?





NO TEXTS FROM Gerhard.

I sighed, reminding myself it had been less than twenty-four hours since I left Amsterdam.

Then again, we were adults. Adults didn’t have to follow the rules of dating, whatever those were nowadays.

I scrunched up my mouth, straightened my shoulders, and gave myself a pep talk. Selah Elmore didn’t follow rules. Never had. Why start now?

My text to Gerhard was short:

*Arrived. Ama’s is all I’d hoped. Mangos are amazing. Thanks for everything.*

Short, grateful … what more did it need? I added an “x” and hit send.

Around me, citizens of Accra went about their day. Women wearing colorful wax cloth skirts and dresses walked with babies and toddlers wrapped around their torsos in slings of similar cloth. Some also balanced baskets or large plastic bowls on their heads. Everything from bottles of water to rolls of toilet paper filled the containers. I wondered how far I could walk with a bowl of yams on my skull.

While looking at the fountains in front of Accra’s modernist monument to Ghana’s first president, I tripped over nothing, confirming I’d never make it as one of those elegant women balancing objects on their heads. Images of finishing school girls with books on their heads and me tripping over my own feet made me laugh.

A young man appeared at my side, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt decorated with an American flag, as I was collecting myself from my near face plant.

“Hello, miss. Are you okay?” Clipped British English mixed with the sing-song rhythm of Ghana’s Twi language. He smiled at me.

I smiled back, embarrassed my near tumble had been observed. “I’m fine, really. Thank you.”

“Good, good. I am Abraham Lincoln.” He extended his hand for the typical Ghanaian handshake.

Laughing, I shook his hand and raised an eyebrow. “You are? The American president? Nice to meet you, I’m Dr. Elmore.”

“Yes, I am. He was a good man, I am a good man. You are American, yes, Mah mee?

This thin, young man with long limbs, who towered over me, had called me mommy. Or something which sounded similar. Too stunned to speak, I nodded in answer.

“This is good. What is the state capital of Nebraska?”

“What?”

“You can ask me any American state capital and I will answer correctly,” he said, proudly.

I grinned. “Nebraska is easy: Lincoln. Same as your name.” I doubted his birth-name was Abraham Lincoln, but his charm and enthusiasm led me to follow along. “What is the capital of New Hampshire?”