Missionary Position (10 page)

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.

“I didn’t know TNG had an office in Accra,” I said, more to myself than to Ama.

“TNG? Oh, yes. Of course. They do a lot of good work. I’ve known several of their employees over the years. Good people who want the best future for Ghana.”

“They’re sponsoring the sculpture exhibit I’m researching.”

“Next time some of the TNG people visit the bar, I’ll introduce you. In fact, the group you chatted with last night? Some of them work for TNG I think.”

Not Gerhard came to mind. I wondered if the real one had hung out at Ama’s. “My Dutch friend Gerhard said he had an assignment here three years ago. Sound familiar?”

Ama wrinkled her forehead. “No Gerhards. Sorry.”

“No worries. It’s a big city.” Another missed connection.

“Is this the man who had you smiling like a school girl last week?”

I nodded.

“Do you miss him?”

“I do. It’s silly. We only knew each other a few days, but thanks to cell phones, we’ve been texting.”

“I’ll repeat what I said the other day, you never know what the future holds.”

“I’m worried you might break out singing a Doris Day song,” I teased.

“I think you might have heat stroke. You’ve stopped making sense.” She winked at me.

Later in the afternoon, Ama showed me her small house near the hotel. “My” room had pale mauve floor tiles, a full size bed, thick wood blinds, its own air conditioner, and a ceiling fan. A private, modern bathroom sealed the deal. The modern kitchen and living room overlooked a paved courtyard with a gazebo Ama called a sun hut. Situated between the museum and the hotel, it was perfect.

“Good?” Ama asked.

“More than good.”

“We’ll move your things tomorrow.”

I had the feeling once Ama had decided I would live with her, I didn’t stand a chance to say no.

Not quite old enough to be my mother, she acted maternal nonetheless.

“I haven’t heard you mention a Mr. Ama. Do you have kids?” I asked on the short trip to the hotel.

“I have two sons. One is an engineer in California; the other one is married and works for a software company in Massachusetts. No husband, though. Divorced many years ago. Why do you ask?”

“You’re very maternal,” I confessed.

“I’ve been a mother hen my whole life. I bossed around my younger siblings, acting like a little mother. I have the mothering gene in spades.”

I laughed at her obvious statement. “I hadn’t noticed.”

She grinned at me. “I’m mothering you, aren’t I? I do that with guests I like. I take them under my wing.”

“What about me said I needed your help?”

Studying me, she tilted her head. “I said this earlier at the market, but behind your fierce independence you wear as armor, I sensed a little loneliness.”

My eyes widened.

“Can I ask a personal question?”

I nodded.

“Have you ever been married?”

I shook my head.

“Didn’t think so. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but in Ghana it’s odd for a healthy, smart woman not to be married. Or have kids. Family is everything here.”

“I have friends, close friends. And a consuming job.” My voice sounded as defensive as I felt.

She nodded, but didn’t speak, letting my lame defense hang in the air between us.

“I never wanted either,” I said. “I don’t need them to feel complete. I think it’s bullshit a woman is only complete if she’s bound to a man and bears children.”

“You sound like women from my generation who burned their bras and slept around because they took the pill.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad to me.”

“Yes, but eventually your boobs sag and you end up with an STD. Or HIV.”

We walked in silence for a few minutes. In Africa, the specter of AIDS wasn’t an abstract concept like it was at home, where the medicinal combo to keep people alive and symptom-free was easily attained. Orphanages here were filled with the youngest victims of a generation affected by the disease.

“Okay, I’m not saying you have sexually transmitted diseases,” Ama spoke first.

“Thanks. For the record, I’m safe and sane when it comes to my lovers. The early nineties were scary times to be exploring my sexuality.”

“What were we talking about before I got all heavy?” Her typical boisterous personality dimmed.

“My unmarried and childless existence.”

“Ah, yes.”

“The procreating ship has sailed, so if you need to nag me about something, you’ll have to focus on the unmarried part.”

Her smile returned, and her eyes sparked with mischief.

“I see that look in your eye. No set-ups!” Truth be told, I loved a good set-up, playing the role of the setter-upper, not the setter-upee.

She attempted to look innocent. “I would never play matchmaker.”

I laughed. “Lies! Not an hour ago you offered to introduce me to your friends from TNG!”

“Oh. Right.” She joined my laughter. “I’d never set you up with random men. Only serious candidates.” She paused. “Too bad Kai isn’t in town. He might be able to handle you.”

Laughing and teasing each other, we walked back to the hotel. On Monday, I had my first appointment at the museum. My life in Ghana was settling into place.

MUSEUM DUST HAD its own particular, unique scent. It smelled old and vaguely clinical. My cotton gloves, worn to protect objects from the oils on my hands, showed the gray dust as if I had done a cleaning inspection.

Emmanuela, my contact at the museum, had given me a short tour before leading me into the windowless storage areas and archives where I would spend most of my days. The rooms had minimal climate control, and were definitely not up to the standards of museums at home. Utilitarian shelving units held row upon row of figural sculptures—the focus of my research.

We chatted while she showed me the collection, including a recent donation, which needed to be catalogued. Emmanuela also taught at the local university. She invited me to attend one of her lectures and perhaps teach a class or two. Her offer was flattering, and I readily accepted it. It would be interesting to sit in on classes.

I left several hours later. Checking my phone, I walked down the wide tree-lined boulevard toward the water. This section of Accra displayed its British colonial history with large white mansions behind gated walls. A new five-star Euro hotel rose above the older mansions, outshining the contemporary exterior of the National Theater. Adobe huts with thatched roofs and big eyes in thin faces felt worlds away instead of kilometers. I sighed at the contrast.

I texted Gerhard a recent fact I’d learned.

*
Dutch chocolate is a lie. It’s really Ghanaian chocolate.
*

How I never put that together before surprised me. Cocoa plants didn’t grow in Holland.

A few minutes later my phone pinged.

*
Brilliant deduction, Sherlock.
*

Our conversations had reached the comfortable, snarky phase.

Another message appeared.

*
Dutch Wax cloth isn’t Dutch either.
*

I laughed.

*
All lies. Next thing you’ll tell me your name isn’t Gerhard and Anita isn’t really your sister. LOL
*

I held the phone, waiting for a quick response, but didn’t receive one. He must have had to run off. I checked my watch. Giving up, I turned off my phone to save the battery and stuffed it inside my bag.

Before returning to the house, I stopped at Ama’s for lunch, reclaiming my favorite table. I glanced around, hoping to spy Ursula’s familiar blonde hair or the nearly identical short, gray, curly hair of Nadine and Nathan, but was disappointed not to find them. The only familiar face belonged to Sarah who brought over my favorite chicken stew. I missed the familiarity of my new friends.

Using the hotel’s Wi-Fi, I checked my email on my phone. Nothing from Gerhard, but I had new emails from my friends Quinn and Maggie with a subject line of “Love Missionary Style”. The email made me laugh in the way only old friends could. Now feeling lonely both for friends old and new, I decided on a post-lunch nap. When in doubt, nap. New motto.

MY DAYS FELL into a routine: breakfast with Ama, the museum for a few hours, lunch at the hotel, afternoon back at the museum, dinner at the hotel, and home to bed. The sun setting at six meant nights stretched long and dark far earlier in July than at home. I heeded Kofi’s advice and rarely went out after dark on my own, either going to the hotel or home for dinner.

In between activities, there were infrequent texts with Gerhard. It had been almost a week since his odd response to my joke about everything being a lie. He told me if I knew the truth, he’d have to kill me. Given what little I knew about him, maybe he was a secret agent or spy.

Today I wore one of my new maxi skirts from Rebecca. Blue, green, and red colored the pattern of scissors cutting tiny pieces of paper. I instantly loved the fabric when Rebecca showed it to me, exclaiming it reminded me of rock, paper, scissors. Looking down, I smiled at the randomness.