Excusing herself, she went back up to her room to collect the postcards she had bought earlier in the week and headed for her favourite lounger on the veranda.
She scribbled Caroline’s address on the first postcard and pondered what to write. Wish you were here was definitely not the case for this particular holiday. She was well aware that she was still almost clueless about her country of birth but she saw this trip as a personal journey, and one that she needed to make by herself. Much as she loved Caroline, Faye thought, she simply could not imagine doing this with her. Dashing off some bland lines about what a wonderful time she was having, she signed her name and turned to the next card.
The picture on the front was of a nubile young girl in traditional African dress standing in front of a flowering hibiscus bush. Chuckling quietly, she addressed the card to Dermot. She scribbled a short message and then added PS: Hope you like the new me. Thought you’d like to see how well I’ve adapted – not a bowl of pasta in sight!
She wrote William’s card, sobering up as she attempted to explain to him within eight square inches how wonderful the experience was proving to be and how much she was learning. After short loving messages to her father and Lottie, she stacked the postcards together and lay back on the lounger.
The sun was now high in the sky and there was little to show for the storm that had taken place earlier. Faye looked out over the green lawn and sighed in contentment. She was still not sure what the morning’s exchange with Rocky really meant but it was the first time that he had reached out to her and she felt a thrill every time she remembered the moment.
She was starting to drift into sleep when Martha appeared at the door to the veranda, holding out the house phone.
‘Miss Faye, it’s your friend calling for you.’ She handed over the receiver and went back inside.
‘Hello? Is that you, Faye?’ Sonny’s smooth voice sounded like liquid chocolate flowing through the phone.
‘Hi, Sonny, how are you?’ Faye tried to keep her tone brisk and impersonal but, as usual, Sonny soon had her giggling. After a short chat, he rang off telling her to expect him at midday.
It was still only eleven o’clock and she decided to stay on the veranda for another half an hour before going up to get ready. Unfortunately, the combination of the heat and a boring article in the magazine she was reading sent her to sleep and she woke up to find Martha shaking her shoulder and telling her that Sonny was waiting for her in the living room.
‘Oh no!’ Faye groaned in panic and ran her hands through her dishevelled hair. ‘Martha, tell him I’ll be five minutes, okay, and keep him in the living room – don’t let him out until I come down!’
As Martha turned back to corral the visitor, Faye gathered her belongings and tiptoed in through the kitchen and up the staircase to her room. After washing her face, she quickly applied some make-up and ran a comb through her hair. She exchanged her sandals for a pair of denim canvas shoes and sprayed some perfume liberally around her neck and arms. She deftly wound a multicoloured beaded necklace around her wrist before seizing her trusty leather duffle bag, and then dashed down the stairs, her postcards clutched in one hand.
Sonny was still imprisoned in the living room and he looked up in relief as she came in.
‘There you are,’ he said. He smiled and, moving towards her purposefully, said, ‘I was beginning to wonder if you still existed.’
Faye suppressed a sudden sense of panic as he advanced towards her. She quickly held out her right hand but instead of shaking it, he raised it to his lips and kissed it softly, all the while keeping his hooded eyes fixed on hers.
Oo-kay, then … This is not quite going to plan, Faye thought nervously as she gently pulled her hand away, wondering if Amma had not been right after all. This was no Michael with cerebral intentions and a desire only to teach her the history of hip hop. Sonny, the funny, teasing joker who had been so easy to talk to on the phone was now a real flesh and blood, albeit very handsome, man with his own intentions, none of which, she suspected, included any reference to black music. He was dressed in a pair of black trousers with a fitted white shirt that showed off his muscular physique. His hair was short and gleamed with what looked suspiciously like salon-inspired waves and his wolfish smile revealed a set of sparkling white teeth.
‘Would you mind if we go to a post office first?’ She raised the sheaf of cards in her hand for him to see. ‘I need to post these cards today or I’ll be home before they arrive.’
‘That’s no problem,’ he said easily. ‘I don’t have a car like your rich friends but I’ve got a taxi outside that we can hold on to for as long as we need.’ Gesturing to her to take the lead, he followed her out of the living room and waited in the hall while she ran to tell Martha she was leaving and wouldn’t be back for lunch. She led the way outside and then stood back as he walked up to a somewhat rickety-looking white car parked in the driveway with bold squares of yellow paint on the hood and boot indicating its status as a taxi. The driver, a scrawny looking man with bloodshot eyes and a sulky expression, saluted briefly in greeting when she reached the car and ignored her thereafter.
Togo stood just inside the gate and, with his arms folded aggressively, watched the taxi driver like a hawk. Sonny gave the driver some instructions and then opened the door for Faye. He walked around the car, slid smoothly into the seat behind the driver and sidled over to her, his muscular leg pressing against hers. The scent of a strong, spicy aftershave wafted over her and she tried to shift away from the somewhat overpowering aroma; an impossible task as she was now effectively wedged against the door.
Togo opened the gate slowly and smiled at Faye for a brief second before scowling at the other occupants of the taxi as they drove out of the grounds. Faye looked around for a seat belt and soon realised that if the taxi had ever had any, it certainly didn’t possess them today. She gripped the strap above the door instead and braced herself against the shock of the car’s poor suspension on the uneven roads.
‘We’ll stop at the post office first,’ Sonny said in explanation as the driver darted off down the dual carriageway that was fast becoming familiar to her. She nodded and concentrated on gripping the handle as they careened along, the small car shaking with shock every time they hit a pothole and Sonny’s warm body pressing against her with each jolt.
Being in such close proximity to her handsome suitor wasn’t having quite the effect that Faye had hoped. Her eyes were almost watering from the strength of Sonny’s aftershave, and in the stifling atmosphere of the ramshackle taxi, the only feelings aroused by his body pressing against her were those of acute discomfort.
They swung around Danquah Circle, narrowly missing another taxi that was reluctant to wait until its exit was clear, and carried on down the busy road. Pausing at a set of traffic lights, they drew up alongside a sleek red convertible driven by an attractive woman in her mid-thirties who turned her head in their direction. Faye glanced at Sonny just in time to see him give off one of his high-beam smiles at the woman. She returned his smile, her eyes sparkling with delight, before shooting off as soon as the lights changed.
Conscious of Faye’s scrutiny, Sonny shrugged. ‘Ghanaians are very friendly. It’s one of the things we are best known for.’
There’s friendly and there’s friendly, Faye thought sceptically, but decided to say nothing. The last thing she wanted to do was give him the impression that she was jealous of him paying attention to other women. But, despite herself, she couldn’t help feeling a faint sense of disappointment.
‘Hey, relax Faye,’ Sonny said. His brooding eyes were fixed on her expressive features as he reached out for her hand. ‘I was just being nice, it didn’t mean anything.’
He held her hand between his own and declared in the husky tone that was so disturbing, ‘From now on, you get my undivided attention and I refuse to be friendly or even nice to any other woman!’
Faye giggled at his melodramatic declaration and gently extricated
her hand, pretending to sort through the postcards on her lap. They drove up into a crowded car park where the taxi driver managed to squeeze the car into a small recently vacated space. Sonny climbed carefully out of the car and, as the inside door handle on Faye’s side was missing, came round to let her out.
The post office was made up of two or three buildings, in front of which stood a few stalls with people selling greetings cards, stationery and an assortment of souvenirs. Sonny led the way into the biggest of the three buildings where they joined a short queue. After paying for the postage and dropping the cards into the post box, they left the building and headed back to the taxi.
Faye stopped in front of a stall displaying a selection of wooden sculptures and painted canvases of African women. The stallholder perked up at the sign of a potential customer and rose quickly from the wooden bench where he had been dozing. Picking up a cloth, he made a great show of dusting one or two of the carvings, enthusiastically pushing them under her nose.
‘Lady, check these out,’ he said. His accent sounded uncannily like JB’s.
Faye took one of the carved figurines from him and was considering whether to buy it when Sonny plucked it out of her hands.
‘You don’t want to buy this kind of stuff here,’ he said dismissively, returning it to its owner. ‘You should go to the Arts Centre: there’s a lot more choice and the prices are better.’
The stallholder glared at him in outrage. Faye shrugged and smiled a silent apology but the offended salesman was having none of it and muttering under his breath in disgust, he slouched back to his bench.
On the short walk back to the car, she noticed rows of numbered metal boxes to one side of the car park. As she watched, an elderly gentleman took out some envelopes from a box and locked it again with a key.
‘What are those – safe deposit boxes?’ she asked curiously.
Sonny shook his head as he ushered her back into the waiting taxi.
‘No, they’re postboxes. In Ghana, we don’t get our mail delivered to our houses like you do abroad. It’s delivered to your post office box and you have to collect your mail yourself.’
The taxi driver inched his way out of the car park and set off at a pace that had Faye clinging tightly to the strap above her door. As they drove, an oncoming driver would occasionally spot Sonny and flash their car headlights in acknowledgement. Each time it happened, Sonny would wave enthusiastically and call out a greeting.
‘Do you know everyone in this city?’ Faye asked in amusement.
Sonny grinned at her disarmingly. ‘I told you before, Ghanaians are very friendly. We always look out for old friends when we’re driving – new friends too,’ he added meaningfully, reaching for her hand again.
She quickly moved it away to clutch her duffle bag while she held on grimly to the door strap with the other. Sonny was fun to be with, she thought ruefully, but in spite of his drop-dead gorgeous features and athletic body, she was struggling to feel anything resembling the feelings he claimed to have developed for her. What made it worse was that the more she tried to keep her distance – a near impossibility given the confined space in the taxi – the closer he would slide towards her. Trying not to feel like she was under siege, Faye smiled at him and asked where they were going.
The frown that had appeared on his face when she pulled her hand away faded and he explained that they were heading towards a part of Accra called Abeka.
‘It’s not a posh area like those places that I bet Amma’s been taking you,’ he warned. ‘This is a strictly working class area. I promised you a look at the real Accra, so don’t expect too much.’
Faye’s response was cut off as their taxi swerved suddenly to avoid a minibus whose driver had unexpectedly pulled out into the main road. The taxi driver and Sonny cursed in unison and Sonny was thrown back before ricocheting forward and almost falling into Faye’s lap. Not about to miss an earth-sent opportunity, he continued leaning heavily against her as they drove on.
Faye, still holding onto her makeshift seat belt, was now well and truly wedged into the corner. After a few minutes of trying to hug the door, she gave up the struggle and relaxed against Sonny’s muscular frame, resigned to the suffocating aroma of his cologne.
‘You’ve probably realised by now that the taxi drivers and tro-tro drivers are the worst road users here,’ he said, his husky voice close to her ear.
‘What are tro-tro drivers?’ Faye asked curiously.
‘That’s the name we give to the minibuses here. It comes from the word “tro” which means three pence. In the old days, that was what it cost for a ride.’
The sun blazed high in the sky and any sign of the morning’s rain had been completely obliterated. Without air conditioning, the heat in the taxi was becoming oppressive and, combined with the heat radiating from Sonny’s hard chest, Faye was feeling extremely uncomfortable. Suddenly her stomach rumbled loudly and she glanced at him, wondering if he had heard.
He smiled briefly at her and said reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry, we’re almost there. This is Abeka and the chop bar is about five minutes from here.’
Staring out at the bustle of people, taxis, tro-tros and the inevitable herd or two of goats, Faye marvelled again at the contrasts between the different parts of Accra. They drove past what looked like a small market, with the vendors shouting good-natured banter across stalls to each other. The number of shops on either side of the highway was a clear sign that this was a busy commercial area. The road was pitted with potholes and, as with many parts of the city, there was no pavement, leaving the pedestrians to make do with a dusty verge.
Much to Faye’s relief, Sonny leaned forward and gave the driver instructions on where to go. Shortly afterwards, he pulled off the high road and they came to a stop in front of a large building. Sonny stepped out of the car and came round to let her out. Pulling out a rather worn leather wallet, he extracted some notes and handed them over to the taxi driver, who perked up slightly as he counted them. With a grunt and a final salute, he then revved his engine and rattled off.
Faye looked across at the building they were about to enter. It was an old two-storey house painted blue and yellow and covered with posters and stickers advertising the local beers and a popular mobile phone network. A faded signboard bearing the words Maggie’s Chop Bar and Grill hung above the entrance, with the specials for the day written in chalk on a blackboard propped up against the wall by the door.
Sonny ushered her inside, his hand resting possessively against the small of her back. Holding her duffle bag firmly, she walked into an open courtyard where a number of wooden tables and chairs had been set up on an uneven concrete floor. Faded umbrellas stuck through each table offered a degree of shade for the diners and most of the tables were occupied by people concentrating silently on the plates and bowls of food in front of them.
Sonny steered her to an empty table alongside the wall encircling the compound. The wooden table was basic and had uneven legs that caused it to wobble slightly. The tabletop had been wiped clean but faded stains steeped deep into the wood bore evidence of the many meals that had been served on it.
A painfully slim girl dressed in a well-worn black skirt walked over to their table, dangling an empty tray by her side. Her oversized white blouse had a frayed lace-edged collar and hung loosely on her thin frame. After muttering a cursory ‘Good afternoon’, she stood silently waiting for them to speak.
‘Is there a menu?’ Faye looked helpless, wondering what was expected of her.
‘Yes, that was it outside,’ Sonny grinned. ‘Don’t worry about the food for a moment; what would you like to drink – beer?’
Faye shook her head and asked for a Coke. As far as she was concerned, alcohol and Sonny definitely did not mix. He, on the other hand, had no such inhibitions and promptly ordered a large bottle of chilled beer. The girl vanished to get the drinks and Sonny leant forward.
‘Like I said before, the food here is all local dishes – so d
on’t expect to find Lobster à la French people or Spaghetti Bolognaise or anything like that.’
Remembering Dermot’s warning not to go around ordering pasta, Faye tried not to giggle. ‘I didn’t get a chance to look at the blackboard outside; what was on the menu?’
Before he could reply, the waitress returned with their drinks, opened the bottles and stood waiting silently again. Deciding that there must be some telepathic chop bar communication she wasn’t privy to, Faye also kept silent. After a moment or two, Sonny smiled at the waitress, telling her that they would go up to the counter themselves. The girl stared blankly back at him, unimpressed by his high-beam smile, and shrugged, slipping away as silently as she had arrived.
‘Come on, let’s go and see what they have!’ Sonny took a sip of his beer and scraped his chair back, holding out a hand for Faye to join him. She stood up and followed him to the back of the courtyard where the kitchen was located. It was a wooden structure with an open hatch where three women were standing guard over a row of black cauldrons that bubbled with various soups and stews giving off spicy aromas. The women passed steaming plates of food through the hatch to the waitresses who came to collect the orders for their tables. A couple of men had lined up at the hatch; obviously diners like themselves wanting to inspect what was available and place their orders. Faye and Sonny stood in line behind them and Faye watched with interest as the men joked and cajoled the women behind the counter to serve them extra large portions. Although what they were saying was in one of the local languages, their crude gestures and raucous laughter made it obvious what the nature of the banter was.
Sonny walked around the men and took a quick look at the steaming pots of food.
‘Right, they have fufu and palm nut soup, fufu and groundnut soup, mixed grill, snail and kontomire soup, yam and plantain with kontomire stew, banku with okro stew or with tilapia fish and light soup with pigfoot.’ He reeled off the names of the dishes swiftly and looked expectantly at her.
From Pasta to Pigfoot Page 22
