Missionary Position

by Daisy Prescott

  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?”

  “Concord. See? I know these things.” Another smile.

  We walked along the busy road filled with Accra’s steady stream of traffic. A couple of stray, brown dogs sniffed in gutters filled with plastic and garbage.

  “You need to buy gifts?” Abraham asked me.

  I had been distracted by his banter, and had not paid enough attention. We stood in front of a compound of single-story, pale yellow tin-roofed buildings filled with crafts and tourist items. A low sign proclaimed it the “Centre for National Culture,” but it resembled an outdoor mall mixed with a flea market.

  “You need gifts? I’ll show you the best shops. My brother has a drum store. My auntie sells beads.”

  Abraham Lincoln was not merely another friendly Ghanaian; he was a shopper’s Sherpa. My research told me about the young men who guided tourists to their family’s shops, bypassing competitors’ booths.

  “Ah, no shopping today, Abraham Lincoln. I will be in Accra for many months.”

  He hid his disappointment with a tiny smile. “You will remember me? Ask for Abraham Lincoln when you return for shopping. I will find you the best deals.”

  I nodded and promised I would. From the corner of my eye, I spied fresh
coconuts for sale. The young man running the stand held a short machete in one hand and hacked into a green fruit to open it before inserting a plastic bendy straw. The contrast between the ancient knife and modern straw fascinated me, reminding me I wasn’t even on the same continent as Kansas.

  I offered to buy Abraham a fresh coconut.

  “Coke?” he counter-offered.

  After handing him a cold glass bottle Coke, with a green coconut in hand, I strolled down the High Street to Ama’s.

  So far, day one in Ghana had been a success.

  DESPITE NEVER LEAVING the city, a fine layer of dust and dirt coated my skin when I walked down the terracotta-colored road to Ama’s. I needed a shower or a hose down. The second was a better description for my shower when I turned on the water but forgot to start the water heater first. Luckily, the cold water refreshed me after the heat of wandering the streets. I looked up as the water slowly heated and screamed.

  A tiny lizard perched upside down on the ceiling in the corner of the small bathroom. Its body measured no longer than one of my fingers. Size didn’t matter. Its mere presence inside a closed room with a very naked me made my heart stop.

  Keeping one eye on the gecko, or whatever it was, I turned off the water and grabbed a towel. I slowly backed out of the room in case it decided to leap down and attack me. I didn’t exhale until I closed the bathroom door. Hopefully it would find its own way back outside.

  The lizard fright and adrenaline rush, along with the typical exhaustion which followed a first day in a new, unfamiliar place, crashed over me. Wrapped only in a bath towel, I lay on the bed for a quick nap, hummed to sleep by the air conditioning.

  I awoke several hours later, dimmer light peeking through my drapes. Because the sun set around six year round in Ghana, it wasn’t yet time for dinner. Close to the equator, twelve hours of daylight were a given no matter the season.

  Before getting dressed, I inspected the bathroom for reptiles and thankfully saw none.

  Envious of the colorful skirts and dresses I’d seen on the women earlier, I put on a blue and white striped skirt and jade green shirt to have a bite and maybe a drink at the restaurant.

  I took a seat at “my” table with my laptop and notebook. The same young woman from breakfast greeted me and handed me a menu. I found out her name was Sarah, something I overlooked asking earlier.

  Before ordering, I confirmed the tonic was cold. Nothing worse than a warm gin and tonic without ice. Some of the European-style hotels might have had filtered ice, but it wasn’t worth taking the chance. My stomach would have preferred drinking tonic with its anti-malarial quinine to the weekly pills I had inside my bag. Either would be preferable to malaria itself. The writer in me could romanticize the tropical disease, but it could be brutal. I double-checked that my purse contained mosquito spray.

  The message light on my phone blinked in the darkness of my bag. With the distraction of my near face-plant, meeting a dead president, and close encounter of the scaly kind, I’d forgotten I’d turned it on.

  My stomach fluttered when I opened my inbox.

  *Akwaaba. Glad you made it. Amsterdam misses you.*

  I smiled and reread the short message. He hadn’t given me much to analyze. Sipping my gin and tonic, I plotted my response.

  “Mind if I join you?” Ama stood next to my table, holding a glass bottle of Coke.

  “Please. I have a million questions for you.”

  “We might need snacks for all those questions.” She called Sarah over and asked for some kelewele, my new favorite food. “The way you grinned at your phone I wasn’t sure if you wanted company. Husband? Boyfriend?”

  My smile faltered. Gerhard was neither. I wasn’t interested in the former, and the latter was impossible given our geographic issues. “Neither.”

  “Lover? No one smiles that way about a friend or family member.” Ama’s eyes twinkled as she sipped her drink.

  “Unfortunately, no. The potential is there, but geographically it would be impossible.”

  “You won’t be here forever. Who’s to say what’s possible? When I was your age, I never imagined I’d be sitting on this side of the Atlantic waiting for the afternoon rain.”

  At her mention of rain, I noticed the hazy blue sky had become gray.

  “Does it rain here every day?” I asked when the first drops created dark circles on the dirt pathway.

  “In July? No, not like the monsoon rains of May and June that feel like you’re showering outside wearing clothes.”

  “Sounds fun. Is it bad that whenever I think of rain here, I think of Toto?”

  “The dog from the Wizard of Oz?”

  I laughed. “No, the band.”

  “Oh!” Her own laughter joined mine. “Wrong Toto.”

  “Although the analogy works, too. I don’t think lizards show up at breakfast in Kansas.”

  “The lizards are harmless. However, that Toto song is an ear-worm. And probably the reason generations of Americans think of Africa as a country, not a continent.”

  We fell into a discussion of Toto’s Africa lyrics. The rain ended around the same time we reached our conclusion about the words; they didn’t make sense, but were definitely, without a doubt, about longing for love, as most songs were.

  Tables filled with patrons, bottles, glasses, and plates of food while the sky darkened with evening. No sunset for my second night in Ghana. I joined Ama’s group, which consisted of Ursula, the German woman from breakfast; the Americans, Nadine and Nathan, professors of anthropology and sociology, respectively; a gorgeous, dark, bearded Italian named Vincenzo on his way to see the elephants in Mole; and his scowling, thin wife Marta. She was probably lovely and didn’t appreciate my flirting. I stopped once Ama politely pointed out their marital status, but her scowling didn’t.

  The night wound down after plates of fish with a mysterious, but delicious, sauce had been consumed. Ama explained some of the unfamiliar names like omo tuo, fufu, and banku, while Nathan joked about the famous shi-to pepper sauce giving the “shit-o’s” if eaten too much.

  I didn’t think about my phone or text messages until I returned to my quiet room close to eleven. There wasn’t a great signal, but I hit send on another text to Gerhard:

  *Fufu, banku, I miss you too.*

  I giggled at my lame attempt at rhyming.

  A reply pinged almost immediately.

  *Do you? This might make it worse.*

  Attached was picture of a very large windmill towering behind a very handsome Gerhard. I smiled at his gorgeous grin.

  I responded: *Impressive.*

  My phone chimed.

  *Thank you.*

  *I meant the windmill.*

  *If you only knew.*

  Wait. What? Was Gerhard sexting innuendos about his penis?

  I lay in bed with memories of blue eyes, pretentious suits, large windmills, and one soft, unexpected kiss. I sighed with frustration. It could be a long, pining six months.

  Sadly, Vincenzo was married. Maybe I’d meet a missionary I could corrupt.

  DRESSED FOR ADVENTURE in khaki capris, a short sleeve blue shirt, and large, floppy hat, I stood outside of the hotel’s entrance, attempting to learn the Ghanaian handshake-snap greeting from Kofi. The trick was to shake hands, then snap your middle finger against theirs when you pulled apart, like a secret spy handshake. Kofi laughed at my frustration while I mumbled faux curses each time my attempt to make the snap sound failed.

  “I’ll get this down!” I vowed. “Before I leave in six months, I’ll be the best Obruni snapper you’ve ever met.”

  He smiled the way you do at precocious children, indulgent and vaguely bewitched.

  My first week culminated with a weekend trip to the Volta region and the promise of monkeys eating bananas from my hands. Nadine, Nathan, and Ursula asked me to join them and I immediately accepted. We’d become fast friends the way only travelers can, meeting each evening at Ama’s restaurant for drinks and dinner together a
t the long table in the center of the veranda.

  Vincenzo and scowling Marta had left two days ago for Mole National Park in the North after sharing travel tips with me. The elephants of northern Ghana topped my “must see” list, but the two day drive in each direction would have to wait a few months.

  Kofi had exchanged his sedan for a tro-tro style Toyota van to accommodate the four of us more comfortably for the hours’ long drive east. His selection of “High Life” music set an upbeat tone to the trip. I bounced in my seat to the mix of Ska, Reggae, and dance music.

  Beyond Accra and its sprawling new developments, everything became greener and rural. Fields dotted with towering termite mounds, mango farms, and smaller villages flanked the two lane road we traveled. Vultures picked through plastic-filled trash dumps at the edge of the road. In the distance, verdant, round mountains broke up the flat landscape.

  Kofi pulled over at a convenience store/gas station, which would have been at home anywhere in the States. However, here it sat awkwardly alongside a road where a man herded two large white cows with a long stick and random goats chewed who-knows-what in the adjacent ditch.

  Ursula bought me a frozen strawberry yogurt called Fanmilk. The name was appropriate. I was a big fan of my pink rectangular packet filled with strawberry flavored delicious coldness. I happily sucked on the sweet frozen treat from my spot in the last row of the van. Memories of family road trips around the Western US came to mind.

  I pulled out my phone to text my mother. Another text message from Gerhard caught my eye. We had texted intermittently throughout the week. Him asking questions about my stay, and me telling him what I ate and drank. Nothing flirty or romantic, but I grinned when his name appeared on my phone.

  *Staying in Rotterdam for the weekend. Sadly, no monkeys for me. Have fun.*

  I replied.

  *Knowing my luck, there will be fecal flinging or embarrassing displays of monkey love.*

  I texted my mom an update of my adventures.