Missionary Position

by Daisy Prescott

  “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.

  Ama’s friend Kai would arrive tonight, and she’d organized a welcome dinner at the restaurant for all of us to meet him. She promised me it wasn’t a set-up, but it smelled like one, walked like one, and quacked like one.

  To distract myself, I spent an hour at the bookstore near Makola market, wasting time between work and cocktails at Ama’s. Isaac, who ran the shop, knew me by name and I often chatted with him more than I looked at books. Similar to my friend Abraham Lincoln at the craft center, his knowledge of American history and politics impressed me. He often proudly reminded me how Obama was half African, not caring he was Kenyan and not Ghanaian.

  When I arrived at Ama’s, I spotted Ursula at my favorite table. After sitting down, I glanced around the space, not seeing Ama or any other familiar faces. My own gin and tonic joined hers while we chatted and caught up about Ursula’s work with a women’s bead cooperative.

  While it grew darker, Nadine and Nathan joined us, adding additional glasses to the cluster on the table. I peered around at the other tables and spied Not Gerhard sitting with another group, engaged in deep conversation with Pudgy. Catching his eye, I raised my glass in greeting. He smiled and mirrored me with his own glass.

  “Kai’s plane is delayed,” Ama said, sitting down at our table. “Since he won’t be arriving until nine, it’ll be too late once he clears immigration and customs. Can we reconvene tomorrow night for dinner?”

  I nodded along with the others and exhaled loudly in a sigh.

  Ama looked at me from the corner of her eye. “It’s not a set-up, Selah.”

  Ursula jumped into the conversation. “Set-up? Oh, who are you setting Selah up with?” Her eyes wandered over to the frat club table.

  “No one is setting me up with anyone. I’m too old and too set in my ways.”

  Ursula laughed. “Hardly. I’m ten years older than you and a widow. If you don’t want the set-up, I’ll take it.” She looked at Ama, who subtly shook her head. With her thick blonde shoulder length hair, Ursula looked more like a lioness than cougar.

  “I don’t know why no one believes me when I say I’m not setting Selah up with Kai.” Ama held a straight face for a couple of beats before smiling. “Fine. I enjoy putting interesting people together. Look at this group. Do you think you randomly found each other?”

  Nathan coughed. “Now that you mention it.”

  Ama straightened her back. “I have a knack for making connections. Set-ups, matchmaking, call it what you want.”

  I laughed and sipped my near empty drink. “Quack, quack,” I said softly to myself.

  Nadine caught my eye and smiled. “Well, this talk certainly makes me look forward to dinner tomorrow night more than ever.”

  “You’re all meddling meddlers,” I growled. “I’m perfectly capable of finding a man. If and when I want one.”

  “Oh, we believe you. You’ve had the eye of that man across the restaurant most of the evening,” Nathan said.

  The other three women at our table turn to look at Not Gerhard.

  “Subtle, very subtle,” I groaned.

  “He’s coming over,” Nadine happily informed me.

  “Great,” I said.

  “What’s great?” Not Gerhard asked.

  I looked up and smiled at him. “I was saying how great Ama was for bringing me another drink.” I shot Ama a pointed look. “How are you, Matt?”

  I introduced him to the rest of the gang, who warmly engaged with him. More than once, I caught Ursula leaning over to check out Matt’s backside.

  Basic information exchanged, Matt got to the point. “I wanted to ask Selah if she would join me tomorrow afternoon at a contemporary art gallery. I thought maybe she could explain the art to me.” He rubbed the nape of his neck. “You’re all invited, of course.”

  Ama set down my full glass. “That sounds perfect for Selah. Unfortunately, I have to work.” She stared at the others at the table, who suddenly had afternoon plans.

  After Nathan’s cough, I realized I hadn’t responded. “Sure. Of course. When?”

  We arranged to meet at the gallery before he said goodnight and left.

  “Well, look at that. Not a set-up at all and Selah has a date.”

  I huffed. “Hold on, it’s not a date. We’re meeting there, and for some reason he thinks I’m an expert on contemporary art.”

  “He’s very handsome,” Ursula said, a twinkle in her eye.

  “He is,” Nadine concurred. Even Nathan had nice things to say.

  I wanted to explain he ran a sad, distant second place to Gerhard, but it would open a whole can of sardines that I didn’t need opening. Real Gerhard hadn’t texted me all day. I sighed. Not Gerhard would have to do for now, however long that now might be.

  “He’s here for a week,” I said.

  “Even better. No threat of long-term commitment or being tied down. What kind of set-up would it be for a week?”

  “I’d let him tie me down,” Ursula spoke quietly.

  My mouth gaped, as did the others’.

  Kinky German.

  “What?” she asked. “There’s nothing wrong with a little light bondage if it’s consensual.”

  Ama tapped her fingers on the table, clearly embarrassed by Ursula’s confession. “Okay then.” She cleared her throat. “Let’s eat.”

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON I arrived twenty minutes early to meet Matt. Sitting along the beach, the pink building housing the gallery perched next to the busy Tema Road. Kofi dropped me off, but I asked him not to wait.

  I walked behind the building to the beach. Western-style beach resorts with scenic palm trees surrounding pools populated the eastern side of Accra. The sand looked much cleaner on this beach, and in the distance awnings and loungers at the resorts created bright spots of color. Sitting on a lounge chair by the pool for a day or weekend would be a nice break.

  I made a mental note to look into a weekend at the beach. A trip to Cape Coast topped my list of mini-trips, but Labadi Beach was closer.

  Inside the lobby, I didn’t spot Matt. The main galleries filled the upper floors, and I headed there, thinking I’d missed him when I walked to the beach.

  I scanned the top floor galleries, but no Matt. Once I found him, we could return and take our time while I confessed I knew nothing about contemporary Ghanaian art.

  The second floor held smaller rooms, each dedicated to a single artist, but no Matt.

  I entered the stairs to return to the main floor to wait for him in the lobby, feeling ridiculous about not exchanging numbers last night.

  I rounded the last flight of stairs and spotted Matt standing near the front of the lobby, the bright light from outside throwing him into silhouette. The distance and light made him look less Not Gerhard than ever. I couldn’t even see the hook in his nose.

  My cell phone chirped with a text from Gerhard:

  *What are you wearing?*

  Cheeky Dutchman.

  Watching while Matt typed away on his cell phone for another moment, I sighed, promising myself to let Gerhard go. Matt was here now. He was handsome in an Almost Gerhard way and most importantly, interested. I responded to Gerhard’s text.

  *Too bad you’re not here to find out.*

  Stepping out of the pool of sunlight at the front doors, Matt walked toward me, the sun creating a halo behind his blond hair.

  I smiled and waved, resolved. Matt was Matt.

  And he wasn’t the man walking straight toward me.

  NOT NOT GERHARD stood in the lobby of the art center.

  My brain sputtered in its attempt to resolve what was happening.

  Gerhard, my Gerhard, stood looking at me where he’d stopped about ten feet away, a safe distance from
my brain exploding.

  My brow furrowed, my eyes squinted, and my mouth could have caught fish.

  “What the hell?” I wasn’t certain if I’d spoken aloud. I looked around the empty space for guilty parties. Or cameras. Surely, someone was filming me as a practical joke.

  Gerhard, or maybe his evil, or not evil, twin, slowly approached me. “Selah?”

  As if my identity was the one in question.

  Greeted with my stunned silence, he tried again. “Selah? Hello?” He waved his hands in front of my face in a kind of wax-on, wax-off manner.

  I stood, frozen.

  Gerhard.

  Not Not Gerhard.

  Gerhard.

  His laughter broke through my brain’s attempt to rationalize this.

  I squinted at him. Maybe I had heat stroke. Or was dehydrated. Clearly, I was hallucinating from not having enough to drink today. I attempted to remember the last liquid I’d consumed. It had been hours. That explained it. When had I last eaten? A mango at breakfast? Some plantain chips?

  Maybe I fell down the last flight of stairs and hit my head.

  I needed a cigarette. Why did I quit?

  “Selah?” Concern tinged his voice.

  My mind had snapped.

  Poor Matt probably thought I’d lost it as I stood and gaped at him like a mad woman. He was right to be worried. I needed to find Kofi to take me home. Damn it, Kofi had dropped me off and left. Who made that decision? Right. Me.

  The man slowly reached out to touch my shoulder.

  “Hey,” he said, softly, calmly.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Thank God. I thought you were in shock.”

  “I think I am. I might be dehydrated, and I only ate a mango this morning. Maybe we should reschedule. I need to lie down somewhere dark.”

  He chuckled. “Reschedule what?”

  I didn’t dare look straight at Matt. Instead, I stared across the lobby at a large, colorful fish sculpture on the wall. “Our tour of the gallery today. I’m not feeling well.”

  “Selah?” another voice called from a few feet away.

  Great. My hallucination had doubled the number of imaginary Gerhards. I hoped at least one man stood in front of me or I was talking to myself.