Missionary Position by Daisy Prescott Read Free Book Online

her head. She asked me questions about everything while she led me from the main building down the open stairs and to a narrow dirt pathway. Somewhere beyond the single story row of rooms, waves crashed against the beach. Once inside, she pointed out the air conditioner—only to be used while I was in the room—the shower, and how to turn on the hot water heater next to it, and a bottle of water next to the sink for teeth brushing. She warned me twice to keep the door closed to avoid both mosquitoes and friendly lizards.
    Mosquitoes I could handle. Lizards? Not so much, and certainly not in my room.
    With a reminder the kitchen would be closing soon, Ama left me in my quiet, sparse but comfortable space, which would be home for the next two weeks until I moved into university housing or found an apartment. Blue bedspreads with a striped Kente pattern topped the wooden twin beds, and a wood carving of Africa hung on the wall. Otherwise, it appeared identical to any other mid-rate hotel anywhere in the world. Clean, but far from luxurious.
    After washing my face, I changed into a maxi skirt. Ghanaian customs around fashion were modest, and I wanted to be respectful, without gratuitous cleavage or thigh exposure in any of my outfits.
    The restaurant consisted of colorful cloth-covered tables and heavy wood chairs scattered around a curved veranda open to the air on three sides except the wall which housed the kitchen behind a narrow doorway. Two other white patrons sat at a table with empty plates and bottles of Star beer, but no one else was there besides Ama.
    “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