Missionary Position by Daisy Prescott Read Free Book Online Page A

dishes.
    “Good morning. Maa-che ,” I said, practicing my greetings.
    “ Maa-che .” She smiled shyly, clearly pleased.
    “Coffee, yes. Please.” I stood up with my plate to check out the breakfast offerings. A movement beneath the next table caught my eye and I yelped, dropping the plate.
    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