Missionary Position by Daisy Prescott Read Free Book Online Page B

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’