Chapter One

     “Girls, you need to watch this!”  Arnette’s dad calls us from the room as we are about to descend the stairs. Yesterday was the last day of school—the last day of freshman year at Greendale High School. As soon as I had breakfast this morning I left home for Arnette’s, whose house is four blocks from mine. Arnette is my best friend. We have been friends since the first grade.  We were on our way to Arnette’s mom’s flower shop so I can fill out an application to work there this summer, not because I love working with plants, but because I want to be able to spend as much time as possible with my best friend during the holidays.

     “They are talking about Africa on the news. Come watch.” I roll my eyes and Arnette pats me consolingly on the back. My parents are from Africa, from a country called Ghana. I have never been there and have no intention of going there. My brother and I were both born in the United States and are Americans but most people tend to forget that. Because my parents are Africans, people assume that we are too and often ask us questions about that place. Arnette’s dad in particular is always giving me information about Africa that he has read about or watched in the news. If it is not about wars or famine or a disease outbreak, it is about a charity group asking for money for some poor starving children in Africa. Occasionally I hear about world soccer tournaments. On two different occasions Ghana beat the US in soccer. While my parents were ecstatic I was annoyed because the kids at school began to pay extra attention to me.

     “That girl is from that poor country that kicked the US out of the World Cup,” someone had said angrily.

     “Well, I guess Africa deserves a break after all they have been going through,” one of my teachers had said. I do not care about Africa, or Ghana or soccer and I hated that my life was affected because of that event.

     We go to his room to see what the news is about. Even though I want to tell Matt that I don’t care, I do not want to be disrespectful. The news anchor is talking about how France has sent troops to Ivory Coast to help Ouattara against ex-president Gbagbo who does not want to give up the seat. What weird names are those? I would have had no clue how to spell them, if Matt was not using subtitles. The anchor notes that some Ivorians are fleeing to neighboring countries, particularly Ghana that appears to be one of the stable countries in the region.

     Matt turns to look at me with a smile, “You must be so proud,” he says and I manage to smile weakly at him.

     “We are going to grab something to eat Dad,” Arnette says and guides me out of the bedroom.

     “Sure,” her dad says as his attention returns back to the news.

     “I am sorry Freda. He cannot help it,” she says.

     “I know, he probably thinks he is helping,” I say.

     “Yes he does. He doesn’t know how anti-African you are,” Arnette says.

     We go downstairs to the living room where Thomas is still watching cartoons as he munches on some Chex Mix. Arnette grabs two apples from the table and hands me one. We walk to the kitchen to wash it and go to the flower shop. Marie is in the shop rearranging flower pots.

     “We are here to fill out an application for a summer job,” Arnette says.

    “Oh really?” Marie says enquiringly. “Are you finally ready to fill out the application now?” she asks me.

     “Yes Marie, sorry for keeping you waiting,” I say apologetically.

     “Are you sure you will be alright working in our store?” she asks.

     “Arnette has briefed me about the job description. I am fine with it. I am actually looking forward to learning about plants and flowers,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, while hoping and praying that I don’t end up in the garden but behind the phones and the cash register.

     “Alright then, Arnette will give you an application to fill out for record keeping purposes. Are you able to start next week?” Marie asks.

     “Can’t I start sooner?” I ask with a smile.

     “Ready to get dirty eh?” she asks and I will all my face muscles to keep the smile plastered on my face. “Let’s have you start next week. The two of you need this week to unwind.

     Arnette takes me to a small office at the back where she hands me a form to fill. It is a pretty simple form. I sign the portion that asks whether I have permission from my parents to take the job.  There is a portion that requires a parent’s signature.

     “I guess I have to take this home for my mom or dad to sign?” I ask.

     “Oh yeah, you can drop it off tomorrow or Monday. This is simply a formality,” she says.

     I return to the shop to inform Marie that I will be taking the form home for my parents’ signature and she says that is fine. Arnette and I go back to the house and I put the form on the living room shelf where it will be safe. We pour ourselves some chocolate milk that we have with a PB&J, after which we leave for the park. There are other kids hanging out at the park. A group of teens are playing basketball but there is no Brandon. Arnette and I sit on one of the picnic tables under the shade and watch an old couple play tennis.  We later try the swing set and the monkey bars. It is fun reliving our elementary days.

     Around 4pm we head back for Arnette’s house. She runs inside to bring my form. I give her a tight hug, wave goodbye to Marie and continue to my house. This time I listen to Justin Bieber to drown out the noise. When I enter our house I see my mother on the couch staring at her laptop with tears running down her face.

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Chapter Two

    “What is going on? Is Daddy alright? Jeremy!” I call out to my brother. My father appears from the bathroom downstairs.

    “You are home Freda. That’s good because I was about to call you,” my dad says. My mom is still staring at the screen and is not saying a word.

    “What is going on?” I repeat.

    “Have a seat. We need to talk,” he says.

    “Where is Jeremy?” I ask heading toward the stairs. Jeremy is my older brother. He just graduated from Glendale high school and will be attending the University of Florida on a football scholarship.

    “Jeremy is not home. He just left for Vernon’s. Go ahead and take a seat,” he says. I stare at my parents as I cautiously sit at the edge of my dad’s La-Z-Boy recliner.

    “Your mother just received a call from you Auntie Lydia in Ghana,” he starts saying. Why on earth is everyone mentioning Ghana today? Your grandmother is very ill and has been admitted at the hospital. Why should I care if a grandmother I have never met is sick at the hospital? Isn’t it normal for people in Africa to be sick all the time? Why is my mother crying?

    “We are going home,” my mother says flatly.

    “What? What do you mean home?” I ask.

    “We are going to Ghana,” my father says.

    “Oh ok. I am sure Jeremy and I will be fine by ourselves. I am sure I can even stay with Arnette. I will be working with her mother this summer so that would actually work out. That reminds me, one of you has to sign this form stating that I can work with Marie,” I say.

    “We are all going home. Well, you are coming with the two of us,” my father says.

    “What? Why do we all have to go? I don’t want to go to Africa! Ugh,” I say and my mother glares at me from the computer.

    “Why am I going and Jeremy is not?” I say hoping that there is a way out for me. How can my parents just decide on the spur of the moment that we have to go to that hell?

    “Jeremy wanted to go but he cannot. He signed up for the college preparatory summer program at the University of Florida and he has been accepted. The program starts next week. I was supposed to drive him there and settle him in. He has gone over to Vernon’s to see if he can ride with them,” my father says. Jeremy wanted to go to Africa? Is he nuts?

    “Daddy there is no earthly reason why we need to go to Africa,” I say and my mother gets up from the couch and goes to the bathroom.

    “Your mother might lose her mom. She has not seen her in fifteen years. The last time she went to Ghana, she was pregnant with you. She has not had the opportunity to go back home. I have also not been home in almost twelve years. It is time to go back home,” my father says.

    “Stop calling that place home. America is home,” I say.

    “Not for your mom and me, it isn’t,” my dad insists.

    “Why can’t mom go by herself?” I ask.

    “Your mom is in no condition to travel alone. She needs support,” my dad says.

    “Then you go with her,” I say.

    “This is an opportunity for you to get to know your cousins,” he says.

    “I do not care about my cousins. I do not care about Africa, I do not care about Ghana. I  want to stay right here!” I scream just as my mother comes out of the bathroom.

    “It is not about what you want. We are leaving. Because of the sacrifices your father and I have had to make for you and your brother, we have not been able to go home as often as we would have wanted. My poor mother sold everything she had to help me come to this country, and this is how I repay her? By staying away for fifteen years? I will not forgive myself if she passes away without me seeing her,” she says and starts crying hysterically. My father goes to hold her. I feel bad that my mother is crying but I really do not want to go to Africa!

    “Go upstairs and start packing. We leave on Friday. This week will be busy. We have to apply for visas and we have several shots to take. Anyway go call the Flints and tell them you will be away for the next month…” he says.

    “A whole month!” I cut in. “Don’t you have to work?”

    “Well that is something your mother and I have to worry about. That is not your responsibility. Go and make that call. Marie would have to make plans to employ someone else,” he says.

    I go up the stairs like a zombie, dumbstruck. What just happened? One minute I have a summer job I am not too enthusiastic about, the next minute I am going to Africa? Isn’t it bad enough that my parents are from that continent, now they have to drag me there with them? Isn’t there some type of a law against this? Maybe I should call child services?

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Chapter Three

     As we wait for our flight to Ghana, my parents chat with other Ghanaians who would also be boarding our flight. Often when we take domestic flights, travelers are sitting alone quietly reading, listening to music or watching TV. This boarding gate has the largest concentration of black people I have seen at a boarding gate. Travelers are sitting in groups and are chatting in different languages. I feel like the odd one out and move to a silent corner to listen to my audio book.
     I am very mad at my parents. When my screaming and protesting fell on deaf ears, I stopped talking to them. I had almost called Child Services to lodge a complaint but Arnette had advised me against that. I didn’t realize that children were taken away from their parents and taken to live in foster homes. If I couldn’t stay with Arnette for the summer, there was no reason to call Child Services. I tried to get Jeremy on my side but the idiot was upset that he could not go to Ghana and had to go to Florida. I wish we could have traded places.
     Arnette was upset that I was going away again but when I talked about Child Services, she tried to help me see why going to Ghana may not be such a bad idea after all. Marie tried to act disappointed that I wasn’t taking the job but the speed with which she hurried to call Maxine to offer her the position, made it clear that my departure was no great loss. I can’t blame her. She knows I would not be a good fit for her shop.
      Arnette’s dad, Matt was excited. He tried to educate me about Africa and about Ghana. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he had previously visited the continent.
     “Don’t drink any of their tap water. Make sure you only drink sealed bottled water and do not eat any food from roadside vendors. Remember to take bug spray to protect you for the deadly African mosquito,” he had said as I stared at him in horror.
     My mom drove me to the travel clinic where we both got shots for diseases I have never heard before. Yellow fever, typhoid and tetanus. I also had to take a pill yesterday for malaria. I had hoped to spend the week sulking at Arnette’s but that opportunity was taken away from me. I had to follow my mother daily to the mall where she bought presents for relatives I did not know I had. The only redeeming part of the experience was that I got to buy new clothes too. 
     I packed one of my suitcases with my favorite snacks and meals from the pantry: potato chips, pretzels, Chex Mix, pepperoni, Ramen noodles, canned meat, you name it. My mother burst out laughing when she saw my suitcase.
     “Why on earth would you need those? Do you think the people in Africa are starving?” she had asked in a bout of laughter, which is one of the few times I had heard her laugh that week. Has my mother not been paying attention to the news? Of course the people in Africa are starving! What a dumb question.
     My mother emptied my suitcase and left some snacks for me to carry in my hand luggage. She returned everything else to the pantry. Late that night, I managed to sneak some Ramen noodles and canned meat back into my suitcase. I was careful to hide them beneath my clothes.
      My mom’s phone which is in my handbag begins to ring. She had given it to me to hold for her while she spoke to the ticketing agent behind the counter. I dig out the phone and notice that it is an international number. I hurry to her seat to give her the phone. She listens to the caller and after a minute shouts, “Praise the Lord!” She continues to chat in a language I don’t understand and hangs up. “That was Lydia. She says Mummy is doing even better today. She was able to walk around the ward and ate very well.” “Lydia says they will be discharged tomorrow.”
     “That is great news,” my dad responds.
     “Does that mean we don’t have to go?” I ask them.
    “Of course we are going,” she says just as the attendant announces that boarding for flight DL 3257 has started.
     “That’s us!” my dad says as passengers start forming a line. An hour later, I am looking through the window as our plane takes off from Dulles International Airport. My spirit drops even lower as the plane taxies and soars into the night skies.
 

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Chapter Four

      We arrive at the Kotoka International Airport in Accra, Ghana at 8am local time, which is 4am back home. My parents look at each other with a smile and give each other a kiss on the lips. Eeew. We join the line of passengers getting out of the plane. When we get to the exit, we are met with hot humid air. I am also surprised to see stairs leading to the tarmac. I was expecting to see a jet way connecting our plane to the terminal. I move my backpack behind me and carefully descend the long stairs. On the tarmac, we wait for a bus to transport us to the terminal.  
      At the terminal, I observe three lines. One for Ghanaian nationals, one for ECOWAS nationals, and one for foreigners. I have never considered myself a foreigner… just as an American. I am glad though that I do not have to go to the line for Ghanaian nationals. My parents have dual citizenship and used their Ghanaian passport for the trip, so they went to the line for Ghanaian nationals. I wonder what ECOWAS means? I am overwhelmed by the cacophony of voices and the strange accents and languages.
     After a bit of waiting, it is our turn at the immigration officer’s station. The officer, dressed in a light green shirt and dark green pants, collects our passports, scans them and stamps them. Next we go to the baggage claim. A man dressed in the same uniform as the one who stamped our passports asks if we need any help and my mother acquiesces. He grabs a cart and together we wait for our luggage to arrive. After about 15 minutes all six of our suitcases are stacked on the cart and the man leads us to a room where other airport officials are going through luggage. The man leads us to a customs official who is not busy and tells him that we are with him. The inspector writes CEPS on the bags and nods at our guide.
       “Wow that was fast!” my mother exclaims as we follow the man toward the airport exit.
      “We are lucky this gentleman offered to help. We would have been frustrated,” my dad says. 
       “I was expecting them to search every bag,” my mother says.
       “The man deserves a big tip,” my dad says.
We exit the airport and there is a crowd of people waiting for their parties. I am hot, sweaty and sticky.
    “I think I see Alphonse,” my dad says pointing to someone in the crowd. The person recognizes my dad and starts waving. We walk toward the man who hugs my parents. He is a tall dark man with a bald spot on his round head. His mustache makes him look like my dad, except that my dad is not balding.
      “Welcome home,” the Alphonse guy says.
      “It is so good to see you,” my mother says.
      “Is this Freda?” The man asks and my mom pushes me toward the stranger.
      “Say hi to your uncle. He is your dad’s older brother,” my mom says.
     “Welcome home my daughter,” the man says as he pulls me into a tight hug. My arms hang limply by my side.
      “I came with all three cars since the three of you have so much luggage,” Alphonse says.        “I will drive one of them and the chauffeurs will drive the other two.”
      “Thank you Alphonse,” my mother says.
      “We are honored to have the lawyer himself drive us home,” my dad says with a smile.
      “I am privileged to have a medical doctor, an architect and their smart daughter ride in my car,” Alphonse jokes and directs us to the area where the cars are parked. My mother gives the custom official thirty dollars and thanks him for his help.
      Our luggage is distributed between the three cars but the three of us ride with Alphonse who drives a Mazda SUV. I put on my iPod to drown out the voices of the adults. I gaze out of the window as we drive out of the airport and review my first impressions of the country. The airport was much smaller than I am accustomed to. The cars in the parking lot looked quite dusty but there were such a wide variety of them. Just like at the boarding gate in Dulles, everyone I have seen so far, is black. The Caucasians I saw at the airport could be counted on one hand.
     I look out of the window at the buildings. There are some really nice looking tall buildings and some not so great looking ones. I must say that I was not expecting to see nice looking buildings. This country does not look too bad. I am surprised at the number of street vendors, many of whom are walking in the middle of the road as cars drive by. The variety of products being peddled is mind boggling—bottles of water, soda, ice cream, apples, grapes, chips, towels, handkerchiefs, electric cords, teddy bears, you name it! When the light turns red, they walk to car windows sticking their products into the faces of motorists. Gosh these sellers are aggressive! Thankfully, our windows are rolled up and the air-condition is blasting cool air. The vendors wave their products by the window looking hopefully at us. I stare at them in fascination and horror as we drive away. Don’t they have a Walmart in this country?

      Alphonse lives in North Legon. Before we arrive at his house, we drive over some bumpy dusty roads that remind me of the Africa I see on TV. We soon get to an area with tarred roads adorning some gorgeous luxurious buildings. How come we don’t see these images of Africa on the TV? The first thing I notice about the houses is they are all walled and gated. Some of the walls have twisted barbed wire on them. After 45 minutes of driving, we pull into a driveway and Alphonse honks. I almost jump out of my seat as I have not heard the sound of a car horn in a very long time. The gate is opened by an old looking man wearing a long robe. He bows as Alphonse enters the house. The other two chauffeurs enter the house soon after.
      A short slightly pudgy woman with glistening long curly permed hair comes out of the room to welcome us. She is shrieking as she hugs my mother for a full minute. She hugs my father too and returns to hug my mother. Finally she gets to me, hugs me, introduces herself as Selena, Alphonse’s wife and takes my backpack as she ushers us all inside after instructing the chauffeurs to bring in our luggage. I am amazed when we enter the house. There is a living room to the right and a dining room straight ahead. The chairs are plush and comfy looking. There is a 52 inch flat screen TV mounted on a wall and under that is a home theater system. In the corner of the living room is a big grand piano. The floor is marble and there is a beautiful rug under a glass center table.
      “Wow, are we in Africa for real?” I burst out involuntarily and all the adults laugh.
      “Would you like to eat first or do you want to take a shower?” Selena asks.
      “We would like to take a quick shower, have an early lunch and go over to my mother’s if that is alright with you,” my mother says.
      “That should be fine,” Selena says. “I will show you to your rooms and lunch will be ready in thirty minutes.”
      “Sounds like a plan,” my dad says. My room is painted in light green and has a full size bed. There is a chest of drawers and a small walk-in closet. There is a bedside table with a lamp on one side of the bed. The other side of the bed is against the wall. There are pretty flowered curtains on the windows. I open a door that leads to the bathroom. There is a shower, a toilet and a sink. There is an air conditioner in the room that I can regulate with a remote control. I turn on the AC just as I hear a knock. I open the door for the chauffeur who brings in my suitcases. 
      In twenty minutes, I am showered, dressed and in the dining hall. Selena is giving instructions to the maids as the table is set. Just then the front door opens and in walks two identical twins, who could be my age or slightly older, dressed fabulously. They are both a dark chocolate color and are about 5 foot three inches tall. Each head is covered with medium-sized braids that are held in a ponytail with a scrunchie. They are wearing big purple dangling earrings that match their necklace and bangles. The twins are in tight jeans shorts that reach to the knee with a jean jacket that is unbuttoned and reveals a purple tank top. The jean shorts and jacket are adorned with sparkling silver beads. They have gold anklets and are wearing blue jean sandals with wedges. One of them is wearing glasses.
      “This must be Freda,” one of the twins says.
      “We couldn’t wait to get home and meet you,” the other says. I can’t seem to place their accent. It is in between Ghanaian and American. I wonder why they sound that way.
      “We had to go for a group discussion at Jemima’s house,” one says and starts telling me about the exams that they have next week.
      “Hey girls, you are home!” Selena says as she enters the dining hall from the kitchen.
      “Yes Mummy, we are getting acquainted with Freda,” one says. I observe that when they talk to their mother, the accent is more Ghanaian than when they talk to me.
      “Were you at Miley Cyrus’ Orlando concert?” one asks me and I shake my head. I am not exactly a Miley Cyrus fan. These twins follow her concert schedules?
      “She was in Brazil, Peru, Australia, Germany, and the Philippines,” one twin says. 
      “What about Justin Bieber? Did you go to any of his concerts?” the other asks and I shake my head.
      “The Jonas Brothers?”
      “Nope,” I respond.
      “Wow you are in America and you do not go to any of these concerts? You must live a very boring life,” one says. I decide that I do not like these girls. Sure, I may not hop from concert to another but I don’t see my life as dull as they are painting it to be. My parents come out of their bedroom and Selena invites us to the table.
      “Now that you are in Ghana, we will show you how to have fun,” one says as we walk to the table.
      “These must be your girls,” my mother says as she notices them. “They are a year older than Freda correct?”
      “Yes, they just turned seventeen. Girls, introduce yourselves to Auntie. The twins walk to my mother and each offer her a hand in turn.
      “I am Panyin,” one says.
      “I am Kakra,” the other says. I hope I will be able to tell the difference between them.
Lunch is a feast. There are so many dishes to choose from. There is grilled chicken, grilled pork, fish balls, deviled eggs, salad, rice, jollof rice, you name it. The meal is absolutely delicious. Everyone on the table is engrossed with the meal except for the twins who appear to talk nonstop. They are the kinds that like to grab attention, the kind that would keep someone like me in the shadows. Today I am perfectly content to enjoy my Ghanaian food in peace. To think that I was concerned I would be starving here! The food items I brought in spite of my mom’s protests may not be needed after all.
      After lunch, their chauffeur drives my parents and I to my maternal grandmother’s. There is a lot of traffic on the way and I have to close my eyes at certain junctions, particularly when the traffic lights are not working, because I am certain we will be involved in an accident. 
      When we arrive, we find her sitting on the porch. Grandma’s house is fenced in with short bushes and it is fairly easy for me to see the activity on the porch. Before the chauffeur properly parks, my mother has opened the car door. She pushes the gate open and runs to hug her mother. My grandmother carefully inspects her daughter, motioning for her to turn round. It is weird seeing my mother act as the child and not the parent. My grandmother looks like an older version of my mother. They both have a light brown complexion. My grandmother is wearing a Ghanaian attire knows as slit and kaba. She has a headscarf but I can see some grey hairs peaking under the scarf. Grandma is reclining in some sort of lazy chair. She does not move from her position. I guess she is still not feeling very well. 
My dad bends down to hug my grandmother who then asks who I am.
      “That’s your granddaughter,” my mother says.
      “This is Freda?” she asks and I nod.
      “But you are a grown woman. I was expecting a little girl,” my grandmother says and opens her arms. I walk close to her, bend down and hug her. She feels bony and wrinkly, and smells like lavender. She invites us to come sit with her on the porch. She calls out to someone who brings us bottled water to drink, for which I am grateful as the heat makes me dehydrated. My grandmother’s house is not as flashy as Alphonse’s but it is decent. We stay with my grandmother for about two hours. I am grateful for my iPod because I cannot understand what the adults are talking about and feel bored. Before we leave, my mother shows my grandmother the present that we have brought for her. She thanks us and asks that we visit soon. My mother promises to do so and we leave.
      I ask my father whether we would be going to his parents next and he tells me that his parents live in a village that is about two hours from Accra, the capital. He would go visit his parents during the week. We return to North Legon around 6 pm to find the maid setting up for dinner. My parents settle in the living room to chat with Alphonse and Selena. The twins physically drag me to their room for some girl bonding time. I roll my eyes and cross my fingers that Selena will call us for dinner soon.
 

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Chapter Five

      On Sunday I am sitting on the porch in the morning, composing an email to Arnette on my mother’s iPad. The house has broadband wireless and so I am able to access the internet anywhere in the house. I am describing my encounter with the twins when a boy in a white shirt and khaki shorts walks from the back of the house. He salutes me, mumbles something and walks toward the Mazda. I look behind me to see if he was saluting someone else but there is no one. I stare at him surreptitiously as he dusts down and washes the Mazda. I don’t know where he came from, whether he is one of the servants in the house or whether he is a brother to the twins. I doubt he is the twins’ brother though. This boy has an air of humility around him. I wonder why he saluted me? While he is washing the car, Panyin comes out from the living room and throws two pairs of shoes on the pavement. While the twins are identical, Panyin wears glasses, which is how I am able to identify her.
      “When you are done with the car, polish these shoes,” she says. I guess he is one of the servants.
      “Hey, you are up early,” she says in her version of an American accent.
      “Couldn’t sleep,” I say.
      “Are you coming to church with us?” she asks.
      “No I am not,” I respond.
      “Why? You should come. It will be fun,” she says.
      “Maybe next week, I am still jet lagged,” I say.
      “I understand. I felt the same way when we came from London last year.” She proceeded to tell me for the third time about her trip to Europe. Thankfully her twin calls her from indoors and she excuses herself, promising to return to finish the story I have already heard. The boy finishes cleaning the car and picks up the shoes from the pavement. Ten minutes later, he returns with polished shoes. He knocks the door and disappears inside only to return with two more sets of shoes. I figure that this new set belongs to Selena and Alphonse. After another ten minutes he reappears with the polished shoes and knocks on the front door.
      I wonder what his name is and his role in the house. He is a tall muscular boy. He reminds me of Brandon. The difference between the two is that Brandon is Caucasian. Brandon always has a smile on his face. This boy does not smile and is often looking at the ground. I am itching to get to know him… which is weird especially since he does not appear to notice I am sitting on the balcony. Maybe it is his quietness that is drawing me to him. The twins talk so nonstop that after only one day in their house, I dread seeing them. Selena and Alphonse are gregarious too but it is easy for me to escape to my room when I do not want to engage in the conversation. Panyin and Kakra would simply follow me to my room.
After thirty minutes, Alphonse, his wife, and the kids come out of the house fashionably dressed as usual. Selena tells me to call the maid when I am hungry and the family leaves for church. Once the boy closes the gate, he disappears to the back of the house and I don’t see him for the rest of the day. I spend the most part of the day sleeping anyway.
At dinnertime on Tuesday, my dad asks Alphonse about the boy.
      “I have been seeing a teenage boy around the house. Who is he?”
      “Oh that is Ernest,” Alphonse says.
      “Is he a relation?” my dad inquires.
      “No he is not. His mother used to work for me while she was alive. She was a hardworking secretary who was a single mother. I have no clue where the boy’s father is but Maggie raised him all by herself. The boy is very brilliant. He is a gifted artist who is interested in mechanical engineering at the university. When the mother passed, I invited him to stay with us. He lives in the boys’ quarters and runs errands around the house. In exchange for his services, I pay his tuition.”
      I digest the information Alphonse has shared as I finish the last spoonful of spaghetti on my plate so I can try the jollof rice next. “Selena, would you please pass me the rice bowl?” I ask and my parents gasp.
      “She is Auntie Selena to you missy,” my mother says.
      “Oh that is alright. I know she did not mean to be disrespectful,” Selena says and passes me the rice. 
      “I know, but if we don’t correct her, she might offend someone,” my mom says.
      “I am sorry. It keeps slipping my mind,” I say, making a mental note to call Selena Auntie and Alphonse, Uncle. My mother never complains in America when I call adults by their first name. In Ghana it appears to be a no-no.
      “That’s alright,” Selena says. I dish some jollof rice into my plate as I think about Ernest. Must be tough for him losing his mom and never knowing his dad. I can’t imagine having to be responsible for myself at this age. I wonder how old Ernest is? Where is the boys’ quarters? I wonder if that location is far from us? As if my mother was reading my mind, she asks.
      “How many rooms do you have in the boys’ quarters?”
      “Three rooms; the maids share one room, Ernest has another room and the watchmen also have a room there should they need it. There are two bathrooms and a kitchenette there as well,” Alphonse says.
      “Wow that is nice,” my dad says.
      “It is. Sometimes, instead of relaxing on the front porch I walk to the back and hang out on their balcony. It is really breezy back there. Selena keeps saying that the servants got a better deal than we did,” Alphonse says.
      “They do. Sometimes I want to make this the boys’ quarters and make their section the main house!” Serena says. “When the air conditioner is not on, it gets really hot in here but it does not get as hot in their section because all the trees are back there,” she says.
Oh the boys’ quarters are part of the house! No wonder Ernest keeps disappearing to the back. After dinner, the adults sit behind the TV to watch a movie. I opt to go to my room and play games on my mom’s iPad. I hear the twins come in from their outing just as I enter my bedroom. I roll my eyes and brace myself for their onslaught. I know they will come straight to my room to tell me how their day went. Five minutes later, they appear.
      Thursday, my parents leave with Alphonse to go look at some property. I turn down the offer to ride along because I heard at the breakfast table that Ernest was staying home that day because he was not feeling very well. School is not yet out for high school students. They have a week more of school before the summer holidays.  The twins have already left for school. I am surprised to find the sick boy cleaning the car and polishing shoes before the adults leave the house. I can’t wait for my parents to leave so I may learn more about the mystery boy.
      I know that as soon as he shuts the gate he is going to disappear to the back. I have to find a way of stalling him.
      “Hello,” I shout as he heads for his quarters. He stops and looks at me inquiringly.
      “May I help you?” he asks. I observe that this is the longest sentence he has spoken to me since I arrived.
      “I understand you are not well?” I ask. He looks at me with one eyebrow raised quizzically. Gosh that is so hot the way he does that to one eye.
      “What did you need me to do for you?” he asks.
      “I was wondering whether you have taken any medication? My father is a doctor and he might have something for you to take,” I say.
      “No I haven’t taken anything. It is nothing unusual. I just have a really bad headache,” he says.
      “I have some Tylenol or Ibuprofen that you can take. Hang on a second,” I say and run to the room before he can object to my offer. I debate for a few seconds and opt for Brufen since the headache is intense. What next? After I give him the medication he will simply leave. I rack my brains for how to stall him. He is supposed to be brilliant. How about I ask him for help in Algebra? I grab my mother’s iPad and look for an app for Algebra. I am aware that the poor guy has a headache but I do not want our conversation to end so soon. 
I hurry back to the balcony to see him leaning on the banister.
      “Are you alright?” I ask with genuine concern.
      “I am slightly dizzy,” he says.
      “Did you eat anything yet?” I ask.
      “Not yet,” he says.
      “Well you can’t take the medicine on an empty stomach,” I tell him. 
      “I have some porridge in my room,” he says.
      “Why don’t you go get it then?” I ask and he stares at me with one eyebrow raised again.
      “Well I want to be sure you eat before you take the medicine. I am the one offering it to you and I have to make sure you take it the correct way,” I say as I mentally pat myself on the back for the quick thinking. He disappears to the back and returns a few minutes later with some greyish liquid substance in a plastic bag and some doughnuts rolled in paper. He sits on the top stairs and offers me some to be polite and I politely refuse his offer. He makes a hole in the plastic bag and sucks the liquid while biting into the doughnuts intermittently. After five minutes, breakfast is done. He stretches his hand for the medication.
      “I will get you some water,” I say and run inside for a bottle of water which I hand to him.     

      “How old are you?” I ask and there goes the eyebrow again. “I need to know how many pills you have to take,” I say.
      “18,” he says.
      “Okay you may take two of them then,” I hand him the pills which he swallows. He is about to get up from the steps when I ask him for his help with Algebra. He actually smiles and his eyes twinkle! Wow, if someone had asked me for help in Algebra, I would have broken out in a sweat. I sit by him and hand him the iPad with sample quizzes on simplifying radicals. He inspects the iPad for a brief while and then looks at the problems.
      “Square roots,” he says. “We need a paper and a pen.”
      “We can use the iPad,” I say as I switch to a painting app. I scribble on the white screen and erase it for him to see how it works. Ernest is so amazed by the gadget that had it been mine, I would have given it to him. I show him how to change the screen colors, how to paint and how to change the pencil size. Soon he draws a parrot and paints it.
      “That is so beautiful. You are so talented!” I say and he smiles.
      “This screen is good for drawing but it is too small for algebraic equations. I will bring a paper and a pen,” he says and disappears to the back. I admire the parrot and save it in my archives. I will show it to Arnette when I return home. Ernest returns with the paper and pen and proceeds to work out an equation. He is extremely fast and does most of the calculations in his head.
      “Wow, you are smart. You worked that equation too quickly. I did not understand the process,” I complain.
      He tries another problem, this time he does the calculations slowly while he comments. I am better able to understand the process this time.
      “What year are you in?” I ask.
      “I am in form three. I have a year to finish high school,” he says.
      “Wow I envy you,” I tell him.
      “What year are you in?” He asks.
      “I am going to be a sophomore,” I tell him.
      “What’s that?” He asks.
      “Oh, em, let’s see. I have three more years to be done with high school,” I say.
      “I get it now. How old are you?” he asks. 
      “I will be 16 in a couple of weeks,” I tell him.
      “What date?” He asks.
      “7th July,” I respond. There is silence for several minutes as he explores the iPad and I stare at him. I feel sad that he doesn’t get to live with his parents.
      “Do you miss your mom?” I ask softly. He looks at me surprised. “Mr. Alphonse mentioned that she passed away and that is why you are living here. I am sorry for your loss.”
      “Thanks,” he says and pauses for awhile. “Yes I miss her… very much. It is not fair that she had to die. I had big plans for her. I was going to grow up to be rich so I could spoil her,” he says softly, lost in his thoughts. “Life is so unfair.” A single tear runs down his left cheek. I involuntarily reach out and squeeze his left arm.
      “I am so sorry,” I say and he nods as he wipes the lone tear from his face. 
      “Where did you use to live before you had to come here? Do you have any family there?” I ask.
      “No I don’t have any family there. It wasn’t a nice neighborhood but that is what we could afford. It was just my mother and I. We had each other and that was enough,” he says, as another tear runs down his cheek.
      “I can’t imagine what you are going through. You are only 18 and you have to act so grown up,” I say.
      “I have to do what I have to do. I can’t really depend on anyone else,” he says with a crack in his voice. I just want to throw my arms around him and hug him but I keep my hand on his arm and squeeze. He places a hand on my hand and taps me. Just then we hear a car pull up at the gate. Ernest quickly hands me the iPad and rubs his eyes. He hurries to the gate and peers through the peephole. A second later, he opens the gate and my parents enter the house.
      “You guys are back early,” I say. The traffic in Accra is horrific. You can literally be stuck in traffic for hours. The drivers have no respect for road signs or traffic lights. I have never seen such mayhem on the streets. I can’t wait to get my driver’s license back home but I doubt that I’d ever dare sit behind the steering wheel in this country.
      “The property we went to look at is quite close by,” my mother says.
      “What have you been up to?” my mom asks.
      “Ernest was helping me with some Algebra,” I say. “He is a math wizard.”
      “Great! You should use this opportunity to improve on your math skills before we leave,” my mother says.
      Ordinarily I would have rolled my eyes but I am looking forward to “studying” with Ernest and getting to know him better.

Chapter Six

      On the weekend, my mother and I go to Makola market to buy some fabric. Selena had offered that her maids shop on my mother’s behalf but she refused. She wants to go to Makola herself. The chauffeur drives us to the market. My mother had told me before we left the house that Makola is a farmer’s market. I don’t believe I have seen this many people at a farmer’s market. The chauffer drops us of at Rawlings’ Park.

      My mother wants to buy the fabric from a particular woman. My mother has not been to the Makola market in 15 years but she is confident she will find the store. My mother clutches her purse under her armpit and grabs my hand. I protest but she tells me that I will thank her later. We cross a street, which I can’t call a street because there are venders on the street where I would expect to see vehicles. Some are sitting behind tables, or baskets. Some have laid cloths or mats on the pavement and have arranged their wares on them. There are also those who hang their products on their person and follow people around, encouraging them to purchase something.

      “Wow,” I keep saying. My mom takes me through an alley where there are vendors on both sides and we have to squeeze through throngs of people in our quest for the fabric vendor. The temperature is like 110 degrees Fahrenheit, and I just want to return to the air conditioned car. Every so often someone would tap me and offer me a product. I politely say no thank you and try to explain why I don’t need the product.

      “Don’t bother responding to them Freda. Just keep moving,” my mom says. I am surprised to hear people call me “American girl,” and I ask my mother how they know I am American. I am black like everyone here.

      “I don’t know how they know without having heard your accent but they know somehow,” she says.

      After an hour of weaving through narrow alleys, fighting with cars for a spot on the street, running out of the path of wheelbarrows and trucks, we still cannot find the fabric store. My mother stops to talk to a woman selling towels. They speak in a language I don’t understand. She points my mother in a new direction which we follow. After 15 minutes, my mother stops to talk to someone else. This time, the kind lady asks her daughter to take us to the store we are searching for. I am amazed that there is order to this madness.

      We stay in the fabric store for about thirty minutes selecting different types of fabric. I have never been fabric shopping before and enjoy the experience. The fabrics have different textures. My mother keeps rubbing her fingers at the edge of each fabric we choose, to feel the texture. I am not as concerned about the texture. I choose brightly colored fabrics that will make me stand out a mile away. I will wear my African clothes with pride.

      My mother gets fabric that a seamstress would sew for Arnette and her parents. After hearing the story of our voyage to the store, the fabric seller is kind enough to let one of her assistants take our purchases back to the car. It takes us only 15 minutes to find our chauffeur. We arrive at the Rawlings’ park to find the chauffeur buying a coconut fruit.

      “I am dying of thirst,” my mother says. “Let’s get some coconuts too.”

      “My very first coconut,” I say.

      “We should take a picture of you drinking your coconut,” my mom says as she pulls out her smart phone. The coconut juice is refreshingly delicious. After I drain the juice, the vendor cuts the fruit into two and gives me a shard of the coconut shell to use as a scoop for the meal. We purchase some more coconuts to take home. My mother tells me that not all coconuts are as tasty as the one I had. I am glad that my first coconut experience is superb. I was not too thrilled with the entire visit to Makola though. The experience was too stressful.

      Later in the day, the chauffeur drops the twins and me off at the Accra Mall. The twins’ parents and mine are going to meet us at 6pm for dinner at a restaurant in the mall. I am pleasantly surprised to see an American type mall in Ghana. I whip out my camera and start taking pictures. The twins are happy to pose for me as I capture images. Wait till Arnette sees this. Matt would not believe I took these pictures from Africa. We visit all the stores even though we do not shop from all them. The electronics store reminds me of Best Buy but they also carry some household items and baby stuff, which makes me think of Target or Wal-Mart without the groceries.

      We visit a store called ShopRite. I scream myself hoarse when I see the store because it is the exact replica of the grocery store that my mother loves shopping from. The twins giggle heartily and passersby look at me warily. The twins buy some dresses from a clothing store and they buy me two absolutely gorgeous summer dresses. They have exquisite taste in fashion. They remind me of the “Cool Girls” at school that everybody wants to hang out with but that girls like Arnette, and I would hate because we wouldn’t be allowed into their circle.

      “I cannot believe you bought that for me,” I say. I have found them annoying and pretentious and do not expect them to be nice to me.

      “Now we have to get you shoes to go with them,” Panyin says.

      “No you don’t have to buy me shoes,” I say.

      “Of course we do,” Kakra joins in. “And I know the best place for the right bag too,” she adds.

      “Why are you girls being so nice to me?” I ask, almost teary eyed.

      “You are our cousin,” Panyin says.

      “But, but…” I stammer as they drag me to the shoe aisle and force me to try several on. Two hours later, we walk out with our purchases. I have an African boubou in addition to my summer dresses, two pairs of shoes and a Coach bag, all paid for by my African cousins. If I did not have pictures to show Arnette, she would swear I was making these stories up!

      We go to the restaurant where we find the adults already waiting for us. Before I reach the table, I start telling my mother about our shopping spree.

     “They have so many cool stores… I kept forgetting that I was not in the States,” I say.

      “You must have had some really low expectations of us,” Selena says.

      “She did, but can you blame her? The Western media does not portray the positive sides of our continent,” my mother says.The adults get into a discussion about how the Ghanaian media equally presents lifestyles from Hollywood as the norm in the States. The waitress comes for our order and I request pineapple juice and a local dish made with spinach which I have with rice and fried plantain. As we all enjoy our meal, I remember that the cans of food that I hid in my luggage are still there untouched!

​

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Chapter Seven

      I have been in Ghana for two and a half weeks already and I have been enjoying myself. I have been to visit family members I did not know we had. Every family has been really nice to us. We are always welcomed with pastries, soft drinks and food. My cousins often have lots of questions about America and I am happy to answer their questions. In America, I did not want to be asked about Africa but in Ghana, I do not hesitate to tell them about my life in the United States. After this experience however, I will be happy to share my experiences of the real Africa to anyone who cares to listen. Yesterday I made a list of likes and dislikes:

Likes:
The food
The hospitality
The mall
The beaches
Restaurants
Dislikes:
Crazy driving
Un-tarred bumpy roads
Mosquitoes
Makola
Noise

      I have tried so many varieties of Ghanaian food and love them all. I cannot eat the food as spicy as they do but I have been very adventurous. I stay away from the food that is sold by the roadside Matt will be so proud! Even though I took a typhoid shot before we left, my father has asked me not to buy any food from the roadside. Ernest buys food from the roadside all the time but he does not fall sick.

      I am looking forward to a ride in the “trotro”. A trotro is like a bus with all the seats facing forward. There is a show on Tuesdays called “Trotro” which is pretty funny even though I don’t understand everything the actors say. It is the one time during the week that everybody in the house sits behind the TV to watch the show. This piqued my interest in this mode of transportation and I want to have a ride in it before I leave Ghana. My mother tells me that she used to ride the trotro to school when she was young. Now she has no intention of riding it though. I ask my twin cousins whether they would ride the trotro with me,
      “Freda, we will do anything for you… except ride in the trotro. I don’t know why you are so eager to ride in it,” Kakra says.
      “It’s all part of the experience,” I say.
      “Trotro is for poor people,” Panyin says.
      “Oh, maybe Ernest will ride it with you,” Kakra says. I am slightly annoyed that they feel they are too good for the trotro but offer that Ernest ride with me. The twins always talk condescendingly to the boy. On the other hand, I am excited that I will get the opportunity to spend some time with Ernest, away from my parents, the twins and their parents. I ask my mother whether I may go for a ride on the trotro with Ernest.
      “You really want to ride a trotro that much?” my dad asks.
      “Yes I do,” I respond. My dad calls Ernest and asks him if he would take me on a trotro ride. He hands Ernest some money and tells him to be sure to choose a safe trotro. My cousins advise me to leave my iPod at home and to carry nothing as pickpockets sometimes hide in trotro lines. Ernest takes the money and disappears to his quarters. He appears twenty minutes later dressed up in jeans and a T-shirt and is wearing sandals. I am still wearing the short jean shorts and tank top I have been wearing all day. I excuse myself for a minute and wipe my underarms with a soapy wet cloth. I re-apply some deodorant and check my shirt to be sure there are no stains from the okro stew we had from lunch. I hurry outside, say goodbye to my parents, the twins, Alphonse and Selena. I feel as if I am going to the prom!