The One Who Holds Me (Sovereign Love #4)

32. Alex

32

ALEX

THEN

I f I could use one word to describe my first night in Adabakra, Accra, Ghana, it would be interesting . The softness of the mattress was a huge stress reliever, and it did wonders to help my jetlagged brain. The air conditioning stayed on for most of the night, but during the early hours of the morning, the room got so warm I had to push the comforter away. That’s when I realized the A/C had gone off and when I couldn’t turn it back on, I counted my losses and went back to bed.

I could still fall asleep with no problems, but at exactly eight AM, the voice of a singing man snatched the remaining sleep away from my eyes. I thought I was dreaming at first, but when I opened my eyes, there was actually a man outside singing a popular afrobeat song at the top of his lungs.

By the time I drag myself out of bed, throw on a t-shirt, and walk out of my room, the singing man has walked further down the road and turned the corner. On the balcony, there’s a drying rack, a small round glass table, and three brown tub chairs. The cool breeze brushes against my skin as I lean against the iron bar, watching the world go by.

It was dark when we came in last night, so I didn’t get the chance to study the environment. But being up here puts me in the perfect position to do just that. The surrounding buildings in the area are similar blocks of apartments and also bungalows with corrugated iron roofs.

Straight ahead of me is a compound surrounded by brick walls, and there are teenage boys playing football inside. I would’ve joined them if I wasn’t tired and hungry, so I whip out my phone and take a video of the environment instead.

Unlike the normal hustle and bustle of New York mornings, the peaceful atmosphere here comprises of random Twi conversations from the passersby walking below and the honking of passing motorcycles.

There’s so much to observe, but the sight that steals my attention is the crowd of people waiting to buy Hausa Koko and Koose from the street seller below. It’s a spicy millet porridge served with bean cakes and it’s a popular Ghanaian breakfast. My Dad always talks about how much he loves it and watching the woman work hard to make it sends my stomach rumbling in response.

The sound of the doorbell takes me back into the house and to the front door. I look through the peephole to find a smiling Stephen carrying two plastic bags. When I open the door, a spicy aroma teases my nostrils as he lets himself in.

“ Mema wo akye,” he greets me as we walk back to the living room.

“Morning.” I yawn and cover my mouth.

“ Mtchew , Alex, if you’re serious about being fluent in Twi, then you have to stop responding in English.” He reminds me about the goal I shared with him last night—to become confident in speaking Twi.

“Okay, okay. Yaa nua ,” I respond.

“That’s very good.” He pats my shoulder. “With a lot more practice, your pronunciation will improve.”

“Thank you.” I smile and resist the urge to pat myself on the back.

“I brought you some breakfast from downstairs. You can start with this, but if you don’t like street food, we can go grocery shopping to get some food.” He opens the plastic bag to reveal the same Hausa Koko and Koose I’ve been craving from my balcony.

“No, I’ll have this.” I take the bag from him as saliva wets my mouth.

After taking photos and videos of the food, I post them in my family’s group chat to show my parents. I know they asked me to be cautious about street food, but they are four hours behind, so the food will be long gone by the time they wake up.

Dad wasn’t lying when he raved about this meal. I’m already a big fan of oatmeal, but the spicy kick coupled with the bean cakes blends perfectly in my mouth, giving it a burst of flavor. I’ll definitely be having this again.

“How was your night?” Stephen asks as he wipes the corner of his mouth and I recount about my adventures with the broken A/C and the singing man.

“I can’t believe the A/C stopped working.” He shakes his head. “Please, don’t worry, I’ll speak to the manager on our way out, so he fixes it by the time we’re back.”

“Thank you.” I take another bite of my bean cake.

“Since we’re going to the children’s home tomorrow, I thought we could do some sightseeing in the local area today when you’re well rested,” Stephen says, and I nod.

I told him I needed to go to the orphanage to get some records about a “family member.” Tomorrow will be perfect for the trip because my jetlagged brain would’ve reset and I wouldn’t be as tired as I am now.

“We need to get you some Ghana cedis. You won’t get very far with your American dollars.” Stephen chuckles as he points to my wallet on the table.

“Okay. So we go to the bank?” I ask, and Stephen shakes his head.

“No, please. You won’t get very much with the exchange rate at the bank. There’s a place, a twenty-minute drive from here in Osu and we will get a better deal.”

“You mean the black market?”

“Yes. It will save you some money. Trust me.” He stands up and clears the table.

“Can we go to Makola Market today as well? I need to buy something for my girlfriend.”

“Of course. I’m at your service, remember? Now get ready and you can tell me all about this girlfriend of yours.” He throws the plastic bags into the trash can and puts the plates in the sink.

Guilt ravages through me as thoughts of Olanna press into my mind again. She still hasn’t responded to my message and I want to call her, but she’s still mad at me. I send her another message before taking a shower and getting dressed. It’s still very warm today, so a t-shirt and pants will be fine.

By ten AM, we’re in Stephen’s car, driving to a different part of Accra called Osu and Stephen points out different restaurants along the way while I make a note of all his recommendations, so I can try the food before I leave. He also mentions popular tourist sites like Cape Coast Castle, Elminah Castle, and Labadi Beach. I write the names down for the future because I won’t be able to go to all these places in the next few days.

When we arrive at our destination, Stephen finds a parking spot and we walk across the road to some men sitting outside a shop. Stephen collects the hundred and fifty-dollar bills from me before speaking to the men in Twi.

A man carrying a large collection of sunglasses walks past me multiple times, trying to convince me to buy one. At first, I shake my head, telling him I don’t need one, but when beads of sweat start running down my forehead, I put on my cap and beckon to the man.

“How much?” I point to the pair of glasses I’m interested in.

“Twenty-five cedis,” he says and points to more expensive ones, but I take out some cedis notes Stephen gave me yesterday and pay the man, who thanks me before walking away.

“Here you go.” Stephen hands me the cedis notes. “How much did you buy those glasses for?”

“Twenty-five cedis. They’re cool, right?” I ask, proud of myself for making my first solo purchase.

Stephen clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “You could’ve gotten it for ten cedis cheaper. Next time, you wait for me, so I can teach you the art of haggling.”

“Yes, sir.”

Our next stop is the ShopRite mall, but I stop outside before pointing to a man selling street food. “I’d like to try that.”

Stephen raises his brows. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I want to try it all.” I’m clearly still riding on a high after my breakfast experience.

We walk up to the man and buy asaana, which is a drink made from fermented corn and caramelized sugar. I also buy FanChoco , a chocolate-flavored ice cream, which activates my sweet tooth.

“ Man , Ghanaian street food is the best.”

“I have to agree with you.” Stephen laughs.

Inside the mall, I stuff my basket with some eggs, bread, tomatoes, rice, spices, and vegetables. We pay for the groceries and travel back to the apartment to drop them off. Then Stephen hires a cab to Makola Market because he mentioned there were no parking spaces close to the market and we will have to do a lot of walking.

To say that the market is buzzing with people is an understatement. But I love everything about it, from the noise to the sea of different colors, and the display of fresh food, fruits, clothes, and different accessories.

“Where’s your phone?” Stephen asks, and I tap the back pocket of my jeans. “I’ll put it in my bag.” He takes it from me and puts it in his cross body bag, which he wears across his chest. “It’s a nice phone and no one will take it under my watch.”

“Thanks, man.”

Further into the market, we walk past a row of shops selling Kente clothes and after searching a few shops, I find the necklace for Olanna—the same one Mom has with the African map and a cross in the middle. I also buy a necklace for myself, which has the andinkra symbol for Sankofa . This symbol teaches that you must go back to your roots in order to move forward. I think that will be the perfect souvenir to remind me about the significance of this trip.

Even though Mom and Dad insisted I don’t get them anything, I pick out some Ankara shirts for them before Stephen takes me to the section of the market where they’re selling food. I love my mom’s food, but this rice and stew with beef and shitto is the tastiest meal I’ve ever had in my life.

We get back to the apartment at around four PM and we’re both too stuffed to do any more activities, so we make a unanimous decision to call it a day. This is only the beginning of the adventure and I need to have an early night, so I have enough energy for tomorrow—the day I meet my birth mom.