I shrug. “We’renotthe same.”
“How? We speak different dialects of the same language, eat the same food, have the same naming traditions, customs, systems.”
I smirk. “All of that doesn’t make up for the one major way we’re different.”
“What’s that?
“While we Ashantis were fighting the colonizers, your people were fucking them.” I wink at him.
His jaw drops and my stomach dips for a second. I don’t know why I say things like that to people I don’t know.
I’m about to apologize when he throws his head back and looks at the ceiling. “Oh my God, it’s true.” He bursts into a good-natured laugh and reveals two rows of straight white teeth. I wonder if he wore braces or if he was made on a day God felt like showing out.
His features aren’t symmetrical enough to call him classically handsome. But his proud, prominent nose, his wide mouth and full lips, the top one with an enviably perfect bow, are the perfect complement to his high cheekbones and exquisite bone structure. I look back at hishands again.
The glint of gold from the signet ring on his right ring finger catches my eye. I can see it’s embossed with the same Adinkra symbol as the one hanging around his neck.
How did I miss those details? I blame the cocktail for dulling my senses and thank the universe that he has a sense of humor despite how badly I put my foot in my mouth.
I clear my throat. “Listen, I know how it feels to have your identity questioned because you don’t fit the mold. I’m sorry.”
He pauses mid-sip, glass still at his lips and slides his eyes to look at me. “You are? Just like that?”
“Yes,” I draw the word out. “Why are you looking at me like I just performed a strange but cool circus trick?”
He huffs a laugh and shrugs. “Because I usually have to speak Twi, prove I know how to eat fufu, and produce my passport or birth certificate before most Ghanaians are satisfied that I’m one of them. And this is the first time anyone has ever said sorry for that shit.”
“Oh God. That’s awful. But you know how hard it is for our elders to say they are sorry. And unfortunately, it trickles down.”
“I’m used to it, but I’m always surprised when I have to remind other Ghanaians that the region was colonized and occupied by three different European countries. Cape Coast is full of people who look like me.”
“Have you spent a lot of time there?”
“I used to go every year. Usually at Christmas.”
“Do your parents live there or here?”
He nods without looking up. “Both. Anyway, enough about me.” He cuts into his food and takes a massive bite.
His deflection piques my curiosity, but I let it go.
For now.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Arsinoé isn’t very Ghanaian either.”
“Touché.” I laugh at his clever turnaround. “My parents went to Egypt for their honeymoon. It’s where I was conceived so they chose a name from there.”
“At least your name has meaning,” he says.
“So does yours,” I push back.
He scoffs. “‘A boy born on Saturday’ is probably theleastmeaningful name my parents could have given me.”
I shake my head. “That’s not true. It’s so special to have a name that connects you with your cultural identity. I wish mine had given me myday name. Or anything that didn’t require explanation and spelling.”
He chuckles. “Look at us. Living proof that the grass is always greener when you’re not standing on it.”
“True. And honestly, I like my name,” I admit.
