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“No need to apologize,” I said. “We were just making sure the lock worked.”
“Sure,” she said, placating my assurance, but also making it clear she believed not one word I was saying. “I’m Farrah. I’ll be keeping your room for you. If you need anything, just ask. For it is my pleasure.”
“Thank you,” Dame said, giving her a dash from his pocket. “In fact, you could be of help to us right now. We’re going out dancing tonight and my ... lady”—I watched as she looked at my hand and saw my wedding band and then back at Dame’s bare hand—“needs a nice dress. Know where we can get one?”
“Certainly, sir,” she said. “I know the perfect place.”
Downtown Kumasi was a little quieter than Accra. There were shops and lots of people, but it had the slow, peaceful tone of any beach town in the States. There were lots of tour buses, and Dame, who visited the city whenever he was in Ghana, explained that mostly Europeans came there to see the slave dungeons and buy kente cloth from the original knitters. Just then, as we rode along through the sandy Kumasi streets, I realized that I might have seen ten or so white people the whole time I’d been in Accra. In two weeks, I’d conducted business, had moving interactions, and even disagreements with only black people. It seemed like a small point, but to many people, even my own people, that would’ve sounded impossible.
After walking through dozens of craft tents in what seemed to be a spontaneous flea market, Dame and I managed to find the shop Farrah told us about. It was owned by her daughter, Akosua, a woman as short and adorable as Farrah. Hung up on wires and along the length of a table were Akosua’s dresses. A mix between the African dresses I’d been wearing and some I’d seen back home, they were sexy and revealing, yet also unique and ethnic. Akosua, Farrah told us, was twenty-two and wanted to go to Paris to study fashion; she’d already been accepted, but couldn’t afford the expensive airfare and a year’s boarding. She was designing her own clothes now to sell them, so she could save enough money to go.
“You have a beautiful body,” Akosua said, touching my hips. “It is a blessing to be shaped like this. That’s what I try to show in my clothes.”
“That’s what I try to tell her,” Dame said, repositioning a ball cap on his head. He’d been wearing it everywhere we went, hoping no one would notice him.
“Thank you,” I said. “Both of you.” I looked over the table and saw a few special patterns I recognized from the shops in Accra. One of the tailors there told me each pattern was once used to represent a different tribe. As I looked the dresses over, trying to imagine which ones were different from the ones I already had and would look nice on my body for the special evening Dame announced, a red dress hanging on the last wire caught my eye. It was a simple red wrap dress with an open chest and African-styled skirt. It was gorgeous and without putting it on, I knew it would fit over my body like a second skin.
“I want that one,” I said to Akosua.
“That dress?” Dame pointed to the sexy dress.
“Yeah.”
“You like that dress?” He looked at me with a grin on his face.
“Yes.”
“That isn’t an African dress. That’s a red dress.”
Akosua and I laughed at Dame.
“I know what color it is,” I said.
“Just so you know.”
“Know what?” I asked.
“That’s a red dress. And it ain’t only red. Against your skin ... with those hips ... that’s a dangerous dress ...”
“A dress like this,” Akosua said, jumping in, “can make a man do bad things.”
“Things he doesn’t want to do,” Dame added.
“Maybe I want you to do bad things,” I said and without blinking, Dame pointed to the dress.
“Take that one down and put it in a bag,” he said to Akosua.
“Certainly,” she answered, retrieving the dress.
“How much is it?” I asked.
“No,” Dame said before Akosua could answer. “How much is a plane ticket to Paris running these days? That and a bedroom in one of those student dorms by the Eiffel Tower?”
Akosua stood there looking at Dame like he’d just told the girl her darkest secret.
“Excuse me, sir?” she asked, her voice suddenly formal.
“How much is all of that?” he asked again.
