Missionary Position by Daisy Prescott

Author:Daisy Prescott [Prescott, Daisy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Women's Fiction, Contemporary Women, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Contemporary Fiction, Humor, Contemporary
Amazon: B00KVLMPFQ
Barnesnoble: B00KVLMPFQ
Goodreads: 22012738
Publisher: Daisy Prescott
Published: 2014-06-08T04:00:00+00:00

KAI MOVED OUT of his hotel into a rented house shortly after our return. Located inside a gated community, the nondescript house could have existed in Florida, or any other suburban sprawl with a warm climate. Houses of variations on a theme lined a newly paved street, alternating between one and two stories, each with a gated, short driveway and yard. By standards at home, some of the homes even qualified as McMansions. TNG owned the house and provided it for employees during their tenure in Ghana. It would be home for Kai for the next two months.

I kept my room at Ama’s in name only, slowly filling a drawer or two in the bedroom at Kai’s and keeping a second set of bathroom supplies under the sink. However, my need for alone time hadn’t disappeared. When Kai traveled to Volta or other areas of Ghana, I slept in my little room and had dinner at Ama’s.

Everything fell into a happy routine.

Until Kai took me to visit the Ga coffin makers in Teshie.

A stranger date never happened.

Unless a dating site for single morticians existed. Even then, would they bring a date to the office, so to speak?

I balked when he told me his plans.

“This is the worst idea for a date. Ever.”

“Is it a date?” He grinned at me from behind the wheel of his Rover.

“You asked me to join you, it’s a date.”

“Excellent point.” After parking on the shoulder, he pointed at a row of carnival animals and decorations lined up along the railing of a second story veranda. Past the cheetah, monkey, elephant, and lion, I spotted a shoe.

Shoe?

Carnival shoe?

“Is that a shoe?”

“Yes, it’s a shoe.”

“Wait! Are those the coffins?”

He grinned. “They are indeed. Come on.”

I scrambled out of the car and followed him up the steep wooden steps to the veranda. At the top, rows of fantastical sculptures, I mean coffins, filled the open space. Airplanes, Star beer bottles, peppers, and even a cell phone—each colorful creation designed to hold a body.

“What the actual hell?”

“Not hell, heaven, Mah mee,” a young man said from his chair in the corner. “These are the best coffins for the best kind of people.”

He reminded me of my friend Abraham Lincoln. I blushed, embarrassed he’d heard me.

Kai greeted him with an expert handshake, snap and all. “My friend has never seen these types of coffins,” he explained.

Our young guide, Kojo, described how the Ga tribe used these fantasy coffins to represent an aspect of a person’s life, believing they helped transport the spirit to the afterlife.

“If you had to choose one coffin, which would you pick?” Kai asked.

“Are we buying my coffin today?” I looked at him from the corner of my eye while Kojo revealed a hot pink satin lining inside of a chicken. “Cause that’s really morbid.”

“Not if you believe in the afterlife.”

“I’m not sure if I do.” Talk of death and afterlife sent a shiver down my spine, like someone walking over my grave. I knocked on the wood top of a pepper casket for luck.

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