This is the second story in the series (following "London"). Though the adventures can be read in any order, the character develops a bit over the series.
...
As I stepped off the plane onto the tarmac in Accra, the heat and humidity reminded me -- as if I needed it -- that I was near the equator. The air was so moist that it felt like there was no oxygen left, only water filling my lungs. I gasped. As we entered the terminal, it was not much better. Yes, I guess the building was air conditioned, but not very well. Clearing customs, I exited to the meeting point where I looked for someone holding a sign with my name.
I was in Ghana for a meeting of African central bankers. As a professor of economic history, my specialty is financial crises. Since 2008 I have been much in demand, and am often called upon to lecture on the lessons of the past for the problems of tomorrow. I don't think anyone listens to my admonitions, despite the large honorarium I get for this service. Nearly everyone in the audience sits there thinking financial meltdowns won't happen again. They've fixed this or that regulation, this or that practice. In actuality, they've just made the system even more opaque and fragile, one in which its harder to see the problems until they blow up in our collective faces. The power of denial is strong, especially when the audience's profits and income-- as the comedian Will Rogers once said -- depend on their not understanding it. Nonetheless, I feel like I should try to get them to listen -- and thus I fly around the world, accepting nearly every invitation to make my voice heard. The money doesn't hurt either.
This was my first time in Africa. I was scheduled to give a keynote address at the luncheon the following day, and I had treated myself to a few extra days to experience the vitality and troubles of Ghana for myself. As a guest of the central bankers, I had enjoyed first class all the way from California to London, where I had then connected to Accra. It had been one of the longest trips I've taken, but I only had one layover and I had slept well on the plane, a rare event. I was looking forward to the next few days.
Waiting for me at the meeting point was a strikingly beautiful, tall, lithesome woman holding a placard with my name in large block letters. I hung back in the crowd and took a moment to admire her before approaching, thinking I might not get another chance to do so discretely. Though she was wearing a suit in the hot weather, it was easy to see that she was near perfectly proportioned. Good sized bust, tight waist, rounded hips. Her face was long and narrow with full lips. Her long braided hair -- my favorite look on Black women -- fell to the middle of her back. Yes, Ghana looked very promising. By now, I had fully adapted my thinking -- and my conscience -- to my 3,000 mile rule. Whenever far enough away from home, I became a visitor, a tourist, who could seek out all this or any country had to offer. I would see where this adventure would take me.
Stepping towards her, I extended my hand and introduced myself.
"Angelica," she responded. "Very nice to meet you, Mr. Charles," an odd but somewhat endearing formalism using my given name. "I am here to assist with all of your needs for the entirety of your visit." I don't know if she caught or even intended the double entendre, but it pricked my imagination. "Your driver, Francis, is just outside," she continued. "Do you have your bags? Shall we go?"
With a "yes" to both questions, she insisted upon taking my roller bag while I carried my backpack with my computer and other things necessary for tomorrow's lecture that, if lost, would ruin the purpose of the trip. As we stepped out into the heat, Angelica waved over an even taller and muscular man who immediately took the roller bag and reached for my backpack. I declined his assistance. We got into an older Mercedes, well worn by California standards, which looked to be the nicest car by far at the airport. With Angelica and me in the backseat, Francis started the trek from Kotoka International Airport into town. Although it's not far, the heavy traffic and poor roads made for slow going.
When we arrived at the Tang Palace Hotel, the nicest in Accra, Angelica ran ahead to start the check-in process. I retrieved my bag from Francis, who then turned it over to a bellman who would not be convinced that I could carry it myself.
"I will be parked outside this evening in case you want to go out," Francis declared. "I shall be with you for the next four days whenever you need me. Just use this" -- as he handed me a newish-looking cellphone -- "and, as you see here," he showed me, "Angelica is number one and I am number two on your 'favorites' listing. We will do everything possible to make your visit to our country memorable," he concluded in impeccable English with a slight British accent.
By the time I had gotten to the front desk, Angelica had done all the essentials and gotten a room key. All that was needed was for the clerk to make a copy of my passport. As everything was being billed to the Ghanaian central bank, no credit card or anything was required. Easy sailing, as they say.
Angelica insisted on accompanying me upstairs to my room. It was a nicely appointed suite. She quickly glanced around the room to ensure it was to her satisfaction, and then -- without my saying a word -- called down to the front desk for more towels and an extra bottle of water, explaining that I was dehydrated from the trip and would need more fluids.
She then turned to me and asked "Is there anything I can do for you? Is there anything you would like to do this evening?"
Since I had slept on the plane and was not immediately ready for bed, I said "I need shower and, then, likely some dinner. Is there someplace nearby the serves good local cuisine?"
She frowned a bit. "You most likely don't want what the locals eat. Most foreigners don't, even at the nicest places," she responded.
"No," I insisted. "I really do want to try Ghanaian cuisine."
