February 15, Accra, Ghana
When the Boeing 767 broke through the morning’s light cloud cover over Accra, Gordon remembered how the savanna scrub dotted the laterite soils of the region, but he realized with surprise, almost shock, that the once uninhabited expanses of land that had surrounded the metropolitan area were now crowded with buildings, roads, and highways. He recognized the University of Ghana campus with its iconic tower on the hill, but not much else. What had happened to the boundary between city and suburb?
Eagerness to see this development from ground level and the anticipation of finally meeting his new woman in person set up a level of excitement Gordon had not even expected himself. Touchdown at 8:15 a.m. was a respectable ten minutes late. With its three terminals, Kotoka Airport was now several-fold larger than when Gordon had last seen it. Terminal 3, the international one, had a glittering, glass façade and modern jetways. It used to be that deplaning was by staircase. Now, in this sealed environment, Gordon missed that first blast of hot, humid air one used to get on emerging from the aircraft—the announcement that yes, you really are in tropical Africa.
Immigration was uneventful, the officer warming to Gordon when he told her he had been in Ghana with the Peace Corps decades ago. As Gordon picked up his luggage, his eagerness grew as he pictured Helena waiting for him outside when he exited.
In the wide arrivals hall, family, friends and chauffeurs waited behind the barrier. Gordon scanned the crowd, his heart beating hard as he searched for Helena’s beautiful face. He knew she was quite tall, and he visualized her in a light, flowery blouse and a pair of slimly fitted slacks—or perhaps a knee-length skirt. He didn’t spot her yet, but there was still quite a distance before he got to the back of the crowd several rows deep. Around him, people hugged and cried out with joy as they reunited with loved ones. Reaching the end of the phalanx, Gordon circled the periphery, checking to see if he and Helena might have missed each other somehow. He still couldn’t find her.
He felt a burst of anxiety but told himself to calm down. Helena was probably close by or running a little late. He texted her on WhatsApp, and then tried calling to no avail. The number rang for a while, and then cut off sharply. He was wondering what to do next when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Gordon turned to find a smallish man with a luminous smile. “Please, are you Mr. Tilson?” he said.
“Yes, I am.”
“Welcome, welcome to Ghana. My name is Robert. I’m here to take you to Kempinski Hotel. You walked past me up at the meeting point, but I saw you searching around and guessed it might be you.”
“Oh, yes,” Gordon said, blanking for a moment. He had forgotten he had given his flight information to the hotel. “Thank you. Actually, I was expecting someone to pick me up.”
“Please, someone?”
“Well, she’s a friend,” Gordon stammered, still looking around for Helena. He felt disoriented.
“Oh,” Robert said, thrown off course. “Will you prefer to wait for her?”
Gordon reasoned he’d better take the shuttle. He could always reach Helena later. Anyway, she was late, not him. He realized he was irritated. “No, it’s fine,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”
“Good, sir. Let me take your bags,” Robert said, grabbing Gordon’s luggage. “This way, please.”
Leaving the arrivals hall to the parking lot nearby, Gordon walked alongside Robert, who made small conversation about the trip. The vehicle was a light blue van with the Kempinski logo on the side. Robert loaded the luggage into the trunk. Gordon got into the van to join two passengers—both white—who were already there.
As they drove away from the airport with its brand-new road signs and branching exits, Gordon noted the cluster of high-rises changing the cityscape. Like ungainly giant birds, cranes dotted the horizon. Nothing in his recollection of Accra was here. Nothing appeared familiar. Nor did he recall the giant billboards at the sides of the road—ads for phones, luxury apartments, fancy clothing. Billboard hell, Gordon thought.
They were in the heart of morning rush hour with traffic at a crawl, giving the itinerant vendors their chance to sell the day’s newspapers, shoes, world maps, puppies, cold drinks, ice cream, home tools, and cheap Chinese trinkets. The traders moved easily within the dense lines of cars.
Thoughts of Helena shifted Gordon’s focus away from the bustle around him. For the first time, an out-of-body why are you here? sense filled him, and his mind cast back, annoyingly, to Derek’s warnings. Once again, he texted Helena, but it was as if his message disappeared into a void.
Only these doubts prevented Gordon from wholeheartedly enjoying the magnificence of the Kempinski lobby, which had marble floors and a towering ceiling suspending a giant chandelier from its center. After checking in, a bellboy took his luggage up.
His room was just as lovely—polished wood floors, cappuccino-colored closets, and a capacious bathroom. He might even use the bidet, he thought absently and with some humor.
When he texted Helena again and received no reply, he tossed the phone onto the precisely made king-size bed and stood in the middle of the floor wondering if he was in a dream. A bad one.