Daughter in Exile

by Bisi Adjapon

Genres: Coming of Age; Cultural Heritage; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

The acclaimed author of The Teller of Secrets returns with a gut-wrenching, yet heartwarming, story about a young Ghanaian woman’s struggle to make a life in the US, and the challenges she must overcome.

Lola is twenty-one, and her life in Senegal couldn’t be better. An aspiring writer and university graduate, she has a great job, a nice apartment, a vibrant social life, and a future filled with possibility. But fate disrupts her world when she falls for Armand, an American Marine stationed at the U.S. Embassy. Her mother, a high court judge in Ghana, disapproves of her choice, but nothing will stop Lola from boarding a plane for Armand and America.

That fateful flight is only the beginning of an extraordinary journey; she has traded her carefree existence in Senegal for the perilous position of an undocumented immigrant in 1990s America.

Lola encounters adversity that would crush a less-determined woman. Her fate hangs on whether or not she’ll grow in courage to forge a different life from one she’d imagined, whether she’ll succeed in putting herself and family together again. Daughter in Exile is a hope-filled story about mother love, resilience, and unyielding strength.

Release date: January 30, 2023

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 400

Sample

 

Ɛse Ne Tεkrεma
The Teeth and the Tongue

1995

You could say I entered America while living in Senegal, by way of my American friends, one evening, in a house near the sea, filled with the smell of salt, flowers, alcohol, perfume, tobacco breath, and pheromones. Americans had crossed my path, but never this many in one space.

Olga’s house boomed with their loud conversations. They circulated, fixed smiles on their faces, clutching wineglasses, bending over to reach for crackers and cheese laid out on the wicker table in the center of the room. They didn’t sit. They didn’t break into merengue, despite the Congolese soukous music thumping in the background. At twenty-one, I was a fresh university graduate. Everyone else was above thirty and married. I was the only African, one of three Blacks. The other two were a couple whose masculine half was laughing louder than anyone else. Olga hadintroduced him to me as Len George, or Lennard George, a man with a smile so broad his teeth seemed to begin at one ear and end at the other, strong and white. His wife, an oak-colored woman with green eyes and cotton-ball blond afro, formed part of a clump of people complaining about Senegal.

“Can you believe it? The houseboy was playing with my son’s toy car!” This was delivered with round-eyed indignation by a blonde.

A collective “Nooooo!” arose from the group. They spurred one another on.

“They’re so unbelievably lazy!”

“And the weather, talk about the heat!”

“I know, and then suddenly it gets cold and there’s no way to keep warm!”

“No heat when it’s cold. No AC when it’s hot. Jesus Christ!”

“Get me out of here, that’s what I say!”

“Back to D.C.!”

“Back to civilization!”

They groaned, avoiding my pointed stare. I had a good mind to retort, Is life perfect where you come from? But I was reluctant to ruin Olga’s going-back-to-America party.

From behind me, a shrill voice announced, “I love it here!” That was Olga, striding toward the complainers. My heart warmed over. She stood tall above them, in a loose print dress and scarf tied over her head to form two cat ears. Her slanted, dark eyes flashed. “Gosh, I’m gonna miss it. Come on, you guys are so ungrateful.” She spread out her arms. “I mean, look at this house. And listen to you all griping about servants. I’ll give a hundred dollars to anyone who can point to houses like this and servants back in Kansas or wherever you came from.”

No one spoke. A chill had settled over them. Then Len George guffawed and the voices bubbled up again. Olga’s husband, Barry, appeared from nowhere and moved to the middle of the marble floor, clinking his fork against his wineglass. “Yoo hoo!”

The voices subsided as we all drew closer. He grinned, revealing his wolfish teeth. “I’d like to thank you all for coming to our goodbye party. It’s been a wild three years, but it’s time to head back to America.”

“That’s right,” Lennard said. “Raise your glasses, y’all. To Olga and Barry!”

“To Olga and Barry!”

At that moment, someone’s glass shattered on the floor. Wine splashed on my ankles. We gasped, sprang away from the watery shards. That was when, with a benevolent smile, Lennard George looked across at me and said, “Fatou, you go get rag and—” he made wiping motions “—mopez le floor.”

I froze. Fatou was not my name. Before I could unglue my tongue, Olga said, “That’s not the maid, she’s my best friend. My best friend in Senegal.” Either Len didn’t hear her or wanted to cover up his embarrassment, because he persisted, “Get rag, mopez le floor, haha!”

“YOU mopez le floor.” I pivoted away from him.

Olga called the maid while we spilled onto the veranda. Mindy, a blue-eyed lady, touched my arm, smiling as if to apologize for Lennard. Her husband, Ted, said, “Let me fill your glass. What are you drinking?”

“Sauvignon blanc.”

“Sauvignon blanc it is.”

I handed my glass to him, and away he went on sturdy legs, his shaggy black hair bouncing around his ears. I had the impression one could lean on him and not fall. Mindy tilted her head in Len George’s direction. “What a fool.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Yeah. Forget him. How are things going at the Thai embassy?”

This cheered me up. “I love it. They’re really nice. Did you know they eat plantains just like Ghanaians?”

“Huh, I didn’t know that. Last year, I visited Vietnam and they ate plantains too. I imagine most tropical countries have them.”

“You went to Vietnam? How come?”

She laughed as though it wasn’t a big deal. “Yeah, for my USAID project.” I wondered if Ted had gone too, since he also worked for the same organization, but before I could ask her, he returned with my wine. I took a sip, savoring its chilled semisweetness.

He grinned through his glasses. “I take it you like it.”

“I love it. Wine is the only alcohol I tolerate.”

“So, you said you were writing a book. How is that going?”

“Not well. I wish I had more time to write.”

Mindy mentioned a book she was reading titled the Women’s Room, which she said was about women in various stages of problematic marriages. I was about to ask if she’d read Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying, a book depicting a woman’s sexual frustration, when Olga grabbed me from behind, wrapping me in a hug. Only she would breathe cigarette over me, mixed with a primal scent from her armpit. She eschewed perfume, deodorant, and underarm shaving. When I turned around, she kissed my cheek.

“I’m going to miss you, Lola.” She teared up for an instant, then flashed a naughty smile, her voice throaty. “You could come with us, you know. In whatever capacity you want. Mistress to Barry. Whatever.”

“Olga!” I whipped around to see if Mindy and Ted had heard her. They had drifted away and were now engaged in conversation with another couple.

Olga’s slim shoulders went up in a careless shrug. “In some cultures, it’s done, you know. I mean, Barry is always whooping about your breasts.” She waved at her husband. “Hey, Barry! Tell Lola she must come with us.”

He sidled over and pinched my butt. “You yummy thing,” he said in a playful, raspy voice. I swatted his hand, whereupon he ouched and slipped away, chuckling to himself. For all his constant pinching of my butt, he was a toothless wolf. Whenever he found himself alone with me, he’d stammer, hands glued to his sides and eyes on the floor. Olga loved to goad him.

“Can you blame him? You’ve got the most beautiful body.”

“You’re crazy, Olga. I can’t believe you’re thirty-eight and a mother of three.”

Her laughter was unrepentant. “Now, come on. Let’s have it one last time.”

I looked at her suspiciously. “Have what?” One never knew what percolated beneath her words.

“That song you taught us.”

Ah, she was talking about a little ditty from Treasure Island. For reasons I didn’t get, that song threw her into giggles each time I sang it. I didn’t want those snobbish ears to hear me, but then I looked around and thought, why not give them one more thing to complain about? I lifted my chin and belted out the tune my mother made up:

Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest,

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!

The room went silent. Olga threw her head back, a loud cackle erupting from her. A few guests giggled, then their conversations resumed their buzzing. Olga’s eyes misted. “God, Lola, what am I going to do without you? There’s no one like you for fun. Listen, don’t pay attention to Len George. What he said. He means no harm.”

It still stung, I wanted to tell her, but she was in no mood to listen.

“Let’s just dance,” she said, striding toward the boom box and turning up the volume.

Len’s casual treatment of me as a maid cut deeply. And yet, weeks later, when we bumped into each other without the presence of an audience, he beamed at me as though he’d encountered a lost friend. “Lola! How are you? Good to see you! Why don’t we grab a cup of coffee? Come on!” Reluctantly, I accepted, and was surprised to find him pulling out a chair for me, smiling at me, pressing pastries on me.

Typical, I thought, as I bit into a chocolate croissant. “How come you mocked me in the presence of Whites, but now you’re pushing chocolate and croissant at me?”

His smile disappeared. “Mocked you? What are you talking about?”

“Mopez le floor, remember? Fatou?”

“Come on, Lola, you know I was only kidding.”

“I don’t know that. You called me Fatou. Olga had just introduced us, yet you called me Fatou. Fatou is what the French colonialists called their maids when they couldn’t be bothered to know their names. A name isn’t just a name. It’s my family, my dignity. We have a whole ceremony, a whole day of feasting set aside just to give you your name after you’re born. How could you dismiss mine like that?”

He grew quiet, his coffee untouched. “Gee, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were that upset.”

“You don’t understand. At my university in Ghana, I used to trace the faces of American Blacks in the Ebonymagazines that traveled by mysterious ways to tables in our cafeteria. I wanted all you Blacks to come home to Ghana. Then I come to Senegal and discover you Black diplomats don’t want to know us. Here, we live in this layer-cake society the French created: Whites frosting over deepening shades of brown, Blacks firmly packed at the bottom. I don’t blame you for distancing yourself, but don’t expect me to love you for it.”

He reached over and grabbed my hand. “Whoa, whoa, hold it there, girl. You do get off on being an intellectual, don’t you?”

I snatched back my hand and stood up, my chair scraping the concrete. “You know what, thanks for the croissant.”

“Come on, Lola.” He rushed around to block my way. “Look, I was only joking. That’s what I do. When I’m embarrassed or something, I try to be goofy, you know, funny.”

“I wanted to throw my wine in your face.”

A childlike grin spread on his face. “You should have. I’m truly sorry. Truth is, I totally forgot your name and just said Fatou. I thought . . . I don’t know what I was thinking. Look, sit down. Please. Let me make it up to you.” He walked back to the table to hold out my chair. He looked so contrite I found myself relenting, dragging myself to the table and slouching down. He returned to his seat, picked up his coffee mug, set it down. “You’re so lucky to be growing up in Africa. You’ve never walked into a room feeling like you had to prove you belonged, have you?”

“Why would I need to prove I belonged?”

He laughed softly. “Wait till you go to America. By the way, do you know the head of the UN Food and Agriculture Organization? He’s also from Ghana.”

I sat back, surprised. “Mr. Koranteng? Yes, his son is my friend. A true brother.”

“Ouch. A true brother, eh? Well, Mr. Koranteng’s my boss. I work for the FAO, you know. So, you see, I can’t look down on you. You Ghanaians are so smart.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Man, that guy is fit. I mean, he’s sixty. I’m forty, but he beats me at tennis every time.”

“Tennis?” It was hard to associate the game, which I thought of as a well-mannered sport, with this man who irritated me so much. “I didn’t know you played tennis. I always wanted to learn. At university, I tried, but the coach shooed me away because I hit all the balls into the bushes.”

He leaned forward eagerly. “I could teach you. Listen, let’s start over. No more goofiness from me. I promise.” I said nothing, which prompted another “Come on” until I yielded. “Aha! I see that smile. That’s what I’m talking about. Now, are you ready for your lesson?”

“Right now? Isn’t it dangerous to exercise after a meal?”

“You call a croissant and coffee a meal?” He pushed to his feet and held out his hand. “Come on, let’s go. By the time you go home and get changed, what you ate will be long gone.”

I allowed him to take me by the elbow. He ushered me into a white VW Beetle and zoomed away to my apartment building, which was only minutes away.

“Wow,” he said, swiveling, taking in the gray three-story building. “So, this is where you live? Not bad at all. Wow, Plateau. Are you rich or something?”

That made me giggle. “No, I’m not. Ours is the plebian dwelling of the neighborhood.” I pointed to a tall, aloof building in the distance. “Look at Immeuble Kébé, with its uniformed doormen and garbage chutes. That’s where Mr. Koranteng lives. His son Kwaku, too, when he comes to Senegal. We don’t even have an elevator. I have to climb to the third floor.”

“Still. You’re right across from the American Embassy. Wow.”

“I’m within shouting distance. What of it?”

“I mean, I could stop by and say hello anytime I’m in the neighborhood. Pick you up for tennis. Whatever. Wow, Plateau. The neighborhood of the rich. You live alone?”

“No, I live with my friend Joana, also from Ghana.”

“Awesome. Wow, you Ghanaians are something else.” I felt suddenly shy and hoped he wouldn’t follow me up to the flat. It was nothing unusual for married men to befriend single women and visit them. Sometimes the visit was innocent, sometimes not. It was important for me not to give him the wrong impression. As if guessing my thoughts, he leaned his elbows on the hood of the car. “I’ll wait here while you get ready. You’ve got sneakers?”

“Yes.”

I darted upstairs to get changed, feeling the budding of a friendship.

We had fun. He showed me how to hold a racket. He pulled two cans of yellow balls out of his bag and said, “These are yours. You’re gonna hit them. Don’t worry if they fly into the trees.” He bounced the balls in front of me and showed me how to step, pivot, and swing the racquet to my shoulder. I kept hitting the ball out of the court, over the cage, but he never lost patience. “Keep trying. Just hit it over the net. There you go! You’re a natural. Come on, hit it.”

I loved the way the ball and racket connected with a resounding thwack. When I figured out how to hit the ball over the net without it sailing into the sky, he trotted to the opposite side and fed me more balls. I chased them down, laughing and swinging away, thrilled at my power.

An hour later, I couldn’t believe how quickly I had gone from disliking him to sitting beside him on a bench, our sweaty skins touching, expelling air into the Senegalese breeze. It was the easy air of friendship. I wanted nothing more from a married man.