Gold Coast Dilemma: A Novel
From USA TODAY bestselling author Nana Malone, a romance about a Ghanaian American heiress faced with the dilemma of choosing between culture and a love connection.
During an opulent publishing party, Ofosua Addo crosses paths with Cole Drake for the first time. Their flirtatiously witty exchange culminates in a kiss that etches a permanent mark on both their hearts.
But Ofosua’s identity as a Ghanaian heiress comes before Cole. She loves the vibrant traditions of Ghana’s Gold Coast, and her hand is already promised to a man that even her overbearing mother loves. Yet, when her big Ghanaian wedding transforms from a fairy tale into a spectacle, she’s thrust into a whirlwind of heartbreak and self-discovery.
In the midst of it all, Cole enters her life once again, under circumstances far different from their magical first encounter. Can Ofosua and Cole’s rediscovered spark overcome the weight of tradition?
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During an opulent publishing party, Ofosua Addo crosses paths with Cole Drake for the first time. Their flirtatiously witty exchange culminates in a kiss that etches a permanent mark on both their hearts.
But Ofosua’s identity as a Ghanaian heiress comes before Cole. She loves the vibrant traditions of Ghana’s Gold Coast, and her hand is already promised to a man that even her overbearing mother loves. Yet, when her big Ghanaian wedding transforms from a fairy tale into a spectacle, she’s thrust into a whirlwind of heartbreak and self-discovery.
In the midst of it all, Cole enters her life once again, under circumstances far different from their magical first encounter. Can Ofosua and Cole’s rediscovered spark overcome the weight of tradition?
Gold Coast Dilemma: A Novel
From USA TODAY bestselling author Nana Malone, a romance about a Ghanaian American heiress faced with the dilemma of choosing between culture and a love connection.
During an opulent publishing party, Ofosua Addo crosses paths with Cole Drake for the first time. Their flirtatiously witty exchange culminates in a kiss that etches a permanent mark on both their hearts.
But Ofosua’s identity as a Ghanaian heiress comes before Cole. She loves the vibrant traditions of Ghana’s Gold Coast, and her hand is already promised to a man that even her overbearing mother loves. Yet, when her big Ghanaian wedding transforms from a fairy tale into a spectacle, she’s thrust into a whirlwind of heartbreak and self-discovery.
In the midst of it all, Cole enters her life once again, under circumstances far different from their magical first encounter. Can Ofosua and Cole’s rediscovered spark overcome the weight of tradition?
During an opulent publishing party, Ofosua Addo crosses paths with Cole Drake for the first time. Their flirtatiously witty exchange culminates in a kiss that etches a permanent mark on both their hearts.
But Ofosua’s identity as a Ghanaian heiress comes before Cole. She loves the vibrant traditions of Ghana’s Gold Coast, and her hand is already promised to a man that even her overbearing mother loves. Yet, when her big Ghanaian wedding transforms from a fairy tale into a spectacle, she’s thrust into a whirlwind of heartbreak and self-discovery.
In the midst of it all, Cole enters her life once again, under circumstances far different from their magical first encounter. Can Ofosua and Cole’s rediscovered spark overcome the weight of tradition?
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Overview
From USA TODAY bestselling author Nana Malone, a romance about a Ghanaian American heiress faced with the dilemma of choosing between culture and a love connection.
During an opulent publishing party, Ofosua Addo crosses paths with Cole Drake for the first time. Their flirtatiously witty exchange culminates in a kiss that etches a permanent mark on both their hearts.
But Ofosua’s identity as a Ghanaian heiress comes before Cole. She loves the vibrant traditions of Ghana’s Gold Coast, and her hand is already promised to a man that even her overbearing mother loves. Yet, when her big Ghanaian wedding transforms from a fairy tale into a spectacle, she’s thrust into a whirlwind of heartbreak and self-discovery.
In the midst of it all, Cole enters her life once again, under circumstances far different from their magical first encounter. Can Ofosua and Cole’s rediscovered spark overcome the weight of tradition?
During an opulent publishing party, Ofosua Addo crosses paths with Cole Drake for the first time. Their flirtatiously witty exchange culminates in a kiss that etches a permanent mark on both their hearts.
But Ofosua’s identity as a Ghanaian heiress comes before Cole. She loves the vibrant traditions of Ghana’s Gold Coast, and her hand is already promised to a man that even her overbearing mother loves. Yet, when her big Ghanaian wedding transforms from a fairy tale into a spectacle, she’s thrust into a whirlwind of heartbreak and self-discovery.
In the midst of it all, Cole enters her life once again, under circumstances far different from their magical first encounter. Can Ofosua and Cole’s rediscovered spark overcome the weight of tradition?
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781668061183 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Gallery Books |
| Publication date: | 04/29/2025 |
| Pages: | 384 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.30(w) x 8.10(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Nana Malone is a Wall Street Journal and USA TODAY bestselling author of sexy, feel-good novels. She loves all things romance and adventure. Find out more at NanaMalone.com.
Read an Excerpt
Prologue
: Ofosua PROLOGUE OFOSUAADINKRA SAYING: (Odo Nnyew Fie Kwan) Love does not lose its way home.
HELEN ADDO: Don’t waste your time waiting to fall in love. Find a lawyer, doctor, or engineer. You can learn to love him.
TWO YEARS AGO...
I was late.
For my first publishing industry party, no less. I repeatedly stabbed the elevator button, willing it to hurry the hell up. I’d been put in charge of getting the drinks for the interns and assistants, and Nazrin, the publicity assistant, would have my head for messing up her timeline.
I took a deep breath as a prickle of anxiety tickled the hairs on my neck. I wanted—needed—to prove myself. Being late was not the way to do that.
When the deep breathing didn’t work, I rubbed my forefinger and thumb together on my free hand, trying to remind myself of small truths.
I was good at my job. I was persistent. I’d stuffed hundreds of padded envelopes for press mailings without complaint, made persuasive phone calls to bookstores, and scoured Instagram and BookTok on my own time for appropriate influencers for this launch, finding key voices even the seasoned members of the marketing team didn’t know about yet. All with a genuine smile.
I was good enough, even if I was ten minutes later to this party than I should be.
And honestly, nothing was going to make the sad Trader Joe’s veggie platter awaiting me any more appetizing. It was fine. Totally fine.
Ding. The elevator arrived and I stepped inside, wishing it were a teleportation device and not an actual antique.
Drake Publishing was my dream job. It was a boutique agency and just the right size for me to be noticed. I might be just an intern, but I had my sights set on being a senior editor one day. Preferably before I was thirty so I could soften the blow to my parents about my occupation not being lawyer, doctor, or engineer.
But would even senior editor be substantial enough?
I focused on the floor indicator’s curlicue brass arm marking the rise up, up to Mr. Drake’s sprawling co-op.
The apartment was a real estate agent’s dream, a penthouse perched atop a gleaming prewar building located on Central Park West at Eighty-First Street, built sometime in the 1920s. With panoramic views of the park’s canopy of trees, it was, in a word, stunning. Even my traditional Ghanaian mother would have to acknowledge the apartment’s elegance.
I’d poked around Mr. Drake’s apartment earlier that morning when I’d come with two of the publicity interns to set up the displays of glossy jacket blowups and stacks of the new novel plus gold-plated backlist. We’d arranged lush, literary tablescapes complete with floral arrangements in colors to complement the new jacket art in the main hall, the library, and the gallery. The idea was that guests would flow effortlessly from one room to another and onto the wraparound terraces, which were decorated with soft lighting and latticed vines to provide privacy.
When the elevator finally stopped and the doors slid apart, I quietly lugged my wine booty along the back hallway.
The interns and assistants wouldn’t be enjoying the beauty of the stone terraces, the sunlit gallery, the wood-paneled library, or the velvet and leather seating in the main living area. We were under strict instructions not to be seen nor heard, unless we were needed for something, like clearing away stray glasses or fetching a specific title for a reporter. Our little enclave consisted of a tucked-away card table in the corner by the kitchen with a dodgy vegetable tray.
Jane, a petite redhead fellow intern with slightly ruddy cheeks, met me with a grin and clutched an empty plastic wineglass as if she might will some wine into it. “Thank God you’re back.” She helped me set the bottles down then appraised me. “That mustard color is amazing on you.”
“Thanks,” I said, tucking my waist-length braids over one shoulder and spinning to show off my outfit. I’d never understood why the girls in the office preferred black, navy, gray, or other neutral colors. I ventured a glance at the group of executives and authors gathering in the living area. Not a spot of color.
Only one woman, a tall silver-blonde with the coolest bright red glasses and a warm smile, had worn something even remotely interesting: an all-cream pantsuit. She stood out like a speck of salt in a pepper shaker. I’d heard Mr. Drake call her Ruby earlier, so I assumed that was his wife, Ruby Drake. I’d yet to meet her. The word was she rarely, if ever, came to the office. Which was too bad, as she looked like someone I might want to get to know.
Jane sighed melancholically at the celery she’d dipped into hummus. “You guys want to get real food after this?”
“God, yes.” I was already regretting passing on the fried kelewele my mother had offered as I rushed out the door. I’d been worried about my breath, but now my tongue begged for the taste of sweet plantain and ginger with a pepper chaser.
None of the food trays laid out were remotely palatable. Even the carrots looked limp. No one liked limp carrots.
“I’m going to bribe one of the waitstaff to sneak us a canapé or two,” Jane said.
“You are a goddess if you can pull that off.” I glanced around and leaned over to her. “Let me go wash my hands first. I think I touched something sticky in the elevator.”
“Good call.”
A few minutes later, I stepped into the hallway after I was done in the bathroom. Party chatter greeted me from either side, but I’d gotten turned around and wasn’t sure which way would return me to intern purgatory.
I hung a left, but nothing looked familiar. Instead, I came upon one of the open terraces and paused, uncertain. Shit, I’d gone the wrong way. But I couldn’t resist the spectacular view and a moment to decompress.
“I see you had to escape too.”
I whipped around, teetering on my Gianvito Rossi slingbacks as I searched for the source of the rich baritone. “Jesus, you scared me.”
I’d never seen the guy standing in the doorway before. But he had a plate of real food in his hand and two bottles of champagne under his arm, so it was unlikely he was there to murder me.
The corners of his mouth tipped up in a lopsided smile as his eyes drank me in, his gaze direct and bold, making me feel like he could see right through to my La Perla.
I was momentarily stunned into silence by his good looks. The height struck me first. Over six feet definitely. Lean swimmer’s build. Broad shoulders, but that jacket was tailored to perfection to drape him nicely. The simple white T-shirt he wore underneath looked to be of a soft jersey material and clung ever-so-nicely to his pecs as he lounged. Of course that insane body had to come with a ridiculously square jaw and beautiful, dancing gray eyes framed by sooty lashes. He looked roughly my age, maybe a little older. And when he smiled, he sent my stomach into free fall.
He was the definition of “pretty.” So pretty.
And so not for me.
“I’m sorry. I’m not supposed to be here. I can go.” I tried to sidestep around him, but he coaxed me to stay.
“You’re not going to leave me to eat and drink by myself, are you? Even influencers need to eat and drink champagne.”
Before I could correct him, my stomach, ever the traitor, thinking only about filling itself with the delectable Brie, assortment of meats, and delicious-smelling hors d’oeuvres on his plate, growled. Loudly.
“Looks like your decision is made for you. And I get to escape the pretentious bores with a beautiful woman.”
I licked my lips, shifting nervously from foot to foot as I stuffed down the flare of anxiousness. This man really was too good-looking for my own good. I knew it like I knew the sky overhead was Tiffany blue. I had to snap out of it. “I’m sure you say that line to all the girls. I’m not impressed.”
He chuckled softly. “Only when I mean it. Just as long as you don’t dive into a twenty-minute diatribe about how novelists today owe everything to David Foster Wallace. I just escaped one of those.”
My lips twitched. He was cute. And funny. And you know better than to go chasing after a pretty boy. But I wasn’t chasing. He was the one offering food and champagne. “I can only stay for a minute.”
He offered me his plate while he opened one of the champagne bottles. I tried not to stare at him as he took a long swig before passing the bottle to me.
My first thought—taking the bottle from his mouth was almost like we’d be kissing. His lips had been where mine were about to be, and that knowledge gave me another butterfly flutter.
My next thought—where has his mouth been?
My final thought—was I really going to drink contraband champagne at my boss’s party?
Taking the bottle from him, I took a delicate sip. I’d sipped enough champagne to know that the bubbles went straight to my head.
He grinned at me widely as he took the bottle of champagne back. “So, I assume you’re an influencer? But I can’t say I’ve seen your content before.”
“That’s because I’m not an influencer. I’m an intern. Ofosua Addo. Just call me Ofos.”
His gaze slid over me. “I’m Cole. And I have to say, you certainly don’t look like the typical intern.”
My back stiffened. I was a little older than most of the interns. I’d graduated with a business and creative writing double major. I hadn’t been able to get a paying job at Drake right away, but I had managed to snag myself an internship. I didn’t love living off of my trust fund, but it was what it was. I had a plan.
All I had to do was prove myself and work my way up. “What is that supposed to mean?” My question came out harsh and icy slick, daring him to put a foot wrong.
“You’re dressed for a party. Not an ass-kissing snoozefest,” he said with a roll of his eyes and another deep swig of champagne.
I cocked my head, assessing him further. “And you certainly don’t look like the publishing type, at least not the Drake Publishing type. No wire-rimmed glasses. No seen-better-days blazer tossed over a fraying shirt. You look entirely too comfortable in that really nice suit. You’re the one out of place here, not me. So what’s your story?”
His eyes darkened, and he frowned briefly before recovering himself. “You are sharp. I was summoned. Think of me as a reluctant plus-one. So the moment I could, I swiped some champagne, and here we are.”
I was desperate to know more. Who did he work for? Who was he? Or was he an author? But I had just met the guy. Maybe I should wait at least an hour before interrogating him, so I changed course. “This is my first publishing party. I’m not sure what I expected, but I thought it would be splashier. I mean, this home is gorgeous, of course. But... seems kind of dull in there.”
He laughed. “Ah, so no one warned you about the de rigueur depressing hummus platters?”
“No! And I’m quite irritated about it really.” I popped one of the warm canapés into my mouth and tried not to moan in delight at the melted cheese and spiced crabmeat on a perfect mini toast point.
He watched me intently with a curious smile. “All right, let’s play a game. Tell me your favorite book right now. But it can’t be anything by Wallace, anything considered a literary darling, and it can’t be on a damn list.”
I took the bottle of champagne from him, took another small sip. “That’s easy. The Count of Monte Cristo, Dumas.”
His brows lifted. “An adventurous woman. I have to say I’m thrilled you didn’t say Pride and Prejudice.”
Oh no. Tell me he wasn’t one of those tedious Austen-hating men. Well, he was too pretty to be perfect. “That’s my second favorite, actually. I’m a sucker for a love story. But I might love a good twist more.”
One bottle of champagne and one empty plate later, I realized this had been easy... too easy. My guard was down. I was having a good time.
This is not a guy you can like, Ofos.
I’d known too many Coles. I’d gone to prep school with them, occasionally hung out with them, but trying to date one of them had never gone the way it was supposed to. Still, there I was on the terrace with one, and the rest of my world had completely fallen away.
“I’m telling you, you haven’t experienced any kind of reading restrictions until you’ve had to sneak a romance novel past an African mother. Particularly a romance with a clinch cover,” I said.
Cole tried to argue with me. “No way. Some of the horror novels I used to read had my mother convinced I needed a psychiatrist.”
“Hardly the same thing. My mother marched into my middle school once to drag me out into the hallway and ask me how I could disgrace her like this. She’d found one of my library books, an old-school historical romance by Johanna Lindsey. There was hell to pay, and publicly.”
With a laugh and a lift of his hands, Cole admitted defeat. “Okay, fine. That’s worse. Getting dragged out of class by a parent.” He laughed. “Granted, I usually got dragged out for other reasons. But for a book you were reading? That’s brutal.”
My phone vibrated just then, and I took it out of my pocket to see who was daring to interrupt my expert-level flirting. It was Jane.
JANE:
Where r u? Nazrin is looking for you.
Shit. I was supposed to be working. Making a good impression. “I’ve been out here way too long. I need to go.”
His smile fell, and his gaze searched mine. “Who’s going to help me finish the rest of the champagne?”
“That’s a very good question, but I still need to go. I’m an intern, remember? I can’t just vanish.”
“Let’s meet up later, then. I can feed you properly.”
My brain stutter-stepped, and I flushed from my feet to my roots. “You want to feed me?”
The smile he gave me was slow and flirtatious. “That’s usually what happens on a date, right?”
A date? He was asking me out? “Yeah. I’d like that.” There was no hiding my grin. Who was I kidding? I liked him, even if I did know better about guys like Cole. Besides, I hadn’t had a proper date in a while. When I turned to leave, he took my elbow gently.
“Me too. And thank you for making tonight interesting,” he said.
The wind blew, and I tucked one of my braids behind my ear, but neither of us moved. This party wasn’t turning out anything like I’d expected.
He was closer now, close enough to kiss. My heart thundered so hard behind my rib cage that I had to force deep, steady breaths. I was not going to blow this by saying something stupid to chase him off.
He leaned in, closing the gap between us. His hand slid up to cup my face, and he gently brushed a thumb over my cheekbone. He was waiting. I could feel it. The implicit, Is this okay?
I gave him a slight nod. I couldn’t have found words in that moment for all the books in the world.
My heart raced as he inched closer, his lips almost touching mine. Every nerve and cell in my body was on high alert, my breaths coming in shallow gasps.
The gentle brush of his lips made my breath catch. I didn’t know a kiss could feel like this. Was it the champagne?
He paused for a moment, whispering a hushed “Wow,” his gaze searching mine until I dug my hands into his lapels and pulled him forward. I had to know if what I’d just felt was real.
The electricity between us was palpable, setting every inch of my skin ablaze.
When he kissed me again, his hand slid onto the nape of my neck, pulling me even closer, making sure I stayed pressed against him.
I melted into him, feeling the heat of his body against mine as he deepened the kiss. As his tongue teased mine, my head swam in that foggy dreamlike way of fantasy kisses.
And I would have fallen deeper and deeper into the thrill of the kiss if the buzzing of my phone hadn’t interrupted us, jolting me back to reality and the danger of my situation. What if someone saw us out here? I’d be the talk of the office and not in a good way. Plus, I’d never, ever be offered a permanent position at Drake. “I’m sorry. I really, really have to go.”
“Wait. Don’t go. Please. Stay.”
God, was I tempted. “I wish. But I can’t.”
“I need to see you again. I don’t have your number.” His expectant smile made my heart leap.
“You have the proverbial glass slipper of information. You can find me.”
With a lopsided smile he whispered, “Then this is just the beginning.”
Chapter 1: Ofosua CHAPTER 1 OFOSUA
ADINKRA SAYING: (Nkonsonkonson) A symbol of unity, community.
HELEN ADDO: Marriage is not about you the person, but family. You will know happiness when you grow your family... especially if you pick someone from a good home.
TWO YEARS LATER...
I would have done things differently if the choice had been mine. But it wasn’t.
I had no say in any of it.
But I forced myself to swallow. Panic was not welcome here today. I was not going to lose my shit.
I was getting married.
Utilizing my breathing techniques didn’t change the fact that my mother and my mother-in-law-to-be had turned this perfect fall day into a spectacle. Worse, the monstrosity going on a few yards away without me was just the traditional marriage ceremony. It wasn’t even step two, the white wedding.
Since my mother, Helen, claimed mostly her Ga side and not her Kwahu roots, we were doing a traditional Ga wedding, otherwise known as an engagement, only because it came before the big white wedding most couples also had.
In Ghanaian culture, traditional marriages were just as binding as a marriage ceremony is in Western culture. We just also liked the white wedding in the church for flair. This traditional ceremony meant the two families would be joined forever. And the official white wedding ceremony? That further cemented the permanence of it all in front of God. But honestly, it was a colonialist holdover, because traditional marriages were blessed by an osofo, or priest.
Glancing out the window at the three hundred or so guests outside, I couldn’t believe the white wedding would be an even bigger spectacle than what was happening under Central Park’s Wisteria Pergola right now. We had so many people, we’d spilled onto the main lawn of the Conservatory Garden.
It was all too much. In most instances these days, the couple didn’t even have to be present at the ceremony. There was just a nominal exchange of, Oh, yes, you know, the family bought these jewels and these clothing items. And the other side would say, Oh, look, we brought a cow, and money. The cow would be a real show-off item.
No one brought a cow these days.
But when my mother was involved, there was no such thing as simple. Our ceremony was taking up half of Central Park. Every influential Ghanaian from Accra to London to New York was in attendance. Hell, a hundred of the guests were parental invites of business associates, dignitaries, Fortune 500 titans of industry.
I didn’t even know them.
My mind was spinning at the expectation that we were going to go next level from this for the actual church wedding.
I had wanted to do this in Accra. That had been the original plan, but at the last minute Yofi said he couldn’t get away from work, which I hadn’t understood. He was Yofi Tutu. Forbes had named him Up-and-Comer of the Year. Surely he could dictate his own vacation.
All I could do was sit and worry silently as my auntie Ruth finished rebraiding my hair into the tightest cornrows of my life. She wasn’t my actual aunt, but one of my mother’s friends. Half the time, I wasn’t even certain who was actually related to me and who wasn’t. Every person who was at least fifteen years older than you was auntie or uncle.
She didn’t like the hairstylist’s work, so now she was redoing the braids toward my crown, then releasing the hair in a massive Afro with extensions to make it even bigger and fuller. My hair was intertwined with pieces of kente cloth with the family colors we chose of green, fuchsia, and cream.
My mother had insisted that only the best would do. Her idea of the best, not mine. I knew this was what she was used to. In Ghana, every celebration was over the top, from weddings to outdoorings, which were traditional presentations of new babies to the friends and family, to funerals. But, God, not a single person, not one, had asked me what I wanted.
My only contribution had been selecting Yofi. Luckily, I had done that myself.
Our parents had been friends for years. I had been aware of him because we were in the same circles and always at the same events.
Handsome Yofi had gone to Harvard, was an investment banker, and came from money. He was also one of those guys who seemed like they’d never settle down. But two years ago, he had. With me.
I’d been bored stiff at a Ghana Association dinner, when Yofi had sat down beside me, asking me why I looked like I wanted to poke an eyeball out. Instead of the simpering flirtation my mother would have preferred, along the lines of how my night was better now that he’d shown up, I’d been truthful and direct.
I told him I would rather watch paint dry in a humid room than be at this dinner.
To this day, I remember his laughter at my answer. Full-bodied, head thrown back, arm placed over his trim waist, his amusement had been infectious. His gleaming white teeth were a stark contrast to his smooth, ebony skin.
To say that Yofi was attractive didn’t even begin to hit the mark. He was what I thought of when I heard tall, dark, and handsome. He looked like a very tall Michael B. Jordan, that actor my auntie Ruth lamented she should have married.
And honestly, finding a Ghanaian man over six feet tall who didn’t think beer was a food group and didn’t eat fufu for every meal? That was like winning the lottery. Add gorgeous on top of it all?
He seemed perfect. But more important, he was perfect for Ghanaian moms. For the first time in my life, I’d managed to satisfy my parents with my choice.
Yep, I’d landed the Holy Grail and everything that came along with it, including the circus I could hear going on outside.
My okyeame—the linguist meant to be the intermediary for us—was negotiating my bride price with Auntie Wenda, Yofi’s family’s okyeame. I loved the idea that it was two women who were getting what could sometimes be a tense negotiation done.
For a lot of tribes, okyeame were usually men. But the Gas were more matrilineal, so we had women. My mother had told me to keep my mouth shut around them, though, because, God forbid, I might let slip the radical things I believed, like that love was love and that people should be allowed to marry anybody they wanted.
No, no. Never say that.
I had asked for someone open-minded. Mom and I had fought bitterly.
I had lost.
Now my auntie Phoebe was loudly talking about how I was pious, served Christ, and would make a good Christian wife who would listen and obey. Little did she know that I had asked Yofi to strike the word “obey” from my white wedding vows. Because if we were all being honest, everyone knew there was no way in hell that Ofosua Addo was going to obey anyone.
I had a mouth. Sometimes it said things.
I relaxed a fraction when she moved on to how my future husband’s family was going to have to show that they were worthy, that they had the gifts and the means to look after me.
There was a commotion outside the door, but I ignored it and forced myself to breathe despite my far-too-tight kaba and slit. The traditional blouse and skirt set was made of white lace, with a patchwork of kente woven around each piece of lace. It was stunning.
The top was strapless, showing off my shoulders. My mother had been scandalized at first, but she’d eventually relented. It was basically a corset, shoving my boobs up under my chin, which I honestly felt was false advertising. Yofi knew what he was getting.
Hell, we lived together. None of this would be a surprise.
Finally, the commotion outside broke through my thoughts when the door was jimmied open. “Cuuuuzzz!”
I had to laugh. My cousin Kukua was not known for her subtlety. Her mom and mine were sisters. Her father did something for the World Bank, as was the way. They were Ghanaian, but her mother was half-American, so she had been raised to believe in freedom of choice in what you were going to do and study, and how you were going to grow up.
So Kukua became an artist and the wild one in our family. Every rule I at least attempted to follow, she blatantly broke. Hence, she was my favorite cousin.
“How are you, my darling? Are you ready to be shackled forever?”
“You make marriage seem amazing.”
“Mark my words, I am never getting married. I prefer freedom of choice, freedom of movement, freedom of dick.”
I snorted a laugh, which set Kukua off into a fit of giggles until she was snorting too.
And that was when my mother walked in. “Oh my God, the two of you. Can you keep it down? The okyeame are about to present the gold and gifts.”
Most couples just presented jewelry and traditional cloth that the bride’s mother already had in the house, but not my parents. My mother had insisted on a new gold wedding jewelry set to show what a good home I came from.
Some of the pieces were so intricate, heavy, and ornate that I’d never wear them. They were more showpieces. After that was done, Yofi and his family would arrive in style from the west side of the park. If we had been in Ghana, they would have had a massive caravan, likely stopping traffic in Cantonments, the posh neighborhood in Accra where my parents had their compound. With traditional marriages in olden times, the richer you were, the more likely you were to have cows to offer your new bride.
The exchange of drinks would be next. The drinks sealed the deal. For some reason, over the centuries, schnapps had become a vital part of the drink exchange, but in Yofi’s case, they’d also bring Lagavulin and Macallan. He knew my father loved scotch. I knew for a fact there would also be a bottle of 2013 Goût de Diamants in the drinks they brought. Yofi had been so excited to show it off. But it felt like such a waste. Who needed a million-euro bottle of champagne? It was all for show.
In traditional marriages, on the off chance you were granted a divorce by the families, all you really had to do was return the drinks and fill out paperwork for the court. But getting one granted was so difficult.
And I always wanted to know what happened if you drank all the drinks at the reception.
My mother looked stunning in an elegant mother-of-the-bride off-shoulder kente kaba and slit in green, fuchsia, and cream. She also wore beaded dangling feathers from Kenya in her ears, and around her neck was the simple gold cross necklace she always wore.
But even now, she was busy bemoaning the fact that there wouldn’t be cows. I should’ve known she hadn’t really made peace with doing the ceremony in the States.
“Be practical! Where the hell were we going to find a cow in the middle of Manhattan? And where would we put said cow, honestly?” I asked.
I know she thought if Yofi wanted to show off appropriately, his family would have found a way to bring one. Kukua wrapped her arm around me. “Auntie Helen, look at your beautiful daughter. Can’t you leave her be for one small moment?”
My mother sniffed and gathered herself. “I have never been prouder of you than in this moment. When your child looks beyond themselves to the future and future generations, it’s a beautiful thing. I have done what a mother is supposed to do. Soon it will be your turn.”
I heard a lot of hooting and hollering and laughing outside. Kukua leaned toward the window. “Ah yes, they’re presenting the jewels.”
My head throbbed, the stress of the day seeping in. “What are they saying?”
“That before your husband presents these to you as you lay naked on the marriage bed, which is what got all the aunties hollering, he will present them to your family to show that he is worthy of you. Did you know they brought you boudoir clothes to tempt your husband?”
My eyes went wide. “No, they did not.”
Auntie Ruth stepped back, and I propped myself up just in time to see Auntie Phoebe pull something out of the adinkra-decorated chest and hold it up... Oh my God, was that a lace teddy?
My mother laughed. “Ruth, how are we coming?”
I could hear the smile in her voice. “Auntie, we’re almost finished. Doesn’t she look beautiful?”
Mom glanced down at me, and for once, I saw satisfaction on her face. I was making her proud by doing this, by letting her go as wild as she wanted. I loved her. I did want to make her happy. It was just that usually what filled her with joy and what revved me up were at opposite ends. I really hoped this would be the exception. “Are you happy, Mum?”
“As long as you’re happy, that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Kukua tried to hide a giggle behind her hand, because we both knew that what she really meant was that as long as I was getting married to a man like Yofi, she was satisfied.
I loved my parents, but as long as I had been alive, I had never done anything to satisfy the Doctors Addo. There was never a straight-A report card that was enough. The question was always... How can you be better?
Mom made her way back to the door as Auntie Ruth released me. “Ah, and you are finished, my dear,” Auntie Ruth said.
Kukua helped me to the mirror. Wow. The makeup artist had highlighted my cheekbones to perfection. And my hair really did look like the best kind of crown.
I turned to see Kukua was beaming at me. She took my hand as the commotion outside swelled once again. Yofi and his family were arriving. I could feel the drums in my blood, thumping through my veins. I could almost picture the dancers because I had watched them rehearse a thousand times. I moved my feet in time with the beat as I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
When I released my breath and opened my eyes, Kukua met my gaze. “Before we go out there, you know as your cousin and your maid of honor... Honestly, let’s face it, I’m no maid. I like woman of honor, personally.”
I laughed. “Okay, woman of honor it is.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
My brow furrowed. “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”
Her brown eyes bored into my soul. “I’m not saying you don’t, but I know you. You have this deep need to keep your word and see things through. If you have any hesitation whatsoever with any of this, now is the time to say so because I will sneak you out of here so fast.”
Unexpectedly, there was a part of me deep down inside that wanted to scream, Oh my God, yes, please. But that was one percent, the part of me afraid of the unknown, afraid of things that weren’t in my direct control. I was getting married today.
I wanted to get married. I loved Yofi. I did.
I did.
But then a sneaky memory barged in.
A kiss from long ago, from someone who was not Yofi. From someone before Yofi. And just the memory was enough to make me feel ashamed. Deeply. But I swallowed it. From this point forward, I would think only of Yofi. “No. I want to do this. This is the right thing to do.”
Her gaze searched mine, but then she relented. “Okay, if you say so.”
I nodded. “I do,” I said, grinning. “See what I did there?”
She may have rolled her eyes at me, but still, I let my cousin take my hand and lead me toward the drumbeats. I was getting married. And nothing was going to ruin this day for me.
From the B&N Reads Blog
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