ACCRA, GHANA
Rich .
It was the sole descriptor for the sensation pirating my soul as I stepped off of the plane.
Accra, Ghana, was exquisite. Absolutely nothing like what colonizers in the West perpetuated, the city was rich with modernization. The hospitality was top-tier, and so was the level of peace. Fresh off the tarmac, Duke and I were led to the rear of an SUV. Once inside, he opened his laptop and buried himself in emails.
En route to our hotel, the Kempinski, I learned Duke owned several rigs off the coast of Ghana in Cape Three Points. We were in the capital to discuss a potential buyout with a seller. Afterward, he promised more adventure. More fun.
“Will we be going to where your rigs are located?”
“I hope not,” he returned, looking up from his laptop. There isn’t much out there. Cape Three Points is a small peninsula city in West Ghana. There isn’t much going on out that way. It’s a pretty sleepy beach town,” he explained.
“I love sleepy beach towns.”
“Not this one babe. Ain’t much out there,” he revealed. “It’s slower than Portofino.”
Returning his attention to the computer screen, he didn’t offer much else.
“I know you’re a busy man. Handle your business.”
“I brought you something to keep you occupied as well.”
Reaching into his laptop bag, he pulled out another device. My laptop .
“How did you—”
“The same way I acquired your passport. I’ve had it the entire time we were in Italy,” he laughed, dodging a neck pillow I tossed in his direction.
“Seriously, Duke? Do you know how much stuff I could have been working on?”
“Baby…” He shifted in his seat to face me. “The work ain’t going nowhere, and neither is the bag you desire to obtain from it. Don’t work too hard.”
Grinning, he reached forward into one of the small pockets of his bag and handed me my blue light cat-eye glasses.
“I‘ll try,” I smirked and rolled my eyes, opening my laptop and immediately pulling up my work email.
One busy entrepreneur became two in the backseat as we made our way through the crowded streets of Accra. The metropolis city was a hub. Fast-paced and slightly Westernized, I was reminded of home.
Finally, we made it to Kempinski, the hotel we were slated to stay in. With Duke busy on Zoom calls with members of his board, I tried to focus on my own burgeoning tasks. It proved fruitless. Too distracted by the thrill of being in a new country, I directed my focus on absorbing our new environment instead.
I shut down my laptop and slid back into my sandals. Paired with the midi D&G jean dress, it highlighted my body’s assets perfectly. Waving at Duke, I headed for the door to exit the hotel room.
“Hold on,” he said, speaking to the people on his Zoom call. He muted his computer and turned off his camera. Standing, he headed in my direction.
“Where you going?”
“I was just gonna explore and have a stroll around the hotel.”
“Give me a second.”
A few taps on his phone and an answered call later, he was ordering someone to escort me around the hotel grounds.
“Duke, that’s not necessary,” I fussed.
“You let me be concerned with what is and isn’t needed. Stay with your security detail, Bee. If you aren’t back once I wrap things up here, I’m putting out a BOLO for your ass.”
“Okay,” I chuckled.”
“My name is Biram. I will guide you through the grounds of Kempinski and anywhere else should you desire.”
“Nice to meet you, Biram.” Smiling at the black-as-night gunman with flawless white teeth and even richer skin awarded me a curt nod and huge grin. I’d never seen skin so immaculate. Africa was king of all things melanin.
Biram and I walked through the beautiful Kempinski lobby. A fully stocked bar and lounge area with flat screens comprised the space. During our stroll, a server approached us, offering complimentary drinks. While my henchman declined, happily, I accepted.
We breezed through the central courtyard and returned inside, where I learned an art gallery existed. Gallery 1957 featured beautiful African art in the form of tapestries, a host of sculptures, and paintings. I spent most of my time perusing the space, admiring the different works, and thinking about Duke.
Our expedition together had been frighteningly swift. Six weeks ago, I was lamenting over a depreciating dating scene. Now, without a doubt, I’d found my person. And while twelve years my senior, he was anything but old . Duke loved adventure and spontaneity as much as I did. His fervor and ardor for life ran as deep as his dick in between my walls. Our similarities were in excess despite our age difference.
He’d heightened the bar, making it impossible for anyone to compete where he was concerned. He was the bar. The overwhelming sense of safety in his presence, his thoughtfulness, his gentleness which never competed with his firmness, his sage advice, the healthy masculinity he wielded… It was all I wanted from the man of my dreams. He’d been all that and more.
Duke’s presence in my world taught me that home wasn’t a place but undeniably a person. The warmth felt between his arms left me homesick each time I was away for too long.
Thinking of him fretfully caused my thoughts to shift to his ex-wife. Considerable anger and jealousy rode me, but I couldn’t place why or where it had come from. Instead of dwelling on it, my thoughts shifted to the man who’d brought me to Accra. He was becoming my greatest and latest session. In the short half hour away from his presence, I missed him.
“I think I’ll return to the room now,” I informed Biram.
He followed closely behind, granting me enough space for privacy with my thoughts. My feet were speedy. Down the halls and up the elevator, I hurried in a race to return to my man. In a flash, I was at the door outside of our room.
“Thank you for the escort, Biram. You were great company.”
At the door of our room, I bid my hospitable henchman goodbye and reentered the room to find Duke’s Zoom call had ended. Sprawled across the bed, his arms covered his face. Assuming he was asleep, I sat at the desk with my laptop, prepared to busy myself with work.
“Did you enjoy your tour of the grounds?”
The velvety baritone wafted across the room, serenading my ears, elevating my cheeks, and reviving a pulse between my legs.
“I did. I thought you were sleeping.” Turning toward the bed, I fought and failed to hide my smile. Creeping up his legs, I didn’t stop until I was straddling his waist.
“Nah. Just waiting for you to get back. Are you hungry?” He asked, pulling my chin down to meet his for a kiss.
“I could eat.”
“Good. Let’s go before you get stuck in work mode.”
“Why do you get to work and I don’t?” I fussed.
“I have boundaries when it comes to work. You don’t.”
Frowning, I considered his words. He was right. I didn’t know how to shut off work mode once I stepped into it. I worked until I wore myself out. It was a flaw I needed to fix.
We journeyed into the local area of Accra and bought waakye to eat. Duke swore by it, claiming I wouldn’t be disappointed by the flavor profile. Beans, rice, fried plantain, spaghetti noodles, shito—a spicy black pepper sauce, a boiled egg, and garri made the famed meal. It reminded me of a mixture of various Caribbean foods.
“What do you think?”
“It’s good,” I said, slurping up a noodle. I was too busy enjoying it to offer anything further.
The remainder of our afternoon was spent taking a drumming class. The first part comprised learning about the drum-making process. We watched as a Djembe –a type of Ghanian drum– was sculpted from a raw tree trunk. Duke even assisted in the process, swinging the axe a time or three. Chopping wood . Flexing his caramel muscles. Allowing the sun to kiss his skin. Glistening under the light sweat he broke.
I may have egged him on. He looked so damn irresistible doing hard labor. Drum making was no simple process, requiring an impressive amount of hard labor to create the instruments responsible for such a beautiful sound. The intricate carving often required the use of one’s entire body, but the end result was so worth it.
During the second leg of our class, we learned all there was to know about the history of talking drums, Kpanlogo, and Djembe drums. Our instructor taught us the complexity of playing the instruments and what the different sounds meant. The Ghanaian sun had skillfully depleted us towards the end of the class. Afterward, we returned to the hotel, where we both showered and took a nap.
The following day, Duke and I parted ways at the start of our morning. As he headed for his meeting with the rig salesmen, Biram and I headed for a braid appointment in North Accra. Armed with my laptop and no Duke to distract me, my goal was set. The next task on my to-do list prior to our vacation was finalizing plans for the charity auction at Vivid .
With five extraordinary ladies working on my head, the thigh-length braids were installed as I worked on my laptop. While they diligently completed their tasks, I diligently completed mine. Every two hours, I needed a stretch and walk around the shop to prevent my ass from falling asleep, but it was worth it.
Duke called three hours into my appointment. His appearance across my phone’s screen caused the women to ooh and ahh as I helplessly smiled.
“Busy Bee, when will you be finished?”
“Are you missing me, Duke Stepford, III?”
“Hell yeah, I miss you. I wanted to take you on a date.”
The salon erupted with more oohs and ahhs . I blushed. Duke chuckled. In turn, my head was shifted, and I was scolded to remain still.
“I’ma let you get back to it,” he announced. “Hopefully, it’s not too late before you’re finished.”
The entire braiding process took six hours —a much shorter time than it would have taken in the States with a single braider fulfilling the task. Once the ladies were finished, I tried to pay an earnest tip on top of the thirty US dollars it cost to do my hair, but all five women refused —the tip and the pay.
“We are paid and tipped already,” one of them explained with light brown eyes that reminded me of Duke. “It would be greed to accept your cash.”
Duke had struck again, paying in full for their service before I even arrived at the spot. Seeking no further explanation, I gathered my belongings, thanked everyone, and left the salon. The culprit responsible for their hesitation was not far away.
Awaiting my return downstairs, Duke’s eyes were affixed to a soccer game on one of the televisions near the bar until my arrival. Pristine teeth plowed into plush pink lips upon noting my presence. Passion colored his features as he watched me sashay into the lobby. His eyes brimmed with an appetite far more ravenous than anything I’d ever witnessed. The lowered lids on my breathtakingly fine man voiced salacious desires.
I’m in fucking trouble .
“I like your braids, Bumble Bee,” lowly he confessed.
“Do you?” I teased, diminishing the expanse of space between us.
Pressing a drink to his lips, his gaze remained trained on me and my thigh-length braids. From my thighs upward, Duke’s eyes raked continuously. Up and down, his orbs caressed and finally held me. Refusing to free me, those warm rounds stayed trained on my frame as I approached. Such merciless captivity caused destruction in the seat of my panties.
His appearance failed to aid in my dilemma. White cargo pants, a Ferragamo polo, a Kangol baseball hat, and cognac sock-free loafers with a matching Ferragamo belt styled him to perfection. His maturity spoke volumes. It was in the way he dressed, the way he spoke, and his aura. Fuck if I wasn’t aroused by a man complicit in his masculinity and sex appeal.
As I neared, he rose.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Licking his lips, he inched closer. “How bright is that red light?”
“Duke, my period is just—”
“—What?” He asked, tugging me closer to his frame. “It’s not a matter of if you’re getting fucked. It’s simply a question of how messy it’ll be,” he whispered dangerously close to my ear.
“Tomorrow. I’ll be all clear tomorrow.”
“I didn’t ask you that, Bee,” he whispered, nipping my ear.
“I’m spotting.”
“Good,” he grinned. “Let’s go.”
Hand in hand, we slipped outside into the torrid rage of Ghana’s fall season. Outside, the flies didn’t even bother to nettle. The heat had discouraged their mission. Newscasters avowed rain, but the thirty-four percent chance of a drizzle seemed more folly than truth.
An SUV arrived, and after speaking briefly with the driver and Biram, Duke opened the back door to permit our entry. Biram took the front passenger seat. Swiftly, the humble yet handsome guard was becoming as familiar as a friend. I was glad to see him accompany us.
As the SUV moved through traffic, I couldn’t shake the fire from Duke’s gaze. He wanted me, and I couldn’t shake how much I wanted him.
“If we didn’t have such a short ride, you’d be riding this shit right now, Bee,” he said, gripping the massive hammer between his legs.
I knew what I was getting into from the moment I saw him on that stage. I knew Duke was a freak. What I hadn’t expected was how much of a freak I was turning out for him .
With the partition raised, I had no problem leaning in and freeing his dick from his pants. The veiny caramel tool with a reddish undertone caused my mouth to water. Parting my lips wide, I stuffed my mouth, getting my fill until he hit the back of my throat.
“Shit, Bee.”
My head bobbed and weaved as we weaved through traffic en route to the airport. Greedily, I sucked his dick, swirling my tongue around the tip each time I lifted.
Unglued from my typical poised demeanor, I sucked and slurped absent a care in the world. My wet mouth was hungry for the taste of him, and he tasted so fucking good. Each time I fed him to the back of my throat, it triggered my gag reflex. Duke was a big boy. Choking was inevitable, but it bothered me none. Each moan of pleasure from his mouth made my pussy wetter. His dick grew harder. My sucks got tighter. Better. He was unmanning before me while I made a mess in his lap.
“ Bee .”
Thrusting upward as he gripped my braids, I felt the heat of his sweet nut shoot down my throat.
Wiping my mouth, I lifted my head and stared Duke down with a satisfied smirk. He was panting with lidded eyes, wholly surprised and apprised by my oral skills.
“You dangerous, girl,” he sighed, stuffing himself back in his pants.
Arriving at the airport, where a private flight took us to Northern Ghana. Mole National Park was the destination.
“A safari,” Duke answered when I asked where we were headed for the umpteenth time.
“A safari? Like with lions and giraffes and shit?”
“This one is more like elephants, hippos, and baboons. There are a few lions, but they aren’t often seen. It’s an elephant conservatory.”
Excitement filled my bones. Having never experienced a safari, I was thrilled to share the new adventure with Duke. Over the last couple of weeks, several new experiences were shared with my man. Learning and exploring with one another heightened our intimacy.
A one-hour flight took us to Tamale. Drinks and a light snack were offered in-flight. I opted for peanuts.
“And for you, dad?” The flight attendant asked.
Initially unaware of who she’d been addressing, I looked around the cabin, seeing few men fit the description. Upon realizing she’d been referring to Duke, my face crumpled. Refusing to respond, Duke cleared his throat and laughed. I, however, didn’t find the shit funny.
“He’s not my dad.”
The flight attendant’s face crumpled with understanding and embarrassment. One hand and then another, she covered her mouth.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Maybe you should stick to formality instead of assumptions,” I suggested, feeling the orange undertone of my cheeks crimson.
She scurried away after taking Duke’s request for water. Unfazed, her comment hadn’t bothered him. I couldn’t say the same for me. His hand fenced around mine once she was gone, though he said nothing. Words weren’t required. Words were hardly required. In the short span of our time together, he’d become adept at gauging my moods. He knew I was pissed off.
The elevation of my body’s heat and the jittering of my nerves prompted me to seek the restroom to calm myself. Safely inside the privacy of the tiny lavatory, I dampened napkins and pressed them toward my face and chest in an attempt to cool my heated skin.
Dad .
It shouldn’t have upset me the way it did, but I was human, and my feelings were valid. Arguably, Duke gave off an addictively healthy masculine energy. From his ceaseless advice to his anecdotal stories, I would tease him and sometimes respond with “ Yes, Dad .” Still, he was a far cry from any resemblance to a father seated beside me.
Maybe it was the grays in his beard. I loved that shit. Obsessed over it. Raked my fingers through it when we cuddled. But concerns about our relationship in the eyes of outsiders bloomed like weeds in unkept grass. Enjoying his company and sharing his happiness—those were things that kept the fruitless seeds at bay.
Once our world tour was over, those concerns about our age difference and other people’s opinions—namely, my family’s opinion—would still be there, waiting to be addressed.
Three raps against the restroom door shattered my blank stare in the mirror.
“Bee?”
“I’m—I’m coming,” I announced, fighting with the lock to open the door.
“You good, baby?”
“I’m okay,” I returned, finally getting the door open.
With his face cased in concern, the thick, bushy brows threatened to connect. “You sure?” He probed, pecking my lips.
“I’m fine,” I assured as we returned to our seats, though the sight of the flight attendant made me shift slightly.
Duke’s fingers interlocked with mine, bringing the back of my palm to his lips. “Don’t let that shit get to you.”
Without my speaking, he knew what weighed on my heart. He always knew. The intensity and authenticity of our connection couldn’t be denied. Permitting a stranger to disrupt that was senseless. Our connection didn’t need an explanation, nor did it require validation.
“Fuck her.”
He was right, but every time I saw the flight attendant, I was reminded of what awaited me at home. While I didn’t care what my family thought, their acceptance of Duke would give me ease in a world that was already seemingly against our union.
Why the fuck did people care ? Why did it matter ? Why were people so invested in business that didn’t concern them ? Would my family react the same ? They were questions that swirled endlessly, putting a damper on my mood.
The flight to Tamale could not have ended sooner. Relief to be freed from the confines of the small plane was evident in my hasty steps toward the exit. From Tamale, we met a tour guide who drove us on a two-hour ride to Mole National Park. On the drive, Duke hawked me relentlessly, concerned about my shift in mood.
“You look like you need an attitude adjustment,” he joked.
“ Maybe ,” I agreed, trying not to get too lost in my head.
Zaina Lodge was our final destination. For the two nights that we’d be at the park, the lodge’s chalets would be our sleeping place. Far from a typical lodge, the central area resembled a hotel. The accommodations were both contemporary and beautiful. A gorgeous dining area was erected above a 360 view of the savanna, complete with pool loungers overlooking an infinity pool.
The lodge itself was tranquil, disturbed only by the occasional sound of exotic birds. After a long morning getting my hair done and unexpected travel to Northern Accra, such a vibe was necessary.
Hand in hand, Duke, led by Biram, walked us around the facility before we finally retired to our resting place.
The amenities took me by surprise when Duke mentioned we were staying in a tent. Instantly, my mind thought of mosquitoes, bugs, and heat. Undeniable and sometimes unbearable, the heat and humidity in Ghana were.
Luxury shirked my expectations. The tent was nothing as I’d imagined. At my expense, Duke cleared a deep laugh as my jaw dropped upon seeing the “ tent .”
This wasn’t camping. This was glamping.
A large chalet tent suite comprised our private lodging. Modern in style and resembling an A-frame house, the tents were made with a unique blend of traditional building methods, canvas, and safari styling by employing the surrounding local communities.
A private indoor and outdoor shower was available to us alongside air conditioning, a ceiling fan, a television, Wi-Fi, an in-room safe, a minibar, and a telephone. Adorned with Ghanaian décor and modern furnishings, the chalet’s quality both stunned and appealed to me.
“Must you be so perfect?” I asked Duke after doing a second and third once-over of the chalet.
“Woah, baby. Don’t hold me to that standard.”
“You are perfect. Perfect for me.”
“I’m not perfect, Bee. I just think ahead and plan really well. I had to push the safari to tomorrow since these,” he paused, running his hands affectionately through my braids—“goddess tresses took away several hours from our commute time. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t,” I smiled, inching toward the bed and laying back on what felt like heaven. Paired with the sun and the activities of our morning and early afternoon, my energy was thoroughly depleted.
Stripped down to bare skin, Duke and I showered and collapsed in bed afterward, not bothering with the nuisance of clothes. Far too drained for sexual activity, we spooned and drifted off to sleep.
The shrill of baboons and various bird species summoned me from slumber. Their calls were endless, absent any regard for tiresome souls. Rising before the sun, I stretched, yawned, and sought my favorite person as of late.
Fully dressed in khakis, a polo, and hiking boots, I located Duke in the bathroom.
“Good morning,” he greeted amidst a glob of spit and toothpaste he freed and immediately cleared from the sink.
From behind, I wrapped my arms around him, interlocking my fingers in place and offering no words. Slowly and assuredly, physical touch was becoming a staple on a growing list of desires for how to begin my day. That skin-to-skin contact with Duke was as potent as a cup of blackened coffee.