“Yes, ma’am,” Ricky said, punching it on. Then, without asking permission, he reached across the table and picked up First Aid.
“So,” he said, opening up the book and flipping idly through the pages. “Shae said your sister got engaged the other day. Didn’t that already happen?”
I snorted.
“Marrying a Ghanaian girl is complicated, okay,” I said. “The day you and I met was right after the Knocking. It’s like . . . the traditional engagement?” I pursed my lips, trying to think of the best way to explain it. “Chris’s dad basically came with him to tell us he was planning on proposing.”
“So . . . ,” Ricky said, “it’s the same as asking permission to propose?” He puffed his chest out, dropped his voice an octave. “Like, ‘Sir, I would like to ask your daughter to marry me’？”
I wagged my head, laughing.
“No,” I insisted. Then I considered it. “Actually, though, maybe? But I don’t know, it’s heavier than that. You have to seal the deal with a drink and everything.”
“What kind of drink?” Ricky asked. He seemed genuinely curious, resting his chin in his palm and giving me his rapt attention. Who would have thought we could come so far in a month—from squabbling on the peds floors to sitting in a coffee shop across from each other, discussing Ghanaian engagement traditions? Maybe he’s storing this away for future reference, Hopeless Angie said in a small voice, and, annoyed, I shoved her back into the hole from which she came.
“Gin,” I said, “or schnapps.” When Ricky’s grin grew devilish, I added hastily, “Not that kind of schnapps.”
“Yeah?” Ricky said. “You mean I can’t go lay claim to a Ghanaian girl without figuring out what schnapps flavor she favors?” He narrowed his eyes, then pointed at me. “You look like a whipped cream kind of gal. Wait, no, peppermint. Definitely into Peppermint Patties.”
I crossed my arms, pretending to take umbrage.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ricky rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“Hear me out,” he said. “I’m guessing you spent most of college hiding away in a library, yeah? Probably not partying too hard. Definitely not wasting your precious study time getting trashed.”
I raised an eyebrow, curious about where he was headed.
“Okay . . . ,” I said.
“Except,” Ricky continued, “on those nights after your big organic chemistry exams, or whatever big premed test you had to take. Those were nights you truly wanted to forget. But you couldn’t stand the taste of liquor, because, unlike your college-aged brethren, you hadn’t spent the last several months burning off your taste buds with bottom-shelf vodka. Enter . . . the Peppermint Patty. Highly efficient and tastes like dessert.”
I winced at the accuracy, recalling a time that Michelle accidentally squirted a line of chocolate syrup down my chin instead of into my mouth at a spring break house party.
“You sound like you have a lot of experience,” I said instead.
“Not really. Just did a lot of people watching back then. Gotta imbibe in moderation, considering I’m genetically predisposed to like it too much,” Ricky said. Then he gestured for me to continue. “So. You give the gin, or maybe the schnapps, and that’s it?”
“We send the rest of the liquor to the head of the family,” I explained. Tabatha’s bottle of schnapps had already been shipped to my great-uncle’s house in Tema. “And then, most times, the groom gets a list.”
“A list?” Ricky asked. Done teasing, he now looked intrigued.
“A bride price,” I clarified. “Stuff he has to get. Like cloth, jewelry, sometimes cash—”
When I glanced back at Ricky’s face, his jaw was practically on the floor.
“Hold up. What you’re saying,” Ricky said, “is that you get sold?”
Now my indignation was real. I closed my laptop with a sharp snap, knowing that I was wont to knock it off the table if I gesticulated any harder.
“No!” I said. “Of course not!”
Ricky was not convinced.
“The guy exchanges money and goods for a woman,” he said, “and that’s not a sale?” He pushed his hair out of his eyes, and I realized that his concern was now genuine. “Angie, I get that it’s tradition and everything, but—”
“You’ve got it totally wrong,” I asserted. I’d really only come to understand my own culture’s engagement practices in the last year, and, though I’d reacted similarly when I first learned about them, I now felt the need to defend them. “It’s the exact opposite. It shows that the woman has value. She’s precious, and whoever intends to marry her needs to earn her first. And it’s not like the family blows the bride price! They put it aside for her in case the guy turns out to be a dud and they need to help her escape.” I scowled. “It’s better than a dowry, where they treat the women like a burden.”