Excerpt from Daughter in Exile by Bisi Adjapon, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Part One

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 had introduced 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?"

Excerpted from Daughter in Exile by Bisi Adjapon. Copyright © 2023 by Bisi Adjapon. Excerpted by permission of HarperVia. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.