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

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 Ebony magazines 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?"

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.