The wooden doors creaked open as I helped Margaret fold them back. I cautiously turned the key in the bulky metal lock, freeing the gate from the weight that protected the inner workings of the shack from the starlight of the previous night. The haze was just beginning to list itself from the dirt roads that maze their way through Accra, giving way to the sun as it nestled itself in the cloudless sky. We carried boxes of water bottles out to the front porch, strategically stacking them one on top of the other. Margaret's white shift brought light to the dark space between the front area and storage space of the shack. We took a seat in the shade, next to the Coke bottles and Fanta selection, waiting for the first customer at First Choice Ent. to begin the day. I was officially a shack girl. And so the story goes.

It isn't often that my heart finds it's perfect counterpart. But it did last week here in Ghana when the window of our passing van framed a sign that read "Sales Girl Wanted." The painted white letters stood out against the rectangular slab of dark wood. And after moments, or in some instances after days, of convincing my fellow travelers that my desire to be that sales girl was indeed genuine, I delved into a journey that brings me to tell this tale.

I made my way back to the store several days after seing the sign with hopes of a bright future with the shack. Little did I know as I stepped through the gate of our NYU complex that I had actually forgotten the precise location of the shack. Nonetheless, my feet guided me to the academic center in recollection that I had seen the shack nearby. One of our van drivers saw me walking in wide-eyed confusion after failing to find my dream destination. I told him of my shacking whoas. He thought he knew which place I was speaking of, so took me without hesitation. Upon request by the sales woman I now know as Margaret, I returned to the shack later that evening to meet with the owner, who then rejected me on account that I am apparently "too white" and "too beautiful" and this would not be a good job for me.
"No, really," I said. "This is a great job for me."
"Why do you say that?" she replied.
"Because I have sold things before. I used to sell knives."
I tried to sway her with my skills and amiability, but the best we could leave with was a smile. Fortunately, the driver left his phone number.

He received a call later that day. I was to come back the following evening to meet again. And thus, to my surprise, I was hired.

I was taught the usual shack duties this morning. I observed how to open a Coke bottle, how to sweep the floor, and how to greet the customers. They are simple tasks, but not to be taken lightly as they are crucial to the business's success. A man delivered the paper in the early morning, but I was instantly distracted from my flirtation with The Daily Guide by Margaret's request to play Scrabble.
"How will we keep score?" I asked as I noticed the lack of writing implements in our vicinity. "No, no, no," she said. "We don't keep score."
The spelling games began.

The morning was filled with the comings and goings of customers. Children on their way to school sauntered in with their mothers to grab a quick snack. Businessmen stopped by for a Malta Guinness, and the sounds of passing traffic filled the warming air with life. I felt comfortable in my pale yellow apron as I shaded the left side of my body from the sun. My eyes flicked across the Scrabble board, searching for a suitable combination of words. Margaret and I exchanged thoughts and I came to learn that we are both twenty. I am the youngest of two, and she is the youngest of five. When she smiles her face lifts itself, drawing attention to her eyes. She speaks softly, and was glad to have company today. She works from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. And I never heard her complain.

"You are invited to a mini party," a man said as he poored his Malta into a glass. His laugh filled the shade in which he sat. "Would you like to share a drink?"
I lifted my eyes from the board. He had been sitting reading the paper for several minutes, but we had not spoken until then. The ensuing conversation consisted of politics and economy, culture and cooking, travels and swimming pools.
"But tell me," he said. "What is it that women want most in life?"
"Well that's a great question," I replied. "I have enough trouble knowing what I want. It is a big responsibility to speak for all of womankind."
"Name three things you want most," he said. "Just the top three wishes you have."
"I guess the first thing would be that I want an adventurous and successful career that will allow me to provide for my family. The second thing is that I want to raise healthy children. And the third thing...well I guess the third is that I want to save the world."

What I should have said is that I just want to live my life as a shack girl. We passed the morning with laughs and appreciated the goodness of each others company.