"Massa, come. I've got some nice shirts. They'll fit you well, well," a man calls out to me as Emma and I pick our way out of the Art Center. I smile at him but shake my head and yank her hand as she slows down. "No, you can't stop again," I groan.

We came at my insistence. My mother and sister both wanted me to bring them beads and fabric. I'm leaving for the United Kingdom in two days. My gut twists at the thought, and it's one of my last-minute errands. I've spent the last week getting contracts signed, getting applications filed, and paying hefty customs fees. Today was supposed to be a laid-back day. I didn't know that Emma shopped like it’s her job and would want to buy everything she laid eyes on. It's remarkable to think that ten days ago, she was in the hospital with an IV in her arm.

I'm hot and hungry, almost out of cash and my arms are aching from the packages of fabric, carvings, jewelry, clothes and artwork I'm carrying.

"Oh, but look how beautiful they are," she coos. Her hand slips easily from my sweaty grip and steps into a stall crammed from floor to ceiling with bronze figurines.

"Madam, they are solid brass made here in Accra by my brother. Very fine work." The woman's voice is almost pleading. She looks tired, and she vibrates with desperation.

Emma walks over to one of her walls, and the woman's eyes come to mine. The determination I see in them makes me sag in resignation. She's not going to let us leave without a sale.

"Oh, these are so beautiful,” Emma says softly, her voice audible despite the loud of hum of noise that fills this large outdoor market. Market is a generous word for the cluster of alleys and corridors that have been inhabited by local artists and craftsmen vying for the attention and foreign currency that the people shopping here are loaded with. It's not a place where locals shop, at least not without serious haggling, but it's a great place to find some of the finest examples of Ghana's craftsmanship in the country.

"Harry, look. I love them,” Emma’s arm stretches behind her, her fingers wriggling in a beckoning motion, without taking her eyes off the carvings on the wall.

I come to stand by her and admire them. The craftsmanship is remarkably intricate. Then my eyes land on one in the same shape as her tattoo.

"Can you reach that one for me? Addie would love it, " she murmurs, eyes still glued to the wall.

"No, I can't. My arms are full," I say irritably, but I'm also mesmerized by the carving.

"Madam, I'll go call my husband. He's just there," the lady calls before she runs across the narrow walkway that bisects this strip of the Art Center.

"What does it mean?" I ask her while we wait.

"Look around, see all of the clothes, the carvings, and stuff? Those symbols, they're called Adinkra," she says, her hands coming up to run over the other carvings on the wall. “They express themes, values, histories that belong to the Akan people - that's the group of people who make up the largest ethnic group in Ghana. The one on my back is Fawohdie. My parents gave me a pendant in that symbol when I was a girl." I stare at her profile as she speaks, so softly, her focus on the symbol intense.

"What does it mean?" I repeat, more insistent.

"It's a symbol of freedom and emancipation," she says, her eyes coming to mine for the first time. "Where's your pendant?" I ask her. Her back stiffens, and she looks away from the wall and turns to face the entrance of the stall.

"I don't have it anymore. I lost it," she says. Her jaw twitches, and her sentences are clipped.

“You should get the one up there, I’m sure she’d give you a deal on two.” I glance in the direction the woman had gone.

"I wish she hadn't run off. I don't even want to buy it," she complains irritably, gathering hair in her hand the way she does when she's agitated. She cranes her neck and comes up on her toes as she tries to locate the woman.

"Are you sure? You asked me to get it down for you," I remind her.

"I'm sure. Look, let's just go before she gets back. I don't want either of them," she says and then starts to walk away.

I look around for the woman, feeling guilty about leaving while she's gone, but Emma’s already disappearing through the crowd. I watch her go, knowing she's heading to the car and put down some of the packages I'm carrying. I snag the carving from the wall, look at the price, handwritten on a tiny white sticker on the back, and leave her twice the amount.

I drop it into my pocket, pick up the bags I put down and follow her out.