The Missing American Read online

  “You always visit Kweku Ponsu, not so?”

  “Yes,” Nii said warily. “Why?”

  “The American man also went to see Ponsu to ask about sakawa boys. And then something happened, and the white man went missing.” Damptey waited for a comment from Nii, but none was forthcoming. “Do you know something about it?” she asked.

  “About what?”

  “That the white man went to see Ponsu. Did Ponsu tell you?”

  Nii shook his head. “No.”

  “Are you sure?” Damptey pressed him.

  “But why are you asking me all this?”

  “If you want my protection, I have to know what you know.”

  “Mummy, I don’t know anything.”

  Damptey started on her meal. “Because people may come around asking questions. I must be prepared. Did you and Ponsu ever discuss what to do about Mr. Gordon?”

  “Never. I swear, Mummy.”

  “What about your friend—Bruno?”

  “No. Bruno is just a small boy. He doesn’t know anything.”

  Damptey licked her fingers, keeping her eye on Nii. “It’s getting more complicated now. More work for me.”

  Nii’s expression was something between weary and resigned. “Okay. I understand. Don’t worry. You’ll get more chop money.”

  Damptey looked away, and then back. “Double,” she said with finality.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Bruno was sweating when he got to Kweku Ponsu’s compound in Shukura past 5 p.m. In one hand he carried a sack containing two bound, squawking chickens. He was late because traffic everywhere in the city was worse than normal due to diversions and street closures for the international conference.

  Bruno walked along a narrow alley, which branched to the left and ended in a courtyard with a single-room house along each of three sides. A muddy enclosure with two gigantic cows made up the fourth. The smell of cow dung hung in the air. A group of men sat in front of one house drinking mint tea, an Arab tradition. They were undoubtedly from Northern Ghana where the majority Muslim peoples were nomadic cattle raisers by custom—hence the cows.

  One of the men asked Bruno what he wanted.

  “Please, I’m looking for Kweku Ponsu.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Please, when will he come?”

  “I don’t know the time. You can wait for him.” The guy got up and dragged an extra chair over. “Maybe you can call him too,” he suggested.

  “Thank you,” Bruno said, putting down the sack. It shifted around each time the hens made a pointless attempt to break free.

  Bruno sat and tried Kweku’s number, but it went unanswered. He browsed through Instagram and Facebook for a while until his battery started to get low, at which point he switched off his phone.

  The men played checkers in the gathering gloom until finally one of them switched on a bare bulb over the front door of the house. The time was almost 6:20 p.m. Bruno was wondering if he should wait any longer when one of the board game players received a text from Kweku saying he was almost there. In Ghanaian time, that could mean another hour, but fortunately he appeared after only thirty minutes.

  In real life, Kweku was smaller than he had seemed to Bruno when he had seen him on YouTube. He walked quickly and his carriage was so erect as to appear angled slightly backward.

  He glanced around the compound and spotted his guest. “Are you Bruno?”

  Bruno stood up. “Yes please.”

  “You brought the hens?”

  Bruno pointed at the sack.

  “Okay,” Kweku said. “You can leave them there. Come with me.” Bruno followed as Kweku unlocked the door of the house.

  “One moment,” Kweku said. “Let me turn on the light.”

  The naked bulb revealed a single room with a bed, an old chest of drawers, and in the corner, a battered chair to which Kweku pointed. “Have a seat.”

  With legs crossed, Kweku sat on the floor opposite Bruno and reached left to a pile of objects.

  He held up one of them. “Do you know what this is?”

  It was dull tan in color and shaped like a hammer with a short handle and rounded head.

  “No please,” Bruno said.

  “It’s the thigh bone of a child,” Kweku told him. “We do many things with it.”

  Bruno hesitated. “Please, how do you get it? The bone, I mean.”

  “From the hospital morgue.” Kweku’s diction was languid, quite unlike his rigid physical bearing. “We know people there. If we ask them for something, they bring it to us.”

  Bruno nodded. “I see.”

  Next, Kweku showed him another item, which was obviously the well-worn skull of some kind of bird.

  “It’s a hen’s head from one of our sacrifices,” Kweku said. “Like what you brought today.” He put that down. “We also have special beads and cowry shells. Later, you will know what we use them for.”

  “Yes please.”

  “I know your friend Nii Kwei very well,” the priest went on. “It’s good you are here, but what is your mission? What do you want?”

  Bruno cleared his throat. “I want to be powerful and get plenty Internet money.”

  “Have you started doing the Internet thing?”

  “Not yet. I have been training with Nii.”

  “Good,” Kweku said, scrutinizing Bruno. “You want to be rich?”

  “Yes please. I want Range Rover and Bentley and three houses.”

  Kweku nodded. “Then you will have to be very good at what you do. You must believe and be strong. You see, some of the things I do, if you don’t take care, the power you get will be too much and it will take you down. Like the sea is a friend to a fisherman, but if the sea becomes rough, it can also overwhelm him. You get me? You must believe completely. If you have any fear—any fear at all—inside, you will fail.”

  “Yes please.”

  “And what again do you want?”

  “Women. Plenty.”

  “Everybody want that. That one be tough. For that one, you need this.” He leaned over and reached under the bed, dragging out a huge skull that startled Bruno.

  “This one,” Kweku said, “is from a crocodile. If you wear this around your neck for one month, you will get women. In fact, you will be famous, and everyone will want to be with you.”

  “Wow,” Bruno said, impressed. “How did you get this big crocodile head?”

  “We go to the Pra or Ankobra River,” Kweku said, sliding the skull back under the bed. “We catch a baby one after it comes out of the egg and then we grow it here.”

  “Grow it here?” Bruno echoed, glancing around as if a live crocodile might be in the room.

  Kweku smiled. “We have one outside. You want to see it?”

  Bruno suppressed a flinch and nodded, already remembering the admonishment against fear. He followed Kweku outside around the cow enclosure to a sheltered cubbyhole full of trash, scrap metal, and a rusty bathtub. Kweku removed the rectangular plank and metal pan sitting on top of it, revealing a grate resting on the rim of the tub. With his phone, Kweku illuminated the reptile within. It was dark gray with a waxy hide and muscular legs pressed against its sides by the tub, which was altogether too small. A black, oozing fluid partially covered the beast’s legs. For a moment, the crocodile didn’t move, but all of a sudden it raised its snout, opened its jagged mouth and hissed. Bruno’s hairs stood on end, but he didn’t step back because he knew Ponsu was observing him for his reaction.

  “It’s big,” Bruno said.

  “This is nothing,” Kweku boasted. “It will grow even more. We call him Frankie.”

  “Then you will have to find a bigger container for it. What do you give it to eat?”

  “Chickens.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can you face this c
rocodile?”

  “What do you mean ‘face it?’” Bruno asked, looking at Kweku.

  “For the best powers and the most success, you should wear the crocodile skull, but it has to be a crocodile you have killed. So, you will have to be the one to do it.”

  Bruno licked his lips nervously. “How?”

  “I drag him by the tail on the ground, then when I tell you, you cut the neck with a cutlass. One strike only.”

  Bruno nodded, his heart pounding. “Okay.”

  A one-sided smile played at Kweku’s lips. “Are you sure? When I brought Nii Kwei to see the crocodile, he ran away.”

  Bruno joined Kweku in laughter. He could just picture the scene. “Please, I want to ask you something, Mr. Ponsu.”

  “Yes?” Kweku’s phone beam was dying, so he switched it off. Now they were in almost complete darkness.

  “Let’s say,” Bruno began, “me and you, we kill the crocodile.”

  “Eh-heh? Go on.”

  “If that be the case, then can I meet Godfather?”

  Kweku released a small gasp, switched the phone light back on and trained it on Bruno’s face. “Heh! Who told you to ask me that?” Kweku grasped Bruno’s bottom jaw. “Who told you?”

  Bruno shook his head. “No one,” he tried to say. Kweku released him. “You want to meet Godfather?”

  “Yes please.”

  Kweku snorted. “You small boys, you think everything is so easy, eh? Even after you kill the crocodile se’f, you won’t be ready.”

  “Then when, please?”

  “You have to prove yourself,” Kweku said irritably. “You have to be better than all the rest in order to see Godfather. Most of the sakawa boys are not good enough. Only those who make a lot of money or can do all the rituals.”

  “Okay, then I will do that.”

  Kweku turned away with a grunt. “You think it’s so easy. But it’s not.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  May 19

  Emma and Derek Ubered to the Flamingo Lodge in affluent Labone where Poem Van Landewyck had agreed to meet them. The house stood in a shady cul-de-sac of neem trees and frangipani. A wall topped with an electric fence encircled the property.

  As the Uber driver dropped them off at the driveway, Poem was waiting for them just inside the entrance of the front gate. She was the tallest woman Emma had ever seen, elegant in a vanilla pants suit and swept-up blonde and gray hair.

  “Welcome,” she said, smiling. “You must be Derek.”

  “Hello, Poem,” he said, shaking hands. “Good to finally meet in person. This is Emma Djan, the private investigator I’ve hired to find my father.”

  “Good morning, Emma,” Poem said with approval. “Are you a solo investigator?” She had a Ghanaian-Euro accent.

  “I’m with the Sowah Agency,” Emma said.

  “I believe I’ve heard of it,” Poem said. “Please come in. I don’t have a tenant for a couple of days, so we can sit inside.”

  The house really was flamingo in color and looked especially striking with its dark, energy-saving windows. As they followed Poem in, Emma couldn’t help but admire the polished wood floors, soft leather chairs, and fluted window blinds. The kitchen had a large, stainless steel stove with a matching refrigerator. I need a home like this, Emma thought, and then checked herself for coveting “thy neighbor’s house.”

  “This is beautiful, Poem,” Derek said. “No wonder Dad chose you. How did he find you?”

  “Google,” Poem said. “Isn’t that how everyone finds everything? Can I offer either of you some espresso?”

  “Yes, please,” Derek said. “I haven’t had my coffee this morning.”

  Emma, who wasn’t sure what an espresso was, declined and took a glass of iced water instead. She didn’t understand the whole coffee business and she stared with curiosity at Poem manipulating the gleaming, hissing machine on the kitchen counter. What on earth was she doing?

  “Oh, my God,” Derek said as he took his first sip and closed his eyes in bliss. “This is amazing, Poem.”

  She smiled, crossing her long legs. “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you for seeing us. We appreciate it.”

  Poem rested her own cup. “So, tell me how I can help because I want to. I enjoyed having your father here, and it’s worrying that he’s gone missing. It’s why I called you and I’m so relieved that he put you down as his contact in case of emergency.”

  “I am too,” Derek said. “Did he tell you the story of what had happened to him?”

  “After a couple of days here, yes—this so-called Helena he thought he was coming to meet. I was furious—not at him, but at whoever had pulled off the scam on him. It’s happening more and more now, and it is really spoiling our name in Ghana. I asked your dad if he’d reported it to the American Embassy and he said he had, and that they had told him they would be forwarding the case to CID.”

  Derek glanced at Emma. “Speaking of which, did a CID detective called Doris Damptey ever get in touch with you, Poem?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I believe that was her name. She called and we spoke on the phone once, but after that I heard nothing else.”

  “Figures,” Derek said, shaking his head.

  “And unfortunately,” Poem continued, “in these situations of crimes against foreign nationals, standard procedure for the embassies is to refer the cases to CID. They can’t do any investigating themselves—at least that’s what their official policy is.”

  “By any chance, did Dad give you the name of his contact person at the embassy?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Sir,” Emma said to Derek, “I think it will be good if we can track down the person your father spoke to over there.”

  “I agree,” he said. “I’ll call the number on the embassy website. Poem, just so I know I have the dates right, would it be March second that Dad arrived here?”

  “Let me see,” Poem said, reaching for her phone and her glasses on the coffee table.

  Looking through the lenses halfway down her nose, she scrolled through her iPhone calendar. “Yes, that’s the date I have. I spoke to him the evening before and he arrived in the morning.”

  Derek looked at Emma. “That would match up with what you found out at Kempinski.”

  Poem looked from one to the other. “What’s that?”

  “Emma went to the hotel—” Derek cut himself off. “Well, I’ll let her tell you the story.”

  Emma described to Poem what maître d’ Zeneba had related about Gordon’s apparently hurried departure after a phone call interrupted his dinner at the restaurant one evening.

  “I see,” Poem said.

  “You live offsite, right?” Derek asked her.

  “Correct. Airport Residential.”

  “So, you probably wouldn’t have been aware if anyone significant came to see my dad here, am I right?”

  “Well, yes and no,” Poem answered. “It’s true I don’t live next door, but I come by the house almost every morning to check that everything’s working correctly. I also touch base with the night watchman before he goes off duty. He would have told me if your father had any visits.”

  “He went up to Akosombo on or about March twenty-seventh,” Derek said. “Were you aware of that, Poem?”

  “Yes, I was. Actually a few days before he left, he said he was going there to talk to someone about these sakawa boys—someone who lives in Atimpoku, near Akosombo, and he wondered if I’d ever heard of the guy. I said no, but I strongly advised against going to see any shady characters.”

  Emma asked, “Madam, did Mr. Tilson give you the name of the man he was going to see at Atimpoku?”

  “I think he said Kweku or Kwame Pouncer—something of that sort.”

  Emma snapped her fingers. “No, not Pouncer. I think what he was s
aying was ‘Ponsu.’ Kweku Ponsu.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  “Kweku Ponsu does very well for himself,” Yemo Sowah said.

  Emma and Derek had returned to the office after leaving Poem. That Gordon might have gone to Akosombo to make contact with Ponsu was significant.

  “He’s a charismatic but controversial guy,” Sowah continued, “who often insults conventional clergy and other traditional priests, challenging them to what he calls ‘miracle contests’ where he supposedly pits his powers against theirs. He’s a lot of sound and fury. You either love or hate him, but he gets more than his share of love from his sakawa followers.”

  “What does he actually do for them?” Derek asked.

  “Supposedly he has an almost perfect record of turning sakawa boys into success stories. Accordingly, they flock to him and collectively they pay him a lot of money.”

  Derek grunted. “So, he’s part of all these scams?”

  “In that he enables the scammers, yes. But as far as I know, he doesn’t practice the scams themselves.”

  Derek looked perplexed. “I still don’t get how Ponsu helps the sakawa guys. He teaches them better techniques of ripping off people’s money or what?”

  “Sakawa boys will only say that Ponsu is one of their most effective intermediaries between the physical and spirit world,” Sowah said, “and so he procures the best powers from the gods, so to speak.”

  Derek snorted with derision. “Sounds like hokum to me.”

  “Well, it does to us,” Sowah said. “We’re not in that world, so it’s difficult for us to understand.”

  “It almost sounds like you’re giving them some credibility.”

  “Maybe, but not legitimacy,” Sowah responded. “There’s a difference.”

  “You’re right,” Derek said with a little more humility.

  “Bottom line is,” Sowah continued, “we have to find Ponsu and question him. He has two shrines—one smaller one here in Shukura in Accra, and a larger one in Atimpoku, his hometown and where he started out.”

  “How soon can we do that?” Derek said.

  “Emma and I will go to Shukura tomorrow morning, but if he’s at Atimpoku at the moment, we’ll proceed there immediately.”