Sleep Well, My Lady Read online

“You know I care a lot about you, Araba,” he said. “These special little times we spend together are just for us and for God, right? It’s not for others to know about because they won’t understand. They’ll say you’re a bad girl, but I know and you know that you are good.”

  He pulled Araba’s hand toward him to make her touch him, but she wriggled from his grip. Soon Araba became aware of the other sound—him stroking himself. She dared not look. She fixed her gaze elsewhere as Daddy spluttered and gasped—a strange choking noise pushed down against itself.

  He stood up, kissed her on the forehead, switched off the light, and left without another word. Outside in the hallway, Araba heard him say, “What are you doing there?”

  “Nothing, nothing.” It was Mama, speaking timidly. “I thought I heard a noise, so I came to see if everything was okay.”

  “Well, everything is fine,” he said tersely. “Go back to bed.”

  Mama’s steps retreated, and then Araba heard Daddy going downstairs. Her parents did not sleep in the same room, let alone the same bed.

  Araba brought her knees up to her chest, staring at the wall through the thick darkness.

  THREE

  The day of the murder

  Monday morning was the start of Accra Fashion Week, held this year at the garish Tang Palace Hotel in the South Airport Residential area. Before Araba’s show at 10 a.m., a lot had to be done. Samson Allotey, Lady Araba’s right-hand man, had arrived at six to begin setting up.

  The models—sixteen in total—began to roll in at seven-thirty. Samson and a freelance helper Araba had hired for the day were going over the order of their appearances on the catwalk. The theme of the show this year was “We Too,” a play on #MeToo to expose rampant but deeply buried sexual assault within the fashion industry. No one in this supposedly glamorous world liked discussing such a distasteful subject, choosing to pretend it didn’t exist at all, but Lady Araba was dedicated to facing it down. Now that her eponymous line of women’s clothing was gaining fame throughout West Africa, she intended to become an activist and influencer.

  For this session, the models were to walk on in pairs—hence, “We Too”—to the end of the runway and return along each edge as stirring music blasted. Samson had the sequence in his mind, but as he got the women to do the first run-through, something just didn’t look right, and he needed Araba. So did everyone else. She was the glue that held it all together. Her authority, her instincts, and her knowledge had a calming effect during the frantic preparation and inevitable last-minute emergencies before a show.

  Now it was getting on to eight o’clock. Where was she? She ought to have arrived by now. The models were starting to have their makeup applied, and there would be last-minute fittings and alterations to their outfits—a button here, a slight hitch-up of a hem there. Araba was always present for that. She simply had to be.

  Samson called her, and when she didn’t pick up, he texted her. Fifteen minutes later, still without a response, he phoned Lady’s brother, Oko, who had become a friend over the years.

  “Hey, Samson,” Oko said, picking up right away. “Wassup, bruh?”

  “Chaley, have you heard from your sister?”

  “We spoke yesterday, why?”

  “She hasn’t come in this morning to prepare for the show,” Samson said, getting frantic. “She’s normally here long before now. I’ve tried calling and texting her, but she’s not answering.”

  “Let me try her,” Oko said.

  “If you reach her, tell her to call me as soon as she can, please. We still have a lot to do here.”

  Oko, a prominent chemistry and physics professor, had been on his way to his first lecture at the University of Ghana and had almost reached the campus. Like Samson, he tried calling and texting his sister several times to no avail, so he tried his father, Reverend Tagoe, who was in a meeting at St. Anthony’s Anglican Church.

  “She’s not answering her phone,” Oko explained to him. “Neither text nor call, and Samson is getting desperate at the show because she should be there by now.”

  “I can go to Trasacco to see if she’s there,” Tagoe said. “Maybe she overslept or something.”

  The Reverend left his meeting with his apologies—a “family emergency,” he said, which was essentially true.

  St. Anthony’s is near the N1 Motorway via Achimota Road, and once Father Tagoe was past the chaos of the Accra Mall cloverleaf interchange, he made good progress to Trasacco Valley. He pulled up at the front entrance of the complex, where the guards recognized him at once as Lady Araba’s father.

  “Morning, sah,” the guard said and waved him through. He looked nervous—or was that Tagoe’s imagination?

  As Tagoe turned left on Ruby Row and saw a crowd outside Araba’s garden fence, he felt sick. A police officer stood at the driveway entrance. Beyond that point, an old Tata police vehicle and one of the newer Toyota Camry patrol cars were parked in the driveway.

  Tagoe stopped the car abruptly and jumped out. The spectators’ eyes turned to him as he ran to the gate, where the officer, a fresh-faced constable, moved to bar his way.

  “What’s happened?” Tagoe demanded.

  “Who are you, please?” the constable asked.

  “Reverend Fifi Tagoe. I’m Lady Araba’s father.”

  “Okay, sir.” The constable stepped aside.

  Tagoe ran up the driveway and in through the open front door to the entrance hall. He heard voices from the second floor. The staircase was to Tagoe’s right. Two men in conversation stood at the base of the stairs and turned as they saw him approaching.

  “Who are you people?” he thundered. “What are you doing here?”

  “Your name,” one of them demanded as he reached them.

  “Reverend Tagoe.” He was hyperventilating. “Lady Araba’s father.”

  The two men exchanged glances. One of them took a step toward Tagoe and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Reverend, your daughter was found dead this morning—”

  “What do you mean, dead?” Tagoe said, raising his voice. “How can that be?”

  He rushed up the stairs, screaming Araba’s name. A crowd of people doing, it seemed to Tagoe, nothing but standing around staring into Araba’s bedroom, had gathered on the landing. As Tagoe got there, a man blocked the doorway, preventing him from going inside.

  But Tagoe could see a few people around Araba’s bed, apparently taking pictures and videos. He also caught a glimpse of someone in the bed—and a lot of blood.

  His vision went dark. The next he knew, he was on the floor in the hallway with people above him, shaking him and asking if he was okay.

  “What happened?” Tagoe asked, confused.

  “You fainted,” someone said.

  They began helping him up. He took two unsteady steps toward the room, but several people held him back and the door was now shut. “You can’t go in, sir. They are collecting evidence.”

  “Who did this to her?” he said, beginning to break down.

  No one responded, because no one knew the answer.

  FOUR

  Sixteen years before

  Auntie Dele used her front yard to sell her outfits. She had three mobile racks of skirts, blouses, dresses, and gowns, and often a steady stream of women came in seeking her wares. Araba always looked forward to Saturdays when there was no school and she could help her aunt with retailing. By seventeen, Araba was blossoming into a fetching young woman, and customers constantly stole admiring—or jealous—glances at her.

  Like her mother, Araba was fair in color, and her exceptionally fine skin had a silken sheen. Her waist was tiny, flaring out to buttocks that were at once muscular and bouncy when she walked. Boys hovered outside at Dele’s front yard so they could peek at Araba. Sometimes they would walk slowly up the street and come back in the opposite direction five minutes late
r so they could look at her again. Dele kept an eye on them, saying nothing until they attempted to innocently wander into the yard to chat Araba up. That’s when Dele yelled at them in caustic Ga to get lost.

  Araba helped Dele’s customers find the type of outfits they were looking for. There was a changing booth rigged up at the corner of the house, and there the customers could check the fit and style in the mirror. Araba quickly mastered saleswomanship. If the dress looked halfway decent on a potential buyer, she would praise and flatter. If, on the other hand, the customer didn’t like it, she would be ready with an alternative. Because Araba was so stunning in her own outfits, women looked to her for approval. Dele loved having her around, and Araba loved being there.

  Included on the different racks were many pieces that Araba had helped her aunt put together, and a few Araba had designed and sewn herself. She knew how to sketch her own designs, a precise skill people associated more with boys than girls. In fact, the only class Araba really enjoyed at school was art.

  Now that women had begun to notice and purchase her outfits, Auntie Dele split the proceeds with Araba, which thrilled her niece and gave her a heady feeling of accomplishment. She loved Dele for that.

  That Saturday evening, as Araba and Oko were watching TV at home in the living room, Father Tagoe came in and clicked off the set with the remote.

  “I need to talk to your sister in private,” he said to Oko.

  Oko, who was twenty, got up and slouched out. Fifi took a seat on the sofa next to his daughter, who eyed him with anxiety. What was it now?

  “How was your day with Auntie Dele?”

  “Fine, Daddy.”

  “You enjoyed yourself?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You like being around your aunt and helping to sell clothes.”

  Was that a question or a statement? Either way, Araba nodded.

  “That’s good,” Fifi said, but something about his expression worried Araba. “Your mother tells me you’ve also been selling your own dresses there.”

  Araba hadn’t shared this with her father because she’d sensed he would disapprove.

  “Is that true?” Tagoe asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I see,” he said, pressing his lips together. “From now on, you will hand over any money you make to me so I can donate it to the church, is that understood?”

  Her eyes widened as she looked at her father in dismay. “But why?”

  “Because I say so,” he said sharply. “I am your father; you are living under my roof and you are not yet an adult. Where is the money you made today?”

  Araba looked away sullenly. “In my room.”

  “Then go and bring it to me. All of it.”

  Head bowed, Araba rose and went up to her bedroom, where she had hidden her earnings in an envelope in a clothes drawer. On her way back to her father downstairs, Araba tapped on Oko’s bedroom door. He was listening to music through a giant pair of headphones.

  Araba pulled them off his head.

  “What?” Oko said irritably.

  “Daddy wants to keep all the money I make from selling my dresses,” Araba said. “I don’t want him to have all of it. Can you keep a portion for me?”

  “Only if I get some,” Oko replied sullenly.

  Araba rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay. You can have a few cedis. But don’t say a word to him about this.”

  “Whatever,” Oko said, holding out his hand. Araba counted out about a quarter of the cedi bills and gave it to her brother with a warning. “Don’t spend it, okay? I’m trusting you.”

  Oko grunted and put his phones back on. As she left the room, Araba gave a wistful backward glance, missing the days when she and her brother had been close. Once Oko had started boarding school at age twelve, the bond between them had weakened like a rusty old chain. Whenever Oko came home for the holidays, he was quiet and didn’t communicate much except with his friends, who talked about girls all the time. Araba was amused by their boasts of getting this girl or that—most of it probably untrue. Despite his change in mood, Oko remained a brilliant student with As or A-pluses all down the line on his report card. He was a whiz at physics, chemistry, and mathematics, so much so that his teacher made him the unofficial tutor for the weaker students. Oko and his academic brain had no interest in Araba’s budding taste for fashion, and the reverse applied: Araba couldn’t care less about differential equations.

  FIVE

  Twenty years before

  Francis Augustus Seeza had always been ambitious and competitive. He was a good student who always aced his exams. He founded a small school paper that chronicled events on campus, along with opinion pieces, short stories, and poetry.

  After secondary school, Augustus entered the School of Journalism at the University of Ghana. While there, he interned at the Ghana Broadcasting Corporation, the country’s equivalent to the BBC, to gain experience in broadcast journalism. He did everything—sitting in for people at the front desk, getting water for program guests, writing notes for the hosts. Augustus was very good. His strengths were his versatility and adaptability. He showed initiative where others frankly couldn’t care less, and that made managers notice him. After Augustus graduated from university, the GBC offered him a job as a junior producer.

  On one occasion, a prime-time radio host was held up by the monsoon-like floods Accra was experiencing that rainy season. The guest was in the studio, it was five minutes to airtime, and the station manager was in a state of panic.

  “I’ll do it,” Augustus said matter-of-factly.

  “What?” the manager said.

  “I’ll do the interview,” Augustus said.

  And so, he did—and a superb job he made of it. One hour of smooth, insightful conversation with the guest. Augustus’s voice was a pleasing baritone that injected calmness into the most probing of questions—like giving quinine to someone in a spoonful of syrup. The regular host took over the second hour, but listeners began calling the station to ask about this Augustus “Caesar” who had sat in for the first half of evening drive time, and was that his real name?

  Among those who heard Augustus that night was the Minister of Science & Technology, Adam Kyei. One of the richest people in Ghana, Kyei owned Metro Media, which had both radio and TV divisions. Kyei recalled meeting Augustus a couple of weeks back at GBC when they had planned a joint production on the plight of farmers in the drought-stricken Upper East Region of Ghana. Augustus had been accommodating, sharp, and quick-witted, and he had asked all the right questions.

  Kyei lured Augustus away with a nice offer; competing with the government-run GBC was not difficult. Augustus came over to Metro without hesitation. With his university education and easy charm, he was poised to launch a successful career in journalism. At Metro, Kyei put Augustus in charge of two radio programs—the once-a-week Politics Now at noon, and an evening opinion and call-in show, Ghana Speaks. But Kyei wanted a flagship evening TV program to mirror its radio counterpart, a little later, in the 8 to 9 p.m. hour, when most people had gotten home from work, traffic allowing.

  When Kyei thought the time was right, he pulled Augustus from radio and moved him over to TV, where he joined another producer on Good Morning Ghana. One day, Kyei took Augustus to a buffet lunch at the Mövenpick Hotel and asked him if he had any ideas about an evening show.

  At that moment, Augustus was marveling at the amount of food Kyei had served himself. Kyei was fat and rich. He enjoyed food without limits.

  Refocusing, Augustus said, “What I see in my mind is a show where I talk to controversial or important people and ask them tough questions.”

  “Okay,” Kyei said, chewing noisily with his mouth open. “Go on.”

  “Have you ever seen that BBC program HARDtalk? We need something like that. Where I, as the interviewer, don’t let anyone, no matter how important
he is, get away with anything.”

  “What would you call such a program?”

  “Tough Talk comes to mind.”

  “That’s not bad,” Kyei said. “So, we would have politicians, performers, newsmakers, and so on.”

  “Yes, but the more controversial, the better.”

  “Of course.”

  “There is, however, one proviso I would ask from you, sir.”

  Kyei looked surprised. “What is that?”

  “That we don’t favor your political party in any way. Whether you’re in power at the time or not.”

  Kyei stared at Augustus for a moment. “Okay. That’s not a problem.”

  Augustus smiled, taking a sip of wine and looking at Kyei over the rim. “So, Tough Talk it is, then?”

  With Tough Talk, Metro TV’s evening viewership exploded. The show’s debut episode was ironic in that Augustus’s first guest was Kyei himself. The MP often appeared on his own station’s programs. He talked a lot of bluster and braggadocio, but Augustus held on to Kyei’s thrashing tail of sorts. Although the exchange wasn’t acrimonious in any way, the questions and answers were sharply delivered.

  Adam Kyei satisfied the “controversial figure” benchmark for Tough Talk because he was one. In the first place, as a minister of parliament, what was he doing owning a giant media company? His gruff answer: “But is it against the law? Do you think people in the three branches of government in the United States don’t own businesses and property?”

  “Doesn’t make it right,” Augustus returned evenly. “You are using the tactic of ‘whataboutism,’ sir, by deflecting the question to another target. Let’s forget about the United States and concentrate on Ghana. Don’t you think that your ownership of an information-disseminating institution might invite conflicts of interest?”

  They argued about that for a while, and then Augustus segued to a second question: Why had Minister Kyei repeatedly demonized a young investigative journalist, Ahmed Hussein, who had been working on a story about corruption, only to be gunned down in the street?