Sleep Well, My Lady Read online

  Kyei bluntly denied any connection between his denouncement of Hussein and his subsequent assassination, even though Kyei had publicly revealed where Hussein lived and encouraged residents in the neighborhood to “take action against him” if they saw him.

  After the show, Augustus sought reassurance from Kyei that he hadn’t gone after the MP “too hard,” which Kyei dismissed. “No, this is very good. These are the kinds of probing questions we want.”

  Over the next few years, Augustus went on to interview a string of personalities, both local and international, who fell into one or more categories: politically powerful and/or controversial, flamboyant entertainers and athletes, and trailblazers of all types. No matter who was in the hot seat, Augustus engaged with them in a way that captivated viewers. Most of the interviews ended on a cordial note, though a few concluded not in the best way—like the erratic manager of Ghana’s Black Stars soccer team, who yanked off his mic and stormed off the set midway through the hour. Of course, all that made for great television and didn’t bother Augustus in the least.

  What some saw as Augustus’s reassuring self-confidence, others perceived as conceited arrogance, particularly members of the old guard who had been around broadcasting for much longer. But he was Adam Kyei’s trophy, and no one could touch him. To balance out this resentment toward him was a certain admiration, even groveling. A good number of women at the station went googly-eyed in Augustus’s presence, dressing to kill to attract his attention. He was good-looking with a ready smile of even white teeth and a habit of winking suggestively at these women, many of whom he ended up having sex with.

  All that playing the field—well, most of it—came to an end when Augustus met his wife-to-be, Bertha Longdon, a woman a few years older than him and the daughter of Cyril Longdon, the owner of Longdon Shipping. Bertha was the only heir to Cyril’s considerable fortune.

  Augustus and Bertha’s wedding was over-the-top, with three hundred guests in attendance. The first inkling Bertha had that something might be off was when Augustus got blind drunk in the final hours of the reception and had to be carried away by two of his friends, who recognized a disaster in progress.

  SIX

  The day of the murder

  When Reverend Tagoe called, Oko had just finished his chemistry lecture, and his mother, Miriam, had gone to a meeting with a community alliance trying to get old town Accra cleaned up and modernized.

  Oko saw his father’s name on the screen. “Yes, Daddy?”

  For a moment, Oko thought his father was laughing, and he couldn’t understand what he was saying. He realized then that Reverend Tagoe was weeping.

  “Daddy, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Araba,” Tagoe said, his voice cracking. “They found her body this morning.” He gasped. “A lot of blood—”

  “Stay right there,” Oko said, his voice shaking. “I’m on my way.”

  A short distance away from the front door of Araba’s house, a detective questioned the Reverend after offering his condolences. His name was Sergeant Isaac Boateng, a tubby man in his early forties.

  “Father Tagoe,” Boateng said, “please, when did you last speak to your daughter?”

  “Just last night,” Tagoe replied, his brow creased and his eyes red. “It’s Accra Fashion Week, so my wife and I called her just before nine to wish her luck.”

  “How did she seem, Father?” Boateng asked. “Did she appear to have any worries or fears? Was she upset about anything or anyone?”

  “No, no, she sounded fine, even though she’s been struggling to get over that man—”

  That raised Boateng’s eyebrows. “What man?”

  “She was in a toxic relationship with—well, I’m sure you know of him. Augustus Seeza, the guy who used to be on Metro TV.”

  “Can you tell me more about that, sir?” Boateng asked. “I mean the relationship between your daughter and Mr. Seeza.”

  “It was abusive, and Mr. Seeza was, is, a drunk,” Tagoe said bitterly. “Ever since his fall from grace, he became more dependent on Araba, who supported him financially and in every other way. We—the Tagoe family, I mean—confronted her and warned her to bring the relationship to an end. Araba tried her best, but every time Seeza got sick from drinking too much, he reached out to her and she came running.”

  “I see,” Boateng said. “But I’m a little confused. I thought Mr. Seeza married that lady—the one who owns the shipping company. Or am I wrong?”

  “Bertha Longdon, yes, you are correct. They are separated. I suppose at some point they’ll divorce.”

  Someone called the Reverend’s name. He turned to see his son running up to him. At thirty-six, he was stout with a broad, flat face and early baldness.

  Father and son embraced briefly, and then Oko stood back, gripping his father’s arms and looking squarely into his eyes.

  “Can this be true, Daddy?” he said, voice quivering. “Is it true?”

  “It doesn’t seem real,” Tagoe said, shaking his head.

  “You saw her?” Oko asked. “You saw Araba dead with your own eyes? Where is she? I want to see her.”

  “They’ve taken the body, son,” Tagoe said.

  “Why?” Oko demanded wildly.

  “The police didn’t want too much decomposition to set in.” Tagoe gestured to the detective. “This is Sergeant Boateng. In charge of the case.”

  “I want to know what happened to my sister, Mr. Boateng,” Oko said, turning to the detective.

  “Yes please, sir,” Boateng said. “I can’t say much at the moment. Hopefully, we will learn more after a postmortem is conducted.”

  “But you must have an idea, surely,” Oko said forcefully. “I mean, how is it possible that my sister has been murdered in this supposedly secure neighborhood? Does that make sense to you? There are guards at the front entrance, and yet still someone was able to get into the house and kill her?”

  Oko’s voice rose and splintered, and he stopped talking to gulp down his emotion.

  “Well, it may be your sister knew the culprit,” Boateng said, “because there was no evidence of forced entry. Which is the one reason why I’ve been trying to find out from your father here if there’s anyone who might have harbored ill will toward Lady Araba. He mentioned Mr. Seeza—that Araba was in a relationship with him?”

  Oko’s face clouded. “I tell you, the devil dwells in that man Seeza’s heart. I won’t tell you how to do your job, Mr. Boateng, but I would advise you to question him very closely.”

  SEVEN

  The day of the murder

  The 37 Military Hospital in Accra is so named because it was the thirty-seventh medical unit built by the British Army in their now-evaporated empire. Government-run, the hospital is chaotic and lacks many of the facilities found in equivalent private institutions.

  The ambulance took Araba’s body to 37 Hospital, but she should have gone straight to the police mortuary, since her death was unnatural. After a furious argument between the 37 Hospital personnel and ambulance drivers, it was finally agreed that the Ghana Police Hospital was the correct destination.

  Tagoe, wife Miriam, and son Oko committed the same error as the ambulance, going to the 37 Hospital morgue first before being redirected to the right place. When the Tagoes went in to officially identify Araba’s body, they shuddered and averted their eyes from corpses stacked in piles for lack of space. The morgue was a distasteful place to be whether one was alive or dead. The place reeked, the sour, saliva-curdling smell of corpses mixed with the scent of the bleach used to mop the floors.

  Tagoe and Miriam went in holding hands, but when the morgue attendant showed them where Araba lay on her slab, Miriam broke away from her husband, touched Araba’s cold arm, and began to weep—not loudly, but so that each surge of grief rocked her entire body. She looked as if she might collapse, and Tagoe moved to her side
to steady her. “I’m here for you, my love. Be strong in the Lord.”

  Oko stood a distance away. Tagoe looked at him, signaling for help. Oko came to stand next to Miriam, and she leaned against him with her head bowed.

  The attendant watched as the Reverend launched into a soliloquy in steady, measured tones.

  “He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son.”

  “Amen,” Oko and Miriam murmured.

  Tagoe’s voice rose. “But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.”

  “Amen,” Oko and Miriam said, more strongly.

  “In the Book of Isaiah,” Reverend Tagoe continued, raising his right hand overhead, “the Lord says, ‘so do not fear, for I am with you.’”

  “Amen.”

  “Do not be dismayed, for I am your God.”

  “Amen.”

  “I will strengthen you and help you.”

  “Praise Him.”

  Tagoe concluded, “I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

  “Yes, Lord,” Oko whispered.

  Tagoe rested his hand for a moment on his daughter’s right shoulder, then turned away to put his arm around Miriam and support her to the exit. Emerging outside, they breathed in fresh air with relief. Tagoe guided his wife to a chair, and she sat heavily, staring ahead in a daze. Suddenly, her expression turned to consternation, and she sat up straight. Tagoe turned to follow the direction of his wife’s gaze and saw what—who—had caused this change in demeanor. Augustus Seeza was approaching the entrance to the morgue. An instant after Miriam spotted him, he recognized the three Tagoes, whom he had met on only a single occasion. His step faltered, and uncertainty crossed his face.

  Miriam rose and walked toward him, her gait suddenly resolute. Augustus stopped moving. In fact, he took a step back.

  “You!” Miriam said through clenched teeth. “You murderer. You killed her, and now you come to the morgue to delight in seeing her dead body?”

  “No, no,” Augustus said, looking distressed. “It isn’t that. I was looking for you to express my—”

  “Your what?” She grabbed the front of his shirt, clutching it in a fierce grip. “Your false condolences?”

  Tagoe came up behind his wife. “Miriam—”

  She ignored her husband and continued to address Augustus. “My daughter rejected you and you were filled with rage. So, you killed her, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

  Augustus shook his head, trying to shrink away from Miriam and take her hand off him. “No! I didn’t do it. Why don’t you look within your own family and find the real culprit?”

  “What?” Her fists loosened. “What do you mean ‘within my own family?’”

  “Araba and I were reconciled again before she died,” Augustus said. “Didn’t you know that? Your husband knew. He’s the one who was angry with your daughter for coming back to me.”

  Miriam moved back from Augustus as if a do not touch sign had materialized. She whipped around to her husband.

  Tagoe was glaring at Augustus with narrowed eyes. “You are a liar, sir. I knew no such thing.”

  “No, you are the liar, Mr. Tagoe. Araba told me that she told Oko here, and Oko told you.”

  Oko got into Augustus’s face with a warning finger. “Get out of here. You are not welcome.”

  Augustus’s lip curled. He turned on his heel and walked away.

  Miriam turned back to her husband. “Is what he said true? You knew Araba had gone back to him?”

  Tagoe was indignant. “Of course not. Wouldn’t I have told you?”

  Miriam looked at Oko. “Did she tell you?”

  Oko shook his head. “No.” But he was dithering. “Well, she hinted at it once.”

  “When?” Miriam demanded, her eyes blazing.

  “I don’t remember exactly. Three months ago? Four?”

  “Four months!” Miriam exclaimed. “And you said nothing?”

  “I didn’t want you to get more upset over it than you needed to. I tried to get Araba to see the light and turn herself around.”

  “When did you last see her?” Miriam asked pointedly.

  “Why are you interrogating him?” Tagoe interjected.

  Miriam looked surprised. “I’m not.”

  “Please,” Oko said quietly. “Can we stop the quibbling? We’re all very upset right now, so let’s go home and cool off.”

  Miriam was visibly distressed. She pressed her palms to her tearful eyes. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Please rescue us from this nightmare. Let it not be true.”

  Oko exchanged a bitter glance with his father. Miriam was right. This was a nightmare.

  EIGHT

  Four years before

  Augustus was thirty-eight now. When he was twenty-nine, he and his wife, Bertha, had had their first child, a boy they named Benjamin. Three years later, they had a girl, Belinda. Because his last name was Seeza, Augustus had been inclined toward regal names like Athena and Apollo, but bowed to his wife’s wishes for something more conventional. The name “Seeza” was originally from Northern Ghana. A Rashid Seeza had swung in on one branch of the family tree, and the name had kept going. Augustus’s grandfather had christened his son Julius, and Julius in turn, continuing the play on the name, had named his son Augustus.

  By the time Ben was nine years old, Augustus and Bertha were experiencing difficulties in their marriage. Augustus still loved the party life and seemed to be drinking progressively more heavily.

  Bertha was torn, wanting to rein in her husband without smothering him. His constantly returning home late was insufferable, and his drunkenness was worse. On such occasions, Bertha wanted nothing to do with him. At the same time, she didn’t want him straying to anyone else. She brimmed with suspicion, often texting Augustus and demanding that he prove in real time that he wasn’t in the company of another woman. When he didn’t answer, his most common excuses were that his phone was on silent, that his battery was low, that he just didn’t hear her call or see her text, or that he was in a late-evening meeting.

  But Augustus still managed to be a good father—a functioning alcoholic of a good father—which made it impossible for him to seem all bad to Bertha. In the moments he was so loving and caring to Ben and Belinda, she felt her heart go soft in her chest like a moist sponge, and everything would feel perfect until the next time she confronted him with an accusation.

  Above all, Bertha was proud of Augustus’s status as a premier broadcaster and one of the best TV interviewers around. She did watch him most nights, unless something unexpected came up. Tough Talk was a live program. The first take was the last, and anything could go wrong with no recourse or do-overs, like walking on a tightrope with no net. If something went wrong, it went wrong.

  The night Augustus interviewed Lady Araba, Bertha had forgotten the fashion star was scheduled to appear. Belinda was already in bed, but Ben was still up, and he snuggled up to his mother on the sofa as she sat down to watch the episode. He was a real mama’s boy.

  The two of them watched as the fancy initial graphics and exciting music faded away and Augustus came on with his straightforward, “Good evening, and welcome to Tough Talk. I’m Augustus Seeza.”

  He really was that handsome in real life. Sure, the makeup made his face more matte than it was in reality—he, like most black men, had oily skin—but his complexion was genuinely that smooth. No filters needed.

  “Tonight,” Augustus said, “my guest is Araba Tagoe, most famously known as Lady Araba. She is an entrepreneur, a Ghanaian trailblazer who has quickly risen in the fashion world, a symbol of style and elegance. Welcome, Lady Araba.”

  Without a do
ubt, Araba was poised and beautiful, with long braided extensions gathered at the nape of her neck. Her tasteful pearl earrings made her look elegant but not showy. She wore an exquisitely fine white gold necklace with two sapphires and a ruby between them, and a cream-and-black outfit with a Ghanaian motif perfect for a TV shoot—one of her own designs, of course.

  Augustus asked her about her background—the influences on her life, what had made her want to go into fashion—not an easy world, by any means.

  “Mummy,” Ben said, lifting his round face up at her, “do you know that lady?”

  “Not personally,” Bertha said, “although I do own some of her dresses.”

  “Oh,” Ben said, returning to watching.

  Araba spoke with an eloquence and intelligence that impressed Bertha. Augustus pushed her on being the daughter of an Anglican priest, and whether her choice of career had caused any friction with her family. Araba was frank and apparently truthful in her answer. Yes, there had been some “difficulties,” but in the end, Father Tagoe had come to accept her as she was. After all, in the end, her father did love her.

  “Nothing is as successful as success,” Augustus said, “but what if you hadn’t become the triumph you are now?”

  “Then I wouldn’t be on your show, would I?” Araba whipped back with a most disarming smile.

  Bertha felt a twinge. Her heart skipped a beat, and her stomach did a somersault. For a moment, she thought she was imagining things, but as the program progressed, a chill settled into her very marrow as she became convinced that Augustus and Araba were flirting with each other on-screen. It was outrageous, offensive even. As the program entered its last fifteen minutes, she found her husband’s interaction with Lady Araba too much to tolerate a second longer. She cast around for the remote and switched the TV off. Ben, who had fallen asleep, stirred and muttered something.

  “Come on, sweetie,” Bertha said. “Time for bed.”

  She picked him up, even though he was getting too heavy for her. Once she had put her son to bed, Bertha went to her own bedroom—she no longer shared one with Augustus—undressed, and took her shower. Clean and fresh, she got into bed with her latest novel. She intended to wait up for Augustus, who was usually back about an hour after the end of his show. Bertha dozed off for an unknown period and woke with a start as she heard the front door shut downstairs. She peered at her phone on the bedside table. Past midnight. She felt her throat tighten and her chest swell with a sick, enraged feeling. He slept with that bitch Lady Araba.