Wife of the Gods Page 8

  “Take him away,” Inspector Fiti ordered with a furious backhand swipe through the air.

  Some of the crowd began to hoot as the two constables hauled Samuel off to the police car. His feet dragged as he tried to resist. Mr. and Mrs. Boateng trailed after the constables and pleaded with them to let their son go.

  Fiti hitched up his pants. “Go home!” he yelled at the crowd. “Foolish people. What are you looking at?”

  They laughed as they turned to slink back to their houses. Terrific entertainment this evening.

  Gyamfi rejoined Dawson and Inspector Fiti while Constable Bubo kept an eye on Samuel in the backseat of the police car. Fiti ordered everyone out of the Boatengs’ house.

  “Only you in here with us,” he said, pointing at Mr. Boateng. “You hear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The dark of early evening was approaching. A kerosene lantern hanging from a hook on the wall provided dim, shadowy illumination in the main room of the house. It was the smaller adjacent sleeping room that was of greater interest to Fiti. On the floor was an assortment of mattresses, sleeping cloths and mats, clothes in several piles, and a tiny radio. There was a large battered portmanteau next to the door.

  “Aha,” Fiti said, handing the flashlight to Dawson, who trained the beam on the portmanteau while Fiti lifted the lid and looked inside. He rummaged around, removing items—a few tins of sardines, evaporated milk, and two bags of gari—and dropped them on the floor. Fiti grunted as he got to the bottom of the portmanteau without finding anything significant.

  “Boateng,” he called out. “Come here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Fiti took the flashlight from Dawson and shone it full in Mr. Boateng’s face. He flinched and blinked in the beam.

  “Which one is Samuel’s sleeping cloth?” Fiti asked him.

  Boateng pointed to the opposite corner.

  It was dark brown and rolled up in a neat bundle. Fiti unfurled it with his free hand, and something fell out. He pounced on it.

  “What’s that?” Dawson asked.

  Fiti showed him. It was a small plastic pack of three individually wrapped condoms.

  “So now we know he was having sex,” Fiti said.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Dawson said, but Fiti didn’t appear to have heard him, or more likely, he was ignoring him.

  He beckoned to Mr. Boateng.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Fiti showed him the condoms. “You see now? You see what your son was doing?”

  Boateng looked mortified with embarrassment.

  “Did he sleep with some girls here?” Fiti said.

  Boateng was appalled. “NO, sir.”

  “With whom was he sleeping?”

  “Please, I don’t know. No one, sir.”

  Fiti smirked and waved the condoms in Boateng’s face. “He’s your boy but you didn’t know he had these prophylactics. So how do you know he wasn’t having sex? Don’t try to be clever with me because you aren’t clever enough, you hear?”

  Boateng looked away, and Dawson saw his jaw muscles working with suppressed anger.

  “Was your boy trying to sleep with Gladys Mensah?” Fiti snapped. “I’m talking to you, Boateng. I say, was he trying to have sex with Gladys?”

  Boateng shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Fiti said. “I don’t think you know what kind of person your son really is, and if you do, then you’re trying to protect him.” He turned to Dawson. “Let’s go. Samuel will spend the night in the jail. In the morning he will be ready to talk.”

  THERE WAS NO MORE police work for the day. Dawson was tired and wanted to go to his lodgings, but before he did that, he wanted to pay his respects to Auntie Osewa and Uncle Kweku. He asked Gyamfi to show him the way to the house.

  The flickering kerosene lanterns of night traders lit up the evening like a constellation. The kiosks and chop bars had electricity, but many homes were still using kerosene lamps as their light source. The air smelled of smoke and the tantalizing aroma of kelewele, fried fish, and red-hot meat stews. The flying termites that always appeared after a rain shower were fluttering around whatever fluorescent lights they could find, irresistibly drawn to them but rendered flightless the instant they made contact with the bulbs.

  It was a torturous route to Auntie Osewa’s. Dawson followed Gyamfi through alleys and over gutters and muddy paths. Ketanu had grown and sprawled so much since Dawson had been here that so far nothing was familiar to him, and the darkness did not help.

  Suddenly, though, as they walked a little farther, Dawson was struck with déjà vu that raised goose bumps on his skin. He recognized where he was, and yet he didn’t. Houses and huts occupied the space that Dawson had known as trees and bush, and the edge of forest he and Cairo had explored had been pushed far, far back.

  “There it is,” Dawson said to Gyamfi. He had spotted Auntie Osewa’s house, but some sixth sense must have enabled him, because although there was a hint of light coming from within, there was practically no illumination of the exterior.

  Gyamfi switched on a powerful flashlight and gave it a panoramic sweep. Now Dawson could see the original dwelling had been added on to. There were two small additional single-room houses built around an open-air courtyard strewn with firewood, stone stoves, pots, and pans.

  A woman came out of the house with a lantern. Auntie Osewa?

  “Who’s there?” she said, squinting into the darkness.

  Dawson came close enough to see better by the light of the lantern. It was her.

  “Fien na wo, Auntie Osewa,” he greeted her in Ewe.

  “Fien,” she replied pleasantly, but Dawson could see the puzzlement still in her expression. “Do I know you?”

  “Yes, you do.”

  He was giving her a chance, but she still wasn’t making the connection.

  “Auntie, it’s me, Darko.”

  Her expression changed. “Darko?”

  “Yes, Auntie.”

  She let out a cry, put down the lantern, and rushed forward to throw her arms around him. Now he towered over her, and the top of her head reached only to his chest. It felt strange because, after all, the last time she had hugged him, years ago, she had had to bend down to his level.

  “Woizo, woizo!” She stepped back to gaze at him in disbelief. “Look at how tall you are! Oh, Darko, why did you wait so long to come back?”

  “You’re right, Auntie Osewa. It’s been too long and I’m sorry.”

  She placed her hand over her chest, and her eyes welled up. “Oh, Darko, my dear. I’ve thought of you so often.”

  “Come on,” he said, hugging her again. “No need to shed tears. I’m here now.”

  “Yes, you’re here now, and that’s all that matters.” Her voice still felt like silk after all these years, just at a slightly lower register. “Come, come inside. Uncle Kweku is home. Ei, Constable Gyamfi, is that you?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Come in too, both of you come in. Woizo.”

  She led Dawson by the hand. It must have seemed natural to her, but Dawson felt awkward. Inside, the house was lit by a combination of a lantern and one small electric lamp. He knew this was the same place they had eaten Auntie’s masterpiece meal and played oware, yet everything looked different and much smaller.

  Auntie Osewa also seemed smaller in stature than he remembered. Whether it was the effect of age on her or his false memory or both, Dawson couldn’t say. For certain, though, she had kept her looks and her smooth, lovely skin. Her eyes were a little less bright, or perhaps it was wisdom Dawson was seeing. In a way, through Auntie Osewa, Dawson had a fair idea of what his mother might have looked like by now.

  Uncle Kweku was sitting at a small wooden table carefully writing something in an exercise book.

  “Kweku, you will never guess who is here,” Osewa said excitedly.

  He looked up over a pair of glasses halfway down his nose. That and the gray-peppered hair made him loo
k like he had aged much more quickly than Auntie Osewa, and he was now a fraction of the size he used to be.

  “Don’t say anything yet,” Osewa told Dawson. “Just stand there for a moment. Kweku, who do you think this is?”

  He frowned. “I don’t think I know him …”

  “Yes, you do. This is Darko, Beatrice’s boy.”

  Uncle Kweku’s mouth dropped open, and he took off his glasses and rested them on the table.

  “That’s Darko? Ei!” He rose. “I don’t believe it!”

  He began to laugh as he pumped Dawson’s hand and then embraced him strongly, which surprised Dawson.

  “How long has it been?” he said, looking him up and down. He too was now much shorter than Dawson.

  “Twenty-five years.”

  Kweku shook his head in disbelief. “It doesn’t even seem possible. Woizo, woizo back to Ketanu. We’re very happy to see you.”

  Kweku now noticed Constable Gyamfi hovering in the background.

  “Constable!” He chuckled. “Come in, come in, never be shy, sir.”

  “Yes, please sit down,” Auntie Osewa said. “Darko, you have to tell us everything about you.”

  Uncle Kweku immediately offered Dawson his chair and drew up a stool each for Osewa, Gyamfi, and himself.

  “Our son, Alifoe, is not here right now,” she told Dawson, “but he’ll be back soon so you can meet him. You remember we had a son?”

  “I do remember,” Dawson said. “I know what a blessing it was to you.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, glancing at Kweku with a smile. “Truly. And Darko, how is Cairo doing?”

  “Very well at the moment, Auntie, but sometimes life is a struggle for him, you know.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, inclining her head in sympathy. “We often feel for him. And your wife?”

  “Christine—she’s fine, thank you. She’s a teacher.”

  “Oh, very good. And how many children do you have now?”

  “Still just one. Hosiah is six.”

  Auntie Osewa was beaming at Dawson with such intensity he had to avert his eyes for a moment.

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” she said. She was sticking to Ewe, being much more comfortable with it than English.

  “Will you take some beer?” Kweku asked. “I’m sorry, it’s not cold.”

  “No, thank you, Uncle Kweku. I don’t drink at all.”

  Gyamfi politely said no as well.

  “What about some fresh coconut water, then?” Osewa offered.

  “Yes, please. That would be nice.”

  She went to the nearby kitchen, leaving Dawson, Uncle Kweku, and Constable Gyamfi to talk. Dawson was glad to have Gyamfi there, because he would have felt a little awkward alone with Uncle Kweku. Unlike with his auntie, Dawson had never felt a personal connection with Kweku and had thought him aloof. But he began to relax now as he found Uncle to be much more affable than he’d expected or remembered.

  Dawson stole a glance at Auntie Osewa working in the kitchen. She expertly chopped off the top of a coconut with a cutlass. She was still extraordinarily strong, and the muscles of her lean arms had remained well defined. She poured the coconut juice into two glasses and brought them to Dawson and Gyamfi.

  “Thank you, madam,” Gyamfi said.

  “Oh, come on, Constable,” she said playfully. “You can call me ‘Auntie’ too.”

  Gyamfi laughed. “All right, Auntie.”

  “If you want more coconut, just tell me and I’ll bring some more.” She sat down next to Dawson at an angle so she could easily make eye contact with him. “So, Darko, what brings you here to see your poor old auntie, eh? The one you’ve neglected for all these years?”

  There was laughter all around. She was teasing, of course, but it was still uncomfortable for Dawson, because the truth was he had neglected her, and there was no easy explanation.

  “Auntie, it’s not that Cairo and I didn’t often think about you and Uncle Kweku,” he said, deflecting the question a bit. “In fact I was telling him just yesterday how much I regretted our not having come to visit you from time to time. I promise I won’t let it happen again.”

  “All right,” she said, smiling. “Constable, you are my witness.”

  More laughter all around.

  “So how do you know Constable Gyamfi?” Uncle Kweku asked Dawson.

  “We’ve just met,” Dawson said. “You know, I’m with the police now. I work for CID in Accra.”

  “Oh, is that so?” Uncle Kweku said, looking impressed. “So you’re a big, important man, eh?”

  Dawson smiled. “Well, I’m not so sure about that, but thank you.”

  “Inspector has come to help us with the investigation of Gladys Mensah’s death,” Gyamfi said.

  Uncle Kweku clicked his tongue with regret. “It’s terrible what happened to her. We’ve heard so many rumors. Some people say she fell down in the forest and hit her head, some others are saying she died from witchcraft.”

  “I don’t know much about witchcraft,” Dawson said, “but for sure we know now she was murdered.”

  “Oh!” Kweku said, shocked. “Who could do something like that? She was such a good person. She came to see us one day, not so, Osewa?”

  She nodded. “She did.”

  “Really?” Dawson asked with interest.

  “Yes,” Auntie Osewa said. “You remember Mr. Kutu?”

  “Very well.”

  “Maybe you don’t know, but he helped me to bear a child through his herbal medicines. Gladys Mensah, well, she wanted to learn about those kinds of medicines—how she could use them to help more women who could not have children, or something like that. So one day she came with Mr. Kutu to meet us.”

  “How did you find Gladys to be as a person?”

  “Oh, just a very fine young woman,” Auntie Osewa said. “Very fine. She sat and ate with us, and we talked about many things.”

  “How was she with Mr. Kutu?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How did they behave with each other?”

  Osewa shrugged. “I think everything was okay. What do you think, Kweku?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “I saw that they liked each other very well.”

  Dawson caught a movement from the corner of his eye and turned to see a young man in the doorway.

  “Alifoe!” Osewa said. “Come and greet your cousin.”

  Their son was not as tall as Dawson, but his shoulders were much broader. He moved easily and had a bright, spontaneous grin. Dawson stood up, and Alifoe embraced him and then stood back at arm’s length to gaze at him.

  “So, finally I get to meet my cousin in the flesh,” he said, smiling.

  “Welcome back to Ketanu, Darko,” Alifoe said. “How is Accra?”

  “Big and dirty,” Dawson said.

  “But you like it?”

  Dawson turned his palms up. “It’s home. I complain about it all the time, but I’m not leaving.”

  “I want to live there,” Alifoe said. “I like the big city.”

  “Alifoe, do you want some coconut?” Osewa said suddenly, and Dawson found the interruption striking.

  “No, thank you, Mama,” Alifoe said. He fell silent, Kweku looked away, and Dawson felt tension spring out of nowhere like water from a hidden underground stream.

  “Darko, you and Gyamfi must eat with us,” Osewa said, hurriedly filling in the lull.

  Darko’s salivary glands squirted into action at the thought of Auntie Osewa’s cooking.

  He looked at Gyamfi, who nodded enthusiastically.

  “We would love to,” Dawson said. “Thank you, Auntie.”

  THE MINISTRY OF HEALTH kept a guesthouse in Ketanu for the occasional stay by a minister or one of his or her deputies. It was small but comfortable, with a kitchenette and bath. The bedroom-cum-sitting room had one small table, an armchair, and a desk. The two beds were narrow and firm.

  Dawson immediately took a cold shower—cold was the only temperature avail
able. The water pressure was low, but it still felt good. In the bedroom he opened the window louvers to get in as much air as possible. He wanted to call Christine, but he would first have to recharge the battery of his mobile. He plugged it into the wall and hoped there wouldn’t be any surprise electricity cuts within the next hour.

  Ever since that night twenty-five years ago when he had first stumbled through a tune for Mama on the kalimba she had given him, he had loved the instrument and continued to practice. It soothed him whenever he played, and it connected him to his mother. He now had quite a collection of kalimbas, and he had selected an eight-note to bring along to Ketanu.

  He sat and played for a while, both improvised tunes and ones he had composed, and then he rolled a joint and smoked. He needed it. The kalimba had taken away some of the tension the day had built up but certainly not all.

  He thought about Gladys Mensah. She must have been quite someone to know, a force to be reckoned with, and that might have been exactly the problem. Someone feared her or hated her enough to kill her. Or loved her and was rejected by her.

  He began to think about it in a circular way. Round and round until it no longer made any sense. He knew it was the THC infiltrating his brain. Tetrahydrocannabinol. What a cold, clinical name for stuff that soothed him with silky, molten warmth. He felt it infusing like rainwater saturating thirsty soil. His muscles started to relax, and his body felt light and floating. He sighed. It was very good, this feeling.

  The world seemed to expand when he smoked. Sometimes that gave life more meaning, but on other occasions it only made it seem more mysterious. Marijuana had a sense of humor too. Dawson stared at the bed, and it looked longer, wider, and higher, but in an odd, distorted way. The angles seemed all wrong, and he giggled at how ridiculous it appeared as a piece of furniture.

  He sobered again. Christine loathed his habit. She knew he smoked, but they never talked about it, and he kept it strictly away from her and Hosiah. This trip was ideal for getting some good marijuana in—far from home and CID Headquarters.

  Possession and use of marijuana was illegal in Ghana, but it didn’t bother Dawson that he was breaking what he considered a silly law.