Kwei Quartey - Wife of the Gods

“That’s the house,” Gyamfi said, pointing.

It was constructed of mud brick and a rusty corrugated tin roof. The outer walls were eroded away by rain at their junction with the ground, making the house sit on steadily thinning support.

Fiti led the way and went in unannounced. There were six people in the front room, one sleeping, three of them playing a boisterous game of cards, and the two most senior, whom Dawson assumed were Mr. and Mrs. Boateng, were chatting. In the corner was a woodstove, cold at the moment.

“Boateng, where is Samuel?” Fiti asked.

Mr. Boateng-Dawson’s guess had been right-jumped to his feet.

“Good evening, sir.” Thick voice, something like treacle.

“Good evening. Where is Samuel?”

“Please, he’s not here, sir.”

“Where did he go?”

“Please, I don’t know, sir.”

The adjoining room was small, windowless, and dark. Fiti switched on his flashlight and took a quick look inside. No one was there.

“We’ll find him,” Fiti said. “Split up. Gyamfi, stay with Inspector Dawson, Bubo is with me. Come on.”

Outside, the two pairs went in opposite directions.

“Where might he be?” Dawson asked Gyamfi.

“He can be anywhere. Probably with his friends going around looking for girls.”

Gyamfi described Samuel to Dawson so he would recognize him. After about ten minutes of trudging around, they hadn’t spotted the suspect anywhere.

Suddenly they heard running footsteps approaching and then a shout, “Stop him! Stop him!”

A man was coming toward them fast, running for his life, bare feet kicking up mud. Close behind him was Constable Bubo, and Inspector Fiti brought up the rear.

“Catch him!” Fiti yelled.

The man saw Dawson and Gyamfi, and sharply veered away to avoid them. But Gyamfi was nimble. He sprang as if out of a cannon and cut back at an angle to intersect the man’s path. They collided and spun to the ground like wrestlers. Bubo got to them a second later. For a moment there was a lot of thrashing around and shouting, but out of it Constable Bubo extracted the screaming man and yanked him up. As he did that, Inspector Fiti came galumphing, belly wobbling with the exertion.

“Hold him well! ” he shouted.

A crowd was gathering fast. Both constables had a firm grip on their captive, who was putting up a healthy struggle. Dawson now saw that he was only eighteen or nineteen. Samuel Boateng , he realized.

Inspector Fiti came up to him, face twisted with anger.

“Stupid boy!” he screamed. “Stupid! You think you can get away from us? Heh?”

Samuel’s shirt had been ripped off in the struggle. His chest was heaving and his skin ran with sweat.

“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.”

T HERE WAS NO MOREpolice 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.