Kwei Quartey - Wife of the Gods

Isaac got up and went to stand at the entrance of the compound, leaning against the side contemplatively. Some ten minutes later, he saw puffs of white smoke rising over the forest. One, two, two, one. He didn’t know why he even bothered to count. He knew when he was being signaled.

“Tomefa,” he called back, “I’ll be back soon.”

She nodded obediently.

He walked quickly. Off the footpath to Ketanu, he made his way into the bush and found Osewa harvesting plantain. The quenched fire was off to the side.

“Aren’t you afraid?” he said, half jokingly.

“Afraid of what?” she asked, pulling over a nice bunch of the plantains she had just cut down with her cutlass.

“This is where Gladys Mensah was killed.”

Osewa stopped. “Here? I thought it was the other plantain grove where they found her.”

“No. Right here.”

She shrugged. “There’s no reason her spirit would be angry with me. Anyway, my juju protects me just in case.”

“Yes,” he said, desiring her. “Come here.”

He took her hand and led her deep into the forest to where he had built another of their love shelters. Intimacy in the forest was all right with the gods provided it took place under a roof of some kind.

He sought her thighs hungrily, marveling at how tight and moist she still was after all these years. Her walls milked him quickly to climax.

They rested for a while, and then she said, “I have to get back soon.”

He nodded drowsily. “Me too.”

“Did you hear Samuel Mensah killed himself?” she asked.

Isaac sat up frowning. “Yes. That’s a terrible thing.”

“Maybe he couldn’t live any more knowing that he killed Gladys. Confessing couldn’t take away his shame.”

“But Inspector Fiti beat him,” Isaac said. “If someone beats you enough, you might confess to anything.”

“I still believe he did it.”

“I wish Darko Dawson saw it the same way. He’s still hunting me.”

“He thinks you are the one?”

“He searched all my rooms yesterday.”

“Ei! This boy.” She sighed. “I love him, but I’m sorry, this police business does not suit him. Is he worrying you a lot? I can talk to him, if you like.”

“No, he’ll wonder why you’re defending me like that, and he might get suspicious.”

“All right.”

He pulled her to him.

“I love you,” she said.

On the road to Kumasi, Dawson counted four serious accidents, the crushed carcasses of vehicles lying on their sides or overturned completely. He drove with both care and assertion, staying clear of speeding drivers, tro-tros packed with people, and trucks top-heavy with merchandise.

He made it to Kumasi in something over three hours. Alongside Kejetia, Ghana’s claim to the largest open-air market in West Africa, traffic crawled, rendering cars prey to kid traders hawking fruits, cold drinks, ice cream, and worthless trinkets.

Dawson finally escaped the congestion and got to a quieter part of town, where he managed to find a parking spot between two rusting minivans.

Taking his tote bag with him, he walked through a maze of small houses, getting progressively farther from the street until he came to a cul-de-sac occupied by a neat yellow house. Daniel Armah had built it from scratch, and second only to his wife, children, and grandchildren, it was the pride of his life.

The door was open, and Dawson called out to announce he had arrived. Having got through to Armah by phone earlier in the day, he was expected, and Armah knew what the topic of conversation was to be. Before all the developments of the past day, Dawson had planned only to ask Armah’s advice over the phone on how to “negotiate” the rural environment, but things had so radically and abruptly changed that Dawson now had to see him in person.

He heard quick footsteps as Armah approached, and when Dawson saw him, he felt even more elated than he had expected. Armah was still trim and compact, and though his hair had gone gray, there was still plenty of it.

“Darko, you made it!” he said, broad face alive with delight.

Dawson laughed as they embraced.

“Welcome, welcome,” Armah said. “I’m so glad to see you, so very glad. Come in, come in. Here, let me take your bag.”

Despite the heat outside, there was a nice cool breeze blowing through the house. The sitting room was spacious and relaxing.

“How was your trip?” Armah asked. “You must be exhausted.”

“Well, you know how the roads are.”

“Yes, yes. Maude went with the grandkids up to Mampong to stay with her sister for the weekend, and I insisted my driver take them because he’s the only one I completely trust. Would you like something to drink, or would you prefer to freshen up a bit before you have your Malta Guinness?”

They burst out laughing at the reference.

“Aha, you thought I would forget?” Armah said, winking at him. “I have a whole refrigerator full of the stuff just for you.”

“Thanks, Armah. I think I’d like to take a shower first.”

“But of course . Come along, your room is all ready.”

Dawson was a full-grown man in his own right, but Armah was still such a paternal figure to him that he caught himself making sure he didn’t move anything out of place in the bedroom or bathroom, just like a “good little boy.”

He showered gratefully; running water had never felt so good. With a change of clothes, he was revived as he rejoined Armah in the sitting room. Two bottles of ice-cold Malta were ready with a tall glass.

Armah served himself Star beer, and they drank and talked for a while about families and friends and the old days, but then it was time to get to business.

“So I gather you’ve had a rather rough time of it in Ketanu,” Armah said.

“Yes, I have.”

“I want to hear all about it. Maybe I can be of some help.”

Dawson started at the very beginning and left nothing out. As he came to Samuel’s suicide, Armah’s face showed regret.

When Dawson was finished with his account, Armah leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling.

“So,” he said. “You’ve got all these things happening, all ingredients in a mixed-up soup. There’s no solution to the murder yet, we think Adzima is connected to the silver bracelet but it’s unconfirmed, this poor boy Samuel has killed himself, Queen Elizabeth is badly hurt, and you’ve been thrown off the case.”

“That about summarizes it, yes,” Dawson said with a bitter laugh.

“Something struck me,” Armah said, “and I wanted to get it out of the way. About Samuel. Do we know for sure there wasn’t foul play? This brute of a constable, Bubo-was that his name? Yes, him. Couldn’t he have strung Samuel up out of vengeance and made it look like suicide?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him, but Constable Gyamfi’s account of the sequence of events makes that very unlikely. He took a meal down to Samuel, and at that time he was alive. Between then and when I found him, Bubo never went down to the jail cell.”

“And you trust Gyamfi?”

“Completely. He wouldn’t try to protect Bubo.”

“All right, good. That’s a relief.” Armah reflected for a moment. “You feel very bad about Samuel?”

“I can’t even tell you how terrible I feel.”

“Good.”

“Why good?”

“Darko, even though I don’t think you’re to blame, if you had come here defensively telling me it wasn’t your fault the boy died, I would have been disappointed because it wouldn’t be the Darko Dawson I know. It would say to me that you had lost a piece of your humanity You see what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“I remember when I was about your age, I arrested this boy-he may have been eighteen or nineteen. I say ‘boy’ because he was so small in stature, a tiny thing. Anyway, it was a petty crime, something utterly stupid. He begged me not to put him in a cell with other prisoners, but I ignored him. One of them beat him up that same night. He didn’t die, but he was very badly maimed. Do you know I’ve never forgiven myself for that? I probably never will, but I’m glad of that, because if a day ever comes that I’m able to think back on that incident without any pain or guilt, then I might as well curl up in a hole and die.”