Kwei Quartey - Children of the Street

He came back out a bit and removed his belt. Every little thing counted. He tried again, pushing with his feet and swiveling his hips… push, swivel; push, swivel.

He was through. The room was filled with the dark, rusty hulks of old machinery, and the floor was littered with metal and old raw material from the gypsum and tiling.

There was the woman’s moan again. He moved as quickly as he could to the far wall without tripping on anything. He peeped round the corner to the adjoining room.

It was small and hot. Its floor was blotched with thick red paint. Dawson suddenly realized it was dried blood, like in an abattoir. A naked, gagged woman was tethered to the far wall, her back toward Dawson. Beside her on the floor was a butcher knife with a long, wide blade.

Obi was bending over the charcoal stove he had bought earlier, fanning the charcoal red hot. He picked up the grate with two pairs of tongs and turned toward her.

“Put that down,” Dawson said.

Obi saw him, dropped everything, and bolted out of the room. Dawson followed, turning a sharp right. He knew where Obi was going. To the dead-bolted door.

By the time Dawson got there, it was wide-open and Obi was gone. Dawson came out, swinging his flashlight beam in an arc. No one . He ran around to the front of the building, but Obi wasn’t there either. Where did he go?

Then he understood. The overflow channel. Dawson ran to the side of it and shone his flashlight. Nothing . And then he saw him. Obi was swimming across. His head bobbed up for a second and then ducked under for a long time. He was a strong swimmer, and he could hold his breath. Swimming after him was not the way Dawson was going to catch the man. He ran back to the car and jumped in. If he could drive around to the other bank, he would be there to welcome Obi as he got out.

He couldn’t find the ignition key.

He leapt out again, alarms screaming in his head as he dug in his pockets.

What did you do with the key?

Shit . The hole in the wall. He sprinted back to the side of the factory. At the hole, he saw the key where it had fallen out of his pocket on the other side. He went partially through the hole and grabbed it.

But he had lost too much time. He shone his flashlight across the channel again and saw Obi getting out on the other side. He had slipped out of Dawson’s grasp. Dawson let out a long shout of rage and frustration. And then, as Obi came up to the top of the bank, powerful headlight beams switched on and silhouetted him. Raising his arms, he slowly went to his knees in surrender.

“It’s okay, Dawson,” came Chikata’s cheerful voice from across the channel. “We’ve got him.”

“How are you, Obi?”

“Please, I’m fine,” he said as Dawson and Chikata sat down opposite him. This time, he was in CID’s only official interview room, for his capture had indeed achieved the status of “national importance.”

Dawson studied Obi for a while. “What do you feel right now?”

He seemed puzzled. “I feel a little hungry.”

Dawson grunted. “I see. You remember Akosua, the girl last night?”

“Akosua? She told me her name was Jasmine.”

“Jasmine, then. What did you plan to do to her?”

“First to brand her with the hot iron grate of the stove. Then after that, I stick my knife in her back. One stab only, sir. Always just one stab.”

“Why is that so important?”

“Everything has to be neat. Have you ever seen anything at the doctor’s house that looks basabasa ? Never. Everything I do is neat and clean.”

“But you never scrub the blood off the floor of your killing place.”

Obi frowned. “Blood itself is purifying, Inspector Dawson. It is not untidy, it is a pure thing.”

“When you kill, what do you feel?”

“Joy.”

“Like the joy of the Lord?”

“Yes. He guides me in all things.”

“He spoke to you and told you to kill Jasmine?”

“Yes.”

“He also told you to kill Musa Zakari?”

“Yes, please.”

“And Ebenezer Sarpong.”

“Yes, please.”

“Comfort Mahama.”

“Yes, please. She too.”

“Why do you believe God wants you to kill people?”

“Not people, Inspector. Certain people.”

“Street children.”

“ Certain street children.”

“Teenagers?”

“Teenage children of the street are a visitation of Satan and a pox on us.”

“Why them in particular and not the young ones?”

“The small ones come with innocence. They have a chance to return to their villages, where they belong. Those that return will be blessed by God.” Obi’s face clouded over. “But those that stay have made a pact with the devil to do evil things. Fornication and prostitution, lying, cheating, and stealing. Worst of all, when they come of age, they begin to mate, producing offspring. Some of those offspring too will become fornicators, prostitutes, cheats, and thieves as they come of age. Look at the shame and filth they bring. Look at the venereal diseases. Have you not visited CMB and Agbogbloshie? They defecate like animals wherever they like, these people. They are dirty. No one wants to cleanse the city of them, so I have to. They are crowding our streets.”

“But the doctor who you admire so much does not seem to agree with you about the street children,” Dawson said. “He cares about them, does he not?”

“The doctor is a good man, but sometimes I feel sad about what he is doing. He is trying to cleanse the children by showing them a new way of living. But, you see, Inspector, it is too late. If you put a new cloth on a dirty bed, the bed is still dirty.”

“Were you a child of the street?”

Obi stared at Dawson. “Please, the Lord blessed me when I was young and He took me out of the street. And He blessed me again and brought me to Dr. Botswe.”

“Why can’t you feel sympathy for street children when you were one yourself?”

There was a sudden flash of anger. Obi’s voice rose and cracked. “You don’t call me that!”

He stood up, and Chikata, at the ready, did the same.

“Sit down, Obi,” Dawson said.

Obi did, hyperventilating. “Sorry, sir.”

“It’s okay. You say you sometimes feel sad about what Dr. Botswe is doing. You mean bringing the children to his home?”

Obi gripped the edge of the table so hard his nail beds turned bloodred. “Iniquity, sinfulness, and dirtiness defile such a home.” His chin and bottom lip were quivering with emotion. “Have you seen the doctor’s house? Have you seen how I clean it, how I make it more beautiful than even the best Lighthouse church? It is as a temple, Inspector.

“And then he brings this filth , this refuse from the streets to sleep in the spotless sheets I wash with my own hands. No. Those children do not belong here. They belong in the gutter or the latrine. That is all they are worth. Let them be there, let them roll in the Korle Lagoon and eat from it like the pigs.”

Dawson shook his head slowly. “If there is a hell, that’s where you are going. Dr. Botswe in heaven will never lay eyes on you there.”

Obi inclined his head. “Dear Inspector, my heart is troubled for you. You know not of what you speak. Have you committed yourself to the Lord? Do you go to church?”

Dawson curled his lip. “You think any of this redemption nonsense is fooling me? You are a psychopathic killer pure and simple, Obi. All this religious speech you’re making? False. Bogus. ‘Commit yourself to the Lord.’ You don’t believe a word of it. You’re a liar , just like any other psychopath. You dress up your murder in fancy language, but it’s not even that complicated. You enjoy killing. Teenagers are the people you like to kill because they trigger the murder machinery in your soul.”