Kwei Quartey - Children of the Street

“This is all it takes to make me happy,” Dawson said between mouthfuls. “Kenkey and fish. And Malta.”

“The way you love kenkey, you’d think you were a Ga,” Christine said.

The Ga, Accra’s original people, had a legendary love of kenkey, but Dawson was half Ewe and half Fante. Nevertheless, he was fluent in Ga, as well as Ewe, Fante, and Twi, which took care of most of the lower half of Ghana. He had only a rudimentary knowledge of Hausa, one of the major languages spoken in the north.

As they talked, Dawson was putting up a cheerful front, but a lump formed in his throat every time Edith’s words from earlier that day came back to him. I’m so sorry. They turned it down .

When was he going to tell Christine? Tonight?

Hosiah let out a cheer as the lights suddenly came back on. While Christine washed dishes, Dawson took him to have his bath in preparation for bed.

As Dawson was toweling him dry, Hosiah asked, “Daddy, if the hole in my heart gets bigger and bigger, will I stop growing?”

“No, that won’t stop you from growing.”

“I want to be big and tall like you.”

“You will. Probably even taller.”

He was thrilled. “Really?”

“Mm-hm. Your ears dry?”

Hosiah checked. “Yes.”

“No little tadpoles inside?”

Hosiah cackled as he went to brush his teeth. I want to be big and tall like you . What if he never made it? Dawson turned away, pretending to fuss with the towels. His forehead was furrowed and his lips tight as he gulped his emotions down.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, champ?” Dawson’s voice wobbled just a bit.

“Do you catch a lot of bad people?”

“I try to.” He came to the boy’s side. “Don’t forget your back teeth.”

Hosiah said something unintelligible through toothpaste foam.

“Finish brushing first,” Dawson said.

When Hosiah was toothpaste free, he asked his question again. “What happens to the bad people when you catch them?”

“We send them to jail for a while, and then one day they go before a judge and he decides if they were really bad and need to go to prison.”

“Oh.”

“Come on. Story time.”

On the way to the bedroom, Hosiah asked, “How come when I’m bad I don’t get a judge too?”

“You know why?”

“Why?”

Dawson suddenly swept Hosiah up onto one shoulder, and the boy shrieked with laughter.

“You know why?”

“Why?” Hosiah shouted.

“Because I’m the judge too.”

Dawson delivered him to bed in a giggling bundle. Hosiah cuddled against him as he read, for probably the one thousandth time, an Ananse the Spider story.

“Was that good?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Lights out. Mammy will come up in a minute.”

He kissed Hosiah twice.

In their own bedroom as they got ready to turn in, Dawson asked Christine, “Can we go to Agbogbloshie together tomorrow afternoon to see what we can do about getting Sly into school?”

“Sure, if you like.” She got into bed. “Oh, wait a minute. I have to pick Hosiah up early from school. They have a half day.”

“What about your friend? She can’t take him for the afternoon?”

“No, she’s busy.” Hesitation. “The only alternative is for Mama to watch Hosiah till we get back.”

Dawson got into bed as well but didn’t respond.

“Dark,” she pleaded. “You can’t punish her anymore.”

Almost a year ago, Dawson’s mother-in-law, Gifty, had taken Hosiah to see a traditional healer to “cure” the boy’s heart ailment. She had done this without the consent of either Dawson or Christine. In the process of the healer’s “cleansing ritual,” Hosiah was accidentally struck on the head, opening a gash in his scalp. Dawson had never forgiven Gifty.

“Look,” he said, “it’s not as if she hasn’t been able to see Hosiah at all.”

“But that’s strictly my taking him over to visit her together. You don’t want me to leave him there alone with her. You know she loves having him for the day. This is killing her.”

Dawson blew his breath out. “All right,” he said resignedly, “maybe I’m being too hard on her. You can drop Hosiah off at her house tomorrow.”

“And from now on she can babysit him when needed?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Christine gave him a big kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart. She’s going to be thrilled.”

Like a lightning bolt, a thought flashed through Dawson’s mind and made him cringe. What if my mother-in-law outlives Hosiah?

“What’s the matter?” Christine asked him at once. “What was that look?”

He brought her closer.

“Dark, what’s wrong?”

“Edith called me today,” he said.

“I see.” Christine became very still. “So they turned the petition down.”

Dawson nodded.

They both stayed silent for some time.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, sounding empty.

“It’s not the end of the road,” Dawson said. “There’s always something around the corner.”

Christine sat up, suddenly angry. “We’re not going to sit around and let our son die.” Her voice cracked. “This stupid government that does nothing but steal our money. They think we’re going to let him die just because of them?”

She jumped out of bed, eyes blazing.

“Christine-”

“Idiot bureaucrats at the hospital with no soul,” she said, her voice trembling. “Just because of them?”

Dawson scrambled up himself and hurried around to her side of the bed.

“And yes,” she continued in fury, “that incompetent Ghana Police Service you work for. Do they want us to let him die?”

She began to weep, her lacerated cries wrenched from her throat. Dawson put his arms around her, but she struggled to pull away. He held her firmly and wouldn’t let go.

“I’m with you, Christine,” he said. “You have to remember that. I’m with you. And I won’t let you or Hosiah down. Ever.”

At last her body relaxed and molded into his, and she cried until her energy was spent.

After the overnight rain, the roads were in no condition for Dawson’s motorbike, so he took a cab to work. The commute was a nightmare. Several intersections and whole segments of streets were flooded, a reflection of the sorry state of Accra’s drainage system. Traffic was at a standstill in every direction. Taxi drivers, including Dawson’s, were being their usual aggressive selves, which didn’t help people’s tempers any.

His phone rang.

“Morning, Wisdom.”

“Good morning, Inspector. Where are you?”

“Stuck at Nkrumah Circle.”

Wisdom grunted. “Best of luck. I spoke to Yves last night. He says he’ll do it for us.”

“Okay. When do you need the photo?”

“Today. Can you send me a high-quality scan?”

“Scan! We hardly have any computers at CID and you’re talking about scanners?”

“The whole CID, not a single scanner? I don’t believe it.”

“Since it troubles you so much, why not buy one for us?”

Wisdom chortled.

“I can photocopy it for you,” Dawson said. “That’s the best I can do.”

“Why can’t I get the original?”

“Release an original photo to you from police files? I don’t think so, my friend.”

“Okay, okay. So where can I pick up the copy?”

“I’m going to Agbogbloshie later today. I can meet you on the way there, say in front of the Ghana Customs building. I’ll call you before I leave.”

Chikata was even later to work than Dawson was.

“Ah, this Accra flooding,” he said with disgust as he sat down next to his boss at a worn, pockmarked desk. “Anyway, good morning, Dawson.”