Kwei Quartey - Gold of Our Fathers

“No,” Dawson said.

“A gang of Ghanaian boys waylaid some Chinese guys who were walking to a mining site, and the boys demanded gold from them. The Chinese said they didn’t have any and the boys should go away, which they did. But then, they returned with some macho men to beat up the Chinese people at their mining camp and presumably steal some stuff. One of the macho men was armed, but so were the Chinese. The two groups exchanged gunfire and one Chinese and two Ghanaians were shot dead.”

“It sounds like it was a critical scene,” Dawson said.

“But wait,” Danquah said, holding up a finger, “that wasn’t all. When the police arrived to investigate, one stupid Chinese man started firing his weapon and wounded a sergeant. You see, Inspector, some of these Chinese are criminals-no good, worthless, low-life people in their own country. Now, I don’t deny that we have the same good-for-nothings here in Ghana. I’m saying, please, China, keep your offenders and convicts in your own country.” Danquah shook his head grimly. “It’s just too bad. You see all this destruction of land around us and the pollution of the rivers? They have done this to us.”

“But Ghanaians are engaging in the same illegal mining, aren’t they?” Dawson said.

“Oh, yes!” Danquah exclaimed spiritedly. “We Ghanaians, the fools that we are, are in bed with these people. Why? Because we see a little money waving in our faces and we want to grab it at once without thinking of the consequences. And me who has been in the gold business for so long, I don’t like what these foreigners are doing to the country, but I have a wife and kids to support. I would be a fool to turn them away at the door. You know, it’s like taking bitter medicine.”

“So what do you think is going to happen?” Dawson asked, feeling depressed.

Danquah shrugged. “Well, you see how the government is now chasing them out. Some of them are leaving voluntarily to go back to China because of these raids and so on, and their share of the gold has been diminishing. To be honest, some of them are in poverty. Some have money but are by no means rich. So, in the end most of them will leave, but by then they will have torn the Ashanti and other regions apart.”

Dawson rose. “Mr. Danquah, I thank you very much for your help.”

“You are welcome, sir. By the way, are you interested in buying or selling any gold today?”

“I don’t have any gold,” Dawson said, “and I certainly don’t have any money.”

Mr. Huang did not show up at Dunkwa Police Station for another two hours. Dawson used that time to call Christine and the boys, who were now in the final third of the long vacation from June to September. Christine asked him how things were going.

“I have a homicide,” he told her. “Happened only this morning.”

“Goodness! They haven’t even given you time to settle in.”

“Exactly.”

“Bad case?”

“Yes. A Chinese man who was tied up, bludgeoned with a machete, and then buried at a mining site.”

“Ewurade,” she said, and he could almost hear her shudder. “Well, apart from all that gruesomeness, how are you doing?”

“I’m okay, but I want to get out of the hotel as soon as possible.”

“Mama says the house will be ready by next week,” she told him.

“Oh, good,” he said, thinking, I’ll believe it when I see it. No construction, repair or plumbing project was ever ready by the promised time.

“When do you think you’ll be able to go to see the house?” she asked.

“I’ll try this weekend.”

“Okay. Hold on for Hosiah.”

He spent a little while chatting to both boys, who missed him. They knew now about the move to Kumasi, and although Sly did not seem in the least worried about it, Hosiah was showing anxiety in his tone, and that worried Dawson.

Mr. Huang was a bespectacled fortyish man who was deeply sunburned, especially the bald patch at the crown of his flat head.

“Thank you very much for coming in to help me interpret, Mr. Huang,” Dawson said, shaking hands. “I appreciate it very much.”

“You welcome,” he said nervously.

“It’s just one or two things I need to ask Mr. Liu,” Dawson said, sensing that Huang was anxious. “I understand that out of the two types of Chinese, both of you speak the same variety?”

A mixture of both amusement and annoyance passed over Huang’s face for just an instant, but long enough for Dawson to notice.

“Did I say something wrong, Mr. Huang?”

“Oh, no, no problem,” he said, but his eyes didn’t meet Dawson’s.

“Am I mistaken that there are two types of Chinese?” Dawson persisted, still certain he had blundered somewhere.

“Same like if I say there two type Ghanaian language!” Huang blurted, suddenly free of politeness. “Not make sense, right? China have many language!”

Dawson saw his point. “Yes, you are right,” he said, feeling stupid for the second time today. “I apologize, sir.”

Hastening to smile and now embarrassed himself, Huang waved the apology away. “’Sokay. No problem.”

“Let’s go to see Mr. Liu now, please.”

Wei Liu had shrunk into a corner of the overcrowded Dunkwa jail cell, keeping himself and his eyes away from his Ghanaian cellmates. Just like the jail at Obuasi headquarters, this one contained far more prisoners than it was designed to hold. When Wei saw Mr. Huang, his face lit up. In a voice shaking with emotion, he called out to his countryman and threaded his way to the front through the clump of prisoners.

“Please explain that we are going to take him out for questioning,” Dawson said to Huang.

From either side of the jail bars, the two Chinese men had what seemed to Dawson a long and complicated exchange, and after a few minutes some of the Ghanaian prisoners began to giggle and do bad Chinese imitations.

Inspector Sackie, who was standing nearby, bellowed, “ Heh! Shut up, all of you!”

The prisoners obeyed and Kobby opened the cell door to let Wei out, cuffing him as a precaution before taking him to the CID room. They had no guarantee that Wei was any less bad-tempered now than he had demonstrated just a few hours ago.

Most regional and divisional headquarters had a shared common room for CID detectives to question suspects and write reports. Sackie, Obeng, and Dawson sat opposite Wei and Huang at two tables pushed together to make a single.

“Again, thank you for coming to help us,” Dawson said to Huang. “Please explain to Mr. Liu that he is here for questioning regarding the death of his brother, Bao, and that he is also under arrest for assault and attempted battery of a police officer. Which is why he is handcuffed. I am going to read a caution statement to him, which you must translate to him the best that you can, and then I will ask him to sign it.”

“Yes,” Huang said.

It took several minutes to laboriously get through the caution preamble phrase by phrase. With some hesitation, Wei signed it after Dawson made sure he understood.

“He say he sorry for what he did,” Huang said.

“Why did he do it?” Dawson asked.

“He say… he say he just feel so shock and so bad his brother die.”

In a way, Dawson understood. He had seen all kinds of behavior exhibited by family of the deceased-catatonia, hysteria, fainting, fury.

Huang cleared his throat. “Mr. Liu, he wanna know if he is going to spend more time in jail.”

“But of course,” Dawson said. “He will be arraigned tomorrow, and then he will be remanded in prison custody.”

Huang turned to Wei and another discussion followed. Wei was rubbing his hand repeatedly through his hair as if he was at the end of his rope.