Kwei Quartey - Gold of Our Fathers

Akrofi shook his head. “No problems at all.”

But Dawson’s left palm began to itch as if a caterpillar was walking across it, and he knew the chief wasn’t being truthful. “ Mepa wo kyew , Nana,” he said, still very deferentially, “if you don’t mind my asking, how have the Chinese people been received in Dunkwa?”

Akrofi reflectively rubbed his hands back and forth over the tops of his thighs.

“Well, you see,” he began, “the China people have helped us a lot. They have provided the youth with employment where before there was no work. You know, these young guys don’t want to work on the farms planting cocoa and all that. They want quick money. Cocoa is too slow. Look at how many years it takes for one cocoa tree to start bearing fruit. So this gold mining, it is very good for our boys. It keeps them out of trouble, prevents them from engaging in robbery and theft and all those things.”

“ Medaase , Nana,” Dawson said, nodding to show acknowledgment of and respect for Akrofi’s observations, but in fact he was slowly working up to the most troublesome aspect of the Chinese occupation.

“In addition,” the chief continued, “they constructed two boreholes for us because the Ofin River has been polluted by AngloGold Ashanti mining. So we can now have a good water supply.”

Interesting, Dawson thought. Akrofi was laying the blame for the river pollution at the feet of the multinational company, AngloGold Ashanti, rather than the small-scale miners. “I see. That’s a good point.” Now the tough question. “Please, Nana, what do you say about the farms that have been destroyed by the excavators? Maybe it’s true that the young people get work on the mining sites, but at the same time, farmers who have spent all their lives planting crops have lost their livelihood. Is that not correct?”

Akrofi shook his head vigorously. “Please, Mr. Chief Inspector. First of all, don’t believe everything that you hear about those excavated areas. It is not all farmland. Some of it isn’t suitable for cocoa at all, because the soil is not good quality. And then, those farmers complaining are the same fools who sold their land to the Chinese. They are not supposed to do that without my permission, but still, some of them do. Then, when the money they took has run out, they come crying to me saying, ‘Please, Nana, what should I do, Nana? The China people have destroyed my land.’ You are rather the stupid one who allowed yourself to fall to the temptation of the money they offered you.”

“In other words, Nana,” Dawson said cautiously, getting close to the edge, “if a farmer did not want his land used for mining and the Chinese came to ask you permission to take that land, you would not allow it.”

“Yes!” he answered fiercely. “Of course I would not allow it.”

In his peripheral vision, Dawson saw Obeng averting his gaze, and he sensed that the sergeant knew or suspected that the chief’s assertion wasn’t altogether true.

“Look,” the chief continued, “the only real problem with the excavators is that the Chinamen should backfill the pits once they have finished with the site.”

“Why don’t they?” Dawson asked.

“Because it costs money,” Akrofi said simply. “It takes a lot of fuel and time. I was listening to the radio the other day and heard the Minister of Agriculture saying that they will come in and cover up all the abandoned pits and request the Center for Scientific and Industrial Research to plant and restore all these areas.”

“Do you think that will happen?” Dawson asked.

The chief made a rude noise with his mouth. “It will never happen. These ministers are all liars. Spending the country’s money on their Benzes and girlfriends.”

Much truth to that, unfortunately .

“The Chinamen have built us roads that go far into the bush,” Akrofi said. “If you wait for the government to do such a thing, you will wait until your hair turns gray. The Chinese even built a small school in one of the villages not far from here. So yes, they are good people. They have passion for the villagers. If I have a problem, I just go to them and they help me. The Chinese have been giving us money every two weeks to maintain the boreholes.”

That surprised Dawson. He would not have expected that kind of generosity. Which made him think of something. “What about Bao Liu? Did he contribute to the boreholes?”

“Not as such,” Akrofi said, “but I understand he planned to do so.”

Could there have been any conflict in that area? Perhaps Bao had withheld funds from the chief, or had refused to bribe him for something? But as a motive for murder, it still seemed unlikely. You know where your bread is buttered, even if the butter is a little long in coming. Still, what was the chief withholding about conflict between Bao and the local farmers? Was he trying to gloss over the true situation, or was he shielding someone? Much as Dawson wanted to know that, confronting Nana Akrofi about it now would destroy any chances of questioning the chief in the future.

Dawson looked at Obeng, conveying that he had no more questions for the chief. Obeng nodded. He had none either. He and Dawson began the process of thanking the chief and wishing him the very best. He rose and again shook their hands, right to left.

Akrofi had an afterthought as Dawson and Obeng were about to leave. “When you go to look for that boy, Kudzo Gablah,” he said, “just be ready. He will be afraid of you and he might try to escape before you find him.”

Getting to Aniamoa meant traveling thirty miles north-northwest from Dunkwa deep into the bush along unpaved red laterite. If Kudzo Gablah had indeed fled to Aniamoa, he obviously wanted to be as far away from Dunkwa as possible.

Dawson texted Christine, sorry love, can’t get to the house today-too much going on. will try tmrw. luv u

She replied, ok, lu2

Whenever a rare SUV or truck appeared in the opposite direction, both vehicles squeezed over onto the verge to allow each other to pass. The dust, potholes and bumps made Dawson think wistfully of owning an SUV just for this purpose.

Obeng told Kofi where to stop and wait until their return. They would be walking the rest of the way because the road trailed off and the taxi would not be able to handle the terrain.

Like Dunkwa, Aniamoa had a number of small-scale mining sites dotted around the town. Obeng had a pretty good idea which one of them Kudzo was likely to have sought out as his new location.

The perishing afternoon heat seemed to make everything still as they walked, the brush softly crunching underfoot. A rhythmic chugging noise slowly became louder, different from the now-familiar excavator sound.

“Ticki-ticki-ticki-ticki,” Dawson said, imitating the sound. “What’s that?”

“Dredging pump, sir,” Obeng said. “This kind of mining is different from the one where they found the dead Chinaman.”

After several hundred meters, they began a slight decline into a valley and the view opened up beyond a clump of trees to reveal a river below them. About ten young men were crowded on a barge secured to one bank. The ticki-ticki was from a filthy, smoking diesel pump, also on the barge.

Facing the barge was a smaller vessel with two boys on it. Together they used a long pole to stab and churn the riverbed, increasing the amount of gravel to the pump. The river was a murky, yellowish brown.

“You see how those boys are churning the riverbed?” Obeng said to Dawson, pointing. “That makes it easier for the pump to suck up mud and gravel. Then the gravel is washed and maybe they can get some small gold at the end of the day.”