Kwei Quartey - Gold of Our Fathers

Since probably the first day his son had been able to take his own shower or bucket bath, he had had the odd habit of not toweling off. He swept off the excess water from his body with his hands, and that was it. Neither Dawson nor Christine knew where the idiosyncrasy came from, but Hosiah was Hosiah.

“Finished!” Hosiah exclaimed, jumping out of the stall in birthday-suit glory. He did a fair imitation of a rapper while executing a small dance. “Look at me, Dad.”

“Very nice,” Dawson said, rumpling his son’s head. “Now hurry up and get ready for bed. Sly? Sly! Where does the boy disappear to?”

By nine on Friday morning, the sun was promising a sweltering day. Dawson sat in the front passenger seat of the Tata SUV as the driver took it over rough, undulating terrain. In the seat behind him, Constable Kobby was quiet.

Following the dark blue SWAT Bravo police vehicle ahead, the SUV pitched and swayed. This was the tough part of the journey toward the Lius’ mining site that Dawson’s little Corolla had never been able to make.

They came around the corner and stopped at a meeting point east of Dunkwa and south of the point where the Ofin River makes a U-turn from south to north, but because the trailing edge of Dunkwa Forest blocked their view, the river wasn’t visible from where they stood. Illegal miners had not yet ravaged this spot, but loggers had, and the forest had been severely thinned out over just a matter of a few years.

Some fifty soldiers from the 4th Infantry Battalion had assembled, dressed in green-and-brown camouflage outfits and armed with automatic weapons. They were a hard, lean bunch, good to befriend, bad to antagonize. They listened as a compact staff sergeant briefed them. Some sported sleek dark glasses to reduce the sun’s glare, or perhaps just to add to their mystique.

The SWAT officers, in black-and-gray camouflage, were fewer in number than their military counterparts. They piled out of their vehicle, came to order, and the unit leader, a deputy superintendent of police, addressed them. With Kobby nearby, Dawson leaned against the vehicle and watched the DSP giving instructions and cautions. When he was done, he approached the detectives. The name badge on his right chest read frimpong . Dawson was junior to him in rank, so he briefly braced in salute, as did Kobby.

“You will hold back from the scene until it has been secured by the soldiers and Bravo,” Frimpong instructed them. “Some of these galamsey guys are very dangerous, and you are not to engage with them in any way. We don’t want any injuries or fatalities. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Dawson replied. “Please, what is the specific strategy for the raid?”

“We have at least two groups of illegal miners working inside this part of Dunkwa Forest,” Frimpong said. “In fact, if you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of their excavators from here. We’re splitting up to carry out dual operations as simultaneously as possible. If we do only the forest first, some of the illegals might escape under foliage cover and go to warn the others.”

Dawson nodded. Frimpong took a folded sheet of paper from his top pocket and smoothed it over the hood of the SUV.

“So, we are here,” he said, pointing to the diagram. “We will go through the tip of the forest, here. At the other side, we will come to the American man’s site first, and then the first of the Chinese illegals at this site.” He circled it.

The Lius’ site , Dawson thought.

“Now,” Frimpong said, “I understand you are familiar with these two spots through your investigations of the murder of the Chinese man. What do you know that might help us?”

Dawson produced his own sketch from his pocket and went through it with the DSP.

“We will first arrive at Chuck Granger’s mining area, sir,” Dawson said, circling his finger around the spot. “He has a cabin concealed by the trees over here to the left as we approach. It’s a potential hiding place, and a sniper could shoot at us from there and then disappear into the forest.”

“I appreciate that piece of information,” Frimpong said. “I wasn’t aware.”

“The mining pits on Granger’s property are very deep,” Dawson continued, tapping each one, “and the tops and sides are muddy and slippery. In other words, we should proceed with caution, sir.”

Frimpong nodded and pointed to the second set of pits on the diagram. “And these shallow pits are on the Chinese man’s site?”

“Yes, the Chinese guys never had as much machine power as Mr. Granger,” Dawson explained, “so their pits are shallower to enable the workers to get in and out.”

“Got it.”

“However, sir,” Dawson said emphatically, “Mr. Liu does have one pit that is deep. That’s this one with the bridge over here to the right. It’s off this bridge that Amos Okoh fell-or was made to-and drowned. Again, sir, the men must tread with caution. Now, the shack you see over here on the Liu’s site, sir, is on higher ground than the pits; therefore, our men running up to it could be subject to gunfire.”

“Thank you, Dawson,” Frimpong said, sincerely. “This is really good work. I will put in a good word about you to your superiors.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Dawson and Kobby followed the military and police units, the 4th Battalion taking the lead through the dappled shade of neat rows of cocoa trees fringing the southern portion of Dunkwa Forest. All this could disappear and give way to mining grounds , Dawson thought. All it would take was a bulldozer-with or without the permission of the cocoa farmer.

As the forest ended, the cocoa farm trailed off and gave way to banana trees, oil palms, and shrubbery. The procession stopped for a moment. They could hear the drone of excavators in the distance. Dawson and Kobby were in the back of the pack, so they never saw the sergeant’s signal to begin the raid. The units exploded out of the trees with a swiftness and ferocity that startled even Dawson, and he burst into a run himself to keep up, Kobby right at his side.

Dawson saw Chuck Granger’s site ahead. It was deserted. Tipped off by someone , Dawson thought. Who? Approaching the ridge between two of Granger’s huge pits, the men fell back to single file, slowing their pace slightly because of the risk of falling. Now the Liu site was coming up, but Dawson couldn’t see all the way to the front until the men spread out and charged into the area, separating off into sections. One group charged up to the shed, kicking the door open and entering. But they came out empty-handed. Other soldiers went on to the bridged pit, as Dawson had suggested to Frimpong, but they found no one.

Dawson turned in a circle, searching for some sign of life. The rusty sluice boxes were still there, sad and lonely, and so was the excavator. But no illegal miners were in sight anywhere. Frimpong and the sergeant gave instructions and the units dispersed into the surrounding forest. A lot of thrashing around and yelling followed, but minutes later, the men came back reporting that nothing and no one could be found. Dawson beckoned to his constable to follow him as he went into the shed. Apart from a few mud-caked rags, it was empty. No machetes, firearms, or spent shells.

“Nothing here, boss,” Kobby said, standing arms akimbo. “Do you think the miners have abandoned the area and gone to another site?”

Dawson shook his head. “No, they would not have left the excavator here.” Clearly, someone had tipped off Wei and his crew as well, but Dawson kept that to himself. They left the shed and went back to the units where Frimpong and the sergeant were conferring and making phone calls. The guys stood around waiting for orders, many of them looking disappointed at how this so-called operation had come to nothing, ending as quickly as it had begun.