Kwei Quartey - Gold of Our Fathers

“At first I was kinda doubtful, but when they brought out that gold for me to see, damn, it was beautiful, man. The gold expert with me told me it was top-notch and gave it the thumbs-up. So it’s all weighed out and stuff, and the machine counts the cash I brought, and I get my gold.

“Couldn’t believe how easy it was, man. I had a secret compartment in the ceiling of my SUV, so we put it all in there, but I was nervous. We’d driven about thirty minutes when we came around the corner and an SUV was blocking our way, and these two masked gunmen come out shooting, and I thought, this is it, I’ma get smoked. They make us lie facedown and tied us up, and they start ripping up the SUV looking for gold. Finally they find it and bolt, and I’m half a million dollars poorer, and I don’t have any gold. That pisses me off.”

“At any time, did you think that the attackers might have been in league with Mr. Michael?” Dawson asked, thinking that it was surely obvious.

“Are you kidding me?” Tanbry exclaimed. “That’s not even all I thought. I began to suspect the police were in on it as well.”

Dawson sat up. “Why do you say that?”

“Look, man, Longdon wasn’t not investigating any of this shit because he was lazy or incompetent. It was because he was in with this Mr. Michael dude. And the little sergeant guy down there who supposedly took the report was probably taking orders from the commander. For all I know, once I’d left, they put my case in the round file.”

“But do you have any solid proof that Commander Longdon was in league with Mr. Michael?” Dawson asked.

“ I don’t, but maybe someone else does. You ever hear of a journalist called Akua Helmsley?”

Dawson was startled. “Yes, I have.” He hesitated to tell Tanbry she was dead. “How do you know her?”

“When I flew out of Ghana, she was in the seat next to me. We struck up a convo, and I told her pretty much everything that had happened to me. She said she’d like to do a story on it, and so we exchanged numbers. Months passed and I figured she’d forgotten about the whole thing when out of the blue she calls me.”

“When was that?”

“Three days ago. She said she’d gone to see the commander about the gold scam.”

Dawson frowned. Longdon hadn’t mentioned Akua’s visiting him three days ago.

“And then she said she planned to go out to see this Mr. Michael. I’m beggin’ her please, Akua, this is too damn dangerous. I was worried as hell, and I’m praying she’s okay.”

I have to tell him. “Mr. Tanbry, sir. I’m very sorry to tell you that Akua Helmsley was found dead this morning.”

He gasped. “No way. No fuckin’ way. God dammit. Shot, right?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Am I right, or not?”

“Yes, you are sadly correct. Seems like she was returning on the same route that you were when you were robbed.”

“Ah, sweet Jesus,” Tanbry whispered. “They killed her straight up, man. They fuckin’ killed her.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Michael, man. Him and his goons. Go get ’em, Inspector. They fuckin’ killed her.”

Old devils were creeping back and burrowing under his skin like determined earthworms in the soil after a rain shower. His head knew he was blaming himself too much, but his heart begged to differ.

He left a note on the desk for Christine and the boys saying he would be back soon. Loathing himself more every passing minute, he got into the jeep and traveled from Melcom Road north to the Asafo Interchange. From there, he made a right, found a spot to park at the edge of Asafo Market, and went in and bought a cap with the Manchester United Football Club logo, and a pair of shades even though it was now dusk. Then, reasonably disguised, he took a walk toward the Neoplan bus station. Just before he got there, he made a sharp left down a narrow lane.

How did he know this place? He had heard of it, and then it was just a matter of following his nose. No, not the stink of urine in the alley-the other smell, sharp and distinctive and, yes, so familiar. Guys were languishing against the walls of the passageway, which opened up into a covered patio filled with smoke. A least a dozen men were sitting around casually puffing on joints, and fat ones too. A lot bigger than what one generally gets in Accra.

A guy with a clean-shaven head and built like a fort gave Dawson an up flick of the head, which identified him as the go-to. Dawson asked him about prices and found that wee was cheaper here than in Accra. Darko stood and smoked, daydreaming and floating, his stresses melting away. No good reason to give this herb up, really. Nothing wrong with indulging from time to time.

He had random thoughts, some of them making him laugh to himself. Like an undecided hummingbird, his mind flitted through a brightly lit field of characters: Bao Liu; his brother, Wei; the American man Chuck, who looked like a school-yard bully; Liu’s wife, delicate Lian; Yaw Okoh and his morose father; Obeng and Commander Longdon… Dawson drifted back to Wei and something he had said. What was it? Something that didn’t quite fit. He lost it. It was gone.

Dawson looked at the joint. Still quite a bit left. It was wonderful, yet he felt sick. He looked to his right and offered the rest of it to a guy who had finished his own but was looking wistful for more. He took it with a mellow smile. “Medaase.”

He didn’t want to go home smelling of smoke, so Dawson bought a new T-shirt on the way out of Asafo Market and exchanged it for the one he had on, which he handed to a random youngster sitting idly watching the world go by.

Dawson walked around the streets to clear his head, absorbing the noise of market sellers and blasting loudspeakers, the sight of merchandise in all its unrelated and colorful glory, and the smell of food cooking. He was ravenous, that much he knew. As for the wee smoking, he was neither angry nor pleased with himself. Small wonder , he thought sarcastically. You’re still high. Later, he would be disappointed with himself, and it could mean he would not shake his despondent mood for a few days. You don’t have a few days. He bought some Orbit peppermint gum, went back to the car chewing, got in, and headed back home.

That evening, after Sly and Hosiah had gone to bed, Christine and Dawson sat together on the sofa. He had refrained from talking about the bad news until now.

“By the way,” she said, as if reading his mind, “I heard about Miss Helmsley. I’m sorry, Dawson. I know you admired her.”

He nodded. “Thank you. Yes, I did.”

She leaned against him, and he put his arm around her. “And I owe you an apology for the other night-insinuating that you and her had anything more than a professional relationship. It was foolish talk.”

“It’s okay,” he said, gently running his fingers through her elaborate weave. “It’s nice to know you still get jealous.”

She chortled softly. “Yes, but I could do better. What happened, Dark? To Helmsley, I mean.”

“It was an ambush,” he said. “She and her driver were shot in cold blood at close range.”

“Oh my goodness. Awful.” She shuddered.

“If only I had found out where she was going,” he said, “I might have saved her.”

She nodded. “Yes, I know you want to save everyone, but you can’t.”

“Yeah, so you claim.”

She raised her head to look at him, and he was grinning. They laughed.

“Come on,” he said, reaching for the TV remote, “let’s find a movie to watch.”

Predictably, Christine fell asleep leaning against Dawson about halfway through the action movie, which starred a bunch of actors he had never heard of.