Kwei Quartey - Gold of Our Fathers

Dawson sat up and squinted at the dawn creeping in the window and wondered for a second where he was. He had slept only a couple of hours, resting his head on his arms folded across one of the tables in the CID room at the Manhyia Division. Had last night been a dream? No, it hadn’t.

At first, Wei had resisted arrest, and a small struggle between him and two officers had ensued. Lian became oddly limp and almost as difficult to handle. On the way to the station, both were quiet, their heads bowed.

It was twelve after six now. Dawson went to the washroom to freshen up. When he returned, he acknowledged the two CID detectives who had come in and were sitting complaining about the increasing frequency of electricity cuts.

Dawson called Christine. She had obviously been waiting for his call and answered before the second ring. “You’re okay?”

He chuckled. “Yes, love. Everything’s fine. Sorry-I should have texted you earlier.”

“It’s all right. When will you be home?”

He sighed. “It will be a long day, for sure. Early evening, I hope.”

“Okay, I’ll let the kids know.”

At times like this, the clash between a “normal” life and dedication to his job hit home hard.

•••

In the male cell, a sea of black prisoners, the bulk of them between eighteen and twenty-four years old, swamped one little Chinese island-Wei Liu. He looked both resentful and scared as Dawson called him to the front. “Good morning, Mr. Liu.”

He didn’t return the greeting. He appeared dispassionate, perhaps too tired to show much emotion.

“I will be interviewing you very soon,” Dawson said.

Wei drooped, and turned his face away.

At the female cell, though, Lian was not taking things as calmly. She was distraught, weeping at intervals. Her Ghanaian counterparts stared at her, and some of them began to giggle. Furious, Lian turned to yell at them in Chinese. Poor woman, Dawson thought. Her husband dead, she and her lover in jail with people she didn’t like in a country she hated.

Asase brought Wei to the CID room and sat beside him. Dawson took a seat on the opposite side of the table. Wei fidgeted and did not make eye contact.

“How do you feel this morning, Wei?” Dawson asked.

He didn’t answer.

“We’re going to have a talk,” Dawson continued. “No more lies. Just the truth. Okay?”

Wei’s jaw contracted rhythmically, but still he said nothing.

“When you and I first met,” Dawson said, “Mr. Huang told me that your brother Bao came to Ghana about three years ago, correct?”

Wei, resting his forehead in one palm, nodded.

“Mr. Liu, I need you to answer my questions so that we can hear you.” Dawson said. “After Bao was here for two years, he wanted Lian to join him, and he asked you to accompany her, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“You and Lian love each other, not so?”

Wei shifted his weight. “Yes,” he said sullenly.

“When did you fall in love with each other? In China, before Bao and Lian got married?”

Wei shook his head. “No. After they marry.” He sighed. “Sometimes, Bao go away to do mining for one month, two month-leave Lian alone.”

“So you used to keep her company,” Dawson prompted, thankful Wei seemed to be emerging from his cold, hard shell. “And that’s how it happened that you fell in love.”

“Yes.”

“And Bao never knew about it?”

Wei sneered slightly. “No.” He shrugged. “And he don’t love her either.”

“I see,” Dawson said, pausing. “Then when Bao left China for Ghana, you and Lian were left together for two years?”

“We were happy,” Wei said, with sudden enthusiasm. “Very happy.”

“I understand. How did you feel when Bao asked Lian to come to Ghana?”

Wei shook his head. “Lian not want to leave China, but she have to obey her husband. Only thing, she happy I go with her.”

“And while you were here,” Dawson said, “you continued to be with her whenever you had a chance and Bao was away.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You said Bao didn’t love Lian. Why do you say that?”

“He don’t love her like I love her,” Wei said fiercely, pointing at his heart.

“Did Lian hate Bao?”

Wei nodded. “Yes.”

“And you hated Bao too?”

The Chinese man shook his head. “I never hate Bao. Only love Lian.”

“Did Lian ask you to kill Bao?”

“No!” Wei exclaimed in alarm, perhaps realizing that his words were being misconstrued. “She never do that.”

“But you wanted to kill Bao,” Dawson said, “so that you could have Lian to yourself. Just like you had her to yourself for two years in China.”

“No,” Wei said flatly.

“I know you killed your brother, Wei,” Dawson said evenly.

“No.” He gestured simply by turning his palms up. “How I kill him? I sleep Feng house by that time, but you wan’ me say I kill Bao because you Ghanaian guy and you no like the Chinese people. You know is that guy Yaw who kill Bao, but you wan’ me take blame.”

And there, Dawson conceded, Wei had him in a corner that was going to be difficult to get out of.

Tired, Dawson set off for home. The afternoon had worn on and worn him down. He would try again with Wei in the morning. The man was bound to confess. But a small voice nagged at Dawson. Are you sure Yaw Okoh is not the killer? Was Dawson hunting for something that simply wasn’t there? Was he really biased against Wei because he was Chinese? It was the first time an accusation like that had come up in Dawson’s career.

When Dawson got into the house, he heard the boys in hysterics and found them watching a DVD on the laptop while Christine was cooking. He glanced at the screen, saw they were watching a cartoon, and then went to his wife’s side to put an arm around her waist.

“Mm, smells delicious,” he said, lifting the pot lid and getting a whiff of heavenly groundnut stew. “I’m famished.”

She smiled at him. “We’ll eat in a few minutes. Just boiling the yam.”

“What’s so funny, guys?” Dawson asked, sitting down at the table.

Hosiah and Sly looked at each other conspiratorially and started to giggle.

Dawson sent an inquiring glance at Christine.

“I’ll tell you exactly what they’re laughing at,” she said, appearing miffed. “They’re watching a cartoon called The Sleepy Hippo or something like that, and they say when the hippopotamus starts to snore, it sounds like me.”

This sent the two boys into stitches again, with Hosiah almost falling out of his chair. “Look, Daddy,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

Dawson waited while Hosiah found the right spot on the DVD where the hippo sank to the ground and began to snore. Sly and Hosiah looked at Dawson for his reaction, and as much as he tried to keep his face straight, he could not hold his snort in. Seconds later, he was stifling laughter as the boys went weak with hilarity.

“Oh, you too?” Christine said, shooting Dawson a daggered look. “Look, I don’t snore. You guys are crazy.”

Through the boys’ giggles, Dawson told them to put the laptop away and get washed up for dinner, both because the joke had outstayed its welcome and because he was hungry.

But as the family ate and talked, Dawson gave more thought to the sleepy hippo, and then he began to understand who murdered Bao Liu and how.

En route to Kumasi Headquarters, Dawson heard the doubt in DCOP Manu’s voice as he spoke to her on the phone and tried to explain why he needed an emergency search warrant, which a senior officer was authorized to sign.