by Ekow Duker
‘Tell me, Mr Potgieter. Is it really witchcraft?’
‘It isn’t witchcraft,’ André said firmly. ‘And you are definitely not ill.’
He gripped the arm of the chief superintendent’s chair. ‘You and I have a condition that jumbles the pathways of our senses. It mixes them up like a busy railway intersection.’ He rolled his hands in the air to illustrate. ‘Some people may smell colours or hear the number seven and know it has a different personality to the number eight. As for you and I, my friend, our blessing, or perhaps it is our curse, is that we do not only see through our eyes but also through our ears.’
Chief Superintendent Larbi nodded gravely. ‘I only see lines and shapes most of the time, and shadows. Like the one that passed across the window just now.’
‘I see more than lines and shapes,’ André said. ‘I see …’ He stopped in mid-sentence and the chief superintendent did not press him to divulge more. Instead the little man blew his nose loudly and rubbed it until it gleamed.
‘Can it be fixed?’ he asked André. ‘Maybe over there where you come from, the doctors can do something.’
‘There is nothing to be fixed,’ André said kindly. ‘When you and I were made, we were wired a little differently, that’s all.’
‘You’re saying we are the result of a piece of shoddy wiring?’
‘On the contrary,’ André said. ‘I think it took enormous skill.’
Chief Superintendent Larbi sat pondering this for a while. ‘You asked earlier why they call me Conductor,’ he said suddenly.
‘It is an unusual nickname and I would be lying if I said I had not wondered about it.’
‘One afternoon,’ the chief superintendent said, ‘I was here in my office listening to Puccini’s Turandot.’ He glanced shyly at André. ‘I’m sure you know the piece.’
André nodded. He wondered where this was going.
‘I was so consumed by the music that I forgot to shut the door.’ A wry smile creased the lower half of his face but his eyes remained dark and cold. ‘One of the officers saw me pumping my arms in time to the music and … well … the name has stuck ever since.’
They fell silent again with the only sounds the rustle of wind and the distant cries of imprisoned men.
‘I feel I must play something for you,’ André said at last. ‘What would you like to hear?’ He took up the violin and placed it in readiness against his neck but to his surprise, Chief Superintendent Larbi shook his head.
‘I have had enough excitement for one day. I know this violin will not be with me much longer. It was never mine to begin with. We are having a prayer service at the prison on Sunday and I would much rather you played there. There will be judges and other dignitaries in attendance. I’ve heard the president has been invited as well.’
André had seen the colourful posters at the entrance to the prison and he’d asked Bediako what it was about. It was all because a journalist had recently exposed the horrific conditions in Ghanaian prisons. Now everyone in authority wanted to be seen to be doing something about it. It would all be forgotten soon enough, Bediako said. Ghanaians were very good at forgetting.
‘That will be quite all right,’ André said. He placed the violin back in its case and pressed the clasps shut. ‘I’ll delay my flight for a couple of days. It’s the least I can do for you.’
He extended his hand in a gesture of farewell but Chief Superintendent Larbi did not take it.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Potgieter,’ he said. ‘The violin must stay behind.’
‘But …’
He reached up and patted André on the arm.
‘This is Ghana,’ he said. ‘My sensory pathways may indeed be as jumbled as yours.’ He made the same rolling motion of his hands that André had done. ‘But that does not make us brothers.’
CHAPTER 50
Karabo heard the news of her impending release from Fatima. She came and found Karabo in the makeshift kitchen and seized both her hands in hers.
‘You are going,’ she said to Karabo. She pinched Karabo’s arm and took the metal ladle away from her. Karabo did not protest. Her attempts at cooking were never very successful anyway. She watched with disinterest as Fatima cupped a hand behind her ear and mimed the act of listening.
‘The officers. They are talking in their room,’ she said. ‘I hear them.’
Karabo corrected her. ‘You heard them.’
They had a pact where Karabo taught Fatima English and, in return, Fatima taught her Twi. She’d offered to teach Karabo Gonja as she was from the north and didn’t speak Twi very well. But Karabo had decided that Twi would be more useful than Gonja.
‘You are going!’ Fatima cried again. She jumped up and down impatiently in an effort to get Karabo to understand. A small kernel of comprehension took shape in Karabo’s mind but she did not dare acknowledge it was there. She took the ladle back from Fatima and stirred the thick porridge without looking at her friend.
‘Where did they say I am going?’
If it was only back to court, then she refused to get excited. Karabo hadn’t been in the prison very long but in that time she’d learned that court appearances were only called in order to adjourn an inmate’s case for a few more months. That was if the judge bothered to show up at all. It was an institutional game of kick the can down the road. She’d seen remand prisoners get all tidied up only to return hours later, bewildered and crying tears of frustration. There was no point getting her hopes up for that.
For most of the remand prisoners, however, there would be no court appearance at all. Once a woman had been remanded in prison, the police investigator assigned to her case was more than likely to vanish into thin air. There’d be a litany of excuses for this disappearing act. He, for it was never a woman, might have been transferred to another region. Or he had no transport to come and fetch the prisoner and take her to court. Whatever the reason, the women in the Nsawam Medium Security Prison were simply left in their cells to rot.
Karabo liked the superintendent of the women’s prison. The inmates called her Madame and curtsied whenever they saw her. Madame wore her hair in thick braids beneath her beret and had the padded proportions of many Ghanaian women her age. She always had a word of encouragement for the women and it looked like she really cared.
Madame often called the police stations herself in search of errant investigators. She even sent them letters asking when they would come to take such and such a prisoner to court. Her letters were rarely answered but it was comforting for the inmates to know their superintendent was on their side.
Fatima’s voice cut brusquely into Karabo’s musing. ‘They say you go to your house.’
‘They said I am …’ Karabo stopped herself midway through her correction. Fatima was nodding her head like a toy dog in a car window, her smile growing wider and wider until Karabo thought her face would split in two. Then, with a squeal of delight, she hugged Karabo and ruffled her hair. Her tears were wet and hot on Karabo’s cheek.
She whispered into the crook of Fatima’s neck. ‘Ibi true?’
Fatima squeezed Karabo tighter and that was when she knew for sure. She disentangled herself and stared into Fatima’s face. She was searching for any traces of envy at her good fortune but she couldn’t find any. Fatima was as happy as if she were being released herself and that made Karabo’s sudden guilt even harder to bear.
‘I’m sorry,’ Karabo said and touched Fatima’s face. ‘I’ll come and see you.’
But Fatima pressed a finger to Karabo’s lips to hush her. They both knew she wouldn’t come.
Karabo ran up to the officers’ room on the first floor and flung the door open without knocking. She’d expected to find Madame, the superintendent, but she was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Karabo saw the guard who’d made her strip the day she’d arrived. She was eating from a large bowl in the middle of the table and when Karabo barged in, the guard looked up at her in astonishment. Her hand remained suspended in mid-air. Gravy dripped from her fingers i
n thick, red clots.
‘Who called you?’ she asked coldly.
‘They said you wanted to see me,’ Karabo cried. She jumped up and down excitedly as Fatima had done. ‘I’m going home!’
‘You are not going anywhere,’ the guard replied without hesitation. She wiped her hand on a napkin, leaving red, oily streaks all across it. There was something in her voice that made Karabo cower. What if Fatima had been wrong? She cursed herself for getting so worked up. Fatima’s Twi was little better than Karabo’s Gonja. They must have been talking about another prisoner. Fatima must have misunderstood.
‘Where is Madame?’
‘Are you her mother?’ the guard snapped. ‘She has not come to work.’
Karabo didn’t know the guard’s name. Fatima had told her but she could never remember what it was. It was probably because she didn’t want to. Whenever the guard’s name was mentioned, a trapdoor in Karabo’s ear opened and the name fell right through it before it got to her brain.
‘I’m sorry I disturbed you,’ Karabo said. ‘I will come back later.’
She had turned to leave when the guard called her back. ‘Come and eat,’ she said.
It was warm in the room but a chill ran up Karabo’s spine. ‘I’ve already eaten,’ she said. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘So you don’t like my food, eh?’ The guard stood up and her heavy breasts swung loose beneath her khaki shirt.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Then come and eat.’
Karabo tried to remember what Teacher had told her about Ghanaians at mealtime. A Ghanaian would always offer to share their food and it didn’t matter if you were a friend or an enemy. But when a Ghanaian offered you food, was she likely to be offended if you said yes or if you said no? Karabo couldn’t remember which way it went. She felt for the door handle behind her but it didn’t seem to be there anymore.
‘I … I … really can’t,’ she stammered. ‘I’ve got to get back. Auntie Abena gave me some work to do.’
‘What work?’
Karabo’s mind went blank as a burst of bright light filled her vision. It was followed by one more and then another in quick succession. It was like being in a scrum of press photographers with flash-bulbs popping in her face. Then a sharp skewer of pain pierced her temple and left her gasping. She flattened herself against the door and willed herself to stay upright. But her legs buckled in slow motion and she collapsed to the floor. The guard whose name Karabo couldn’t remember pushed the table aside and crossed the short distance to Karabo in two quick strides.
‘Obroni, are you sick?’ She was standing over Karabo and looking down at her with a mixture of amusement and irritation.
‘No, I’m not sick,’ Karabo said weakly. ‘It’s happened before. It will pass in a few minutes.’
‘Go and see the doctor,’ the guard said. ‘You won’t have to pay.’ She meant it as a joke and her lips split in what could have passed for a smile.
‘In fact,’ the guard said, ‘let me call him for you.’
She reached down and seized Karabo’s hand and pulled her to her feet. Karabo tried to jerk her hand free but the guard’s grip was too strong. She felt as if someone was pounding on her temples with a wooden pestle, the way the women pounded fufu. The thought of the butcher man touching her only amplified the pain in Karabo’s head and a deep panic welled up in her. Without thinking, she spat in the guard’s face and everything went dark and still. Everything except for the thick cord of saliva snaking slowly down the bridge of the guard’s nose and over the curve of her upper lip.
With a roar of rage, the guard flung Karabo face down across the table. Karabo tried to say she was sorry but the guard’s hand was so heavy against her face that her mouth distended into a lopsided oval and no sound could come out. She could smell the rich spice of the gravy and the sourness of the half-eaten ball of corn dough. The rough spine of an exercise book jutted against Karabo’s lips. The guard’s name and rank were on the cover, written in black ballpoint. The writing was so close to Karabo’s face that the letters appeared to be horribly magnified. And Karabo knew she’d never forget the guard’s name again. She was being assaulted by Joyce Apenteng, Officer 2nd Class.
She hit Karabo hard on the back of her head and slammed her forehead into the table. The pain was unbearable and all Karabo could hear was the sound of laboured breathing. And then she felt the guard’s coarse fingers trail across her cheek and circle her ear. She stroked Karabo’s arm as if she couldn’t believe she was real, calling her obroni, her white girl, over and over again. In a throaty mish-mash of Twi and English, she marvelled at how beautiful Karabo was. How wonderful the colour of her skin. And said that she forgave Karabo because she loved her. In fact, she’d fallen in love with Karabo from the very first day. Then she lowered her head towards Karabo’s mouth and the stench of food on her breath was like the smell of a backyard gutter.
She flipped Karabo over roughly with one hand and with the other began to unbutton her khaki uniform. Then she seized one of her breasts and thrust it at Karabo.
‘Nom,’ she commanded. ‘Drink.’
Her breast was blunt and heavy with a thick stub of a nipple in the middle of a darkly pigmented areola.
‘Drink.’
She leaned over Karabo and pushed her nipple against her lips. It was warm and stiff, with small crevices across its surface. Karabo tried to turn her head away but the guard grabbed a fistful of her hair and held her in place.
‘Obroni,’ she said. She cooed the name in a desperate, high-pitched whine. Then with a shudder she lost patience and began to tug on Karabo’s panties. Karabo kicked out and caught the guard on the shin. She yelped with pain and a dark mask of rage slipped over her face. Her fingers were curling into a fist when Karabo reached behind her for the half-eaten bowl of food.
The soup hit Officer Apenteng in the face and spattered the wall behind her. The pepper stung her eyes and she bellowed like a wounded animal. She backed into a filing cabinet and sent it toppling over. It fell with a loud crash and Karabo began to scream. Startled, the guard staggered up to Karabo and clamped a hand over her mouth. But Karabo bit down hard on the guard’s finger until her teeth ground against bone and warm blood spurted into her mouth.
All of a sudden the door burst open and Auntie Abena came rushing in with Morocco hard behind her.
‘What were you doing to her?’ Auntie Abena demanded in Twi. Officer Apenteng sat crouched in a corner, trying to do up the buttons of her shirt with one hand.
‘She spat at me,’ the officer mumbled. ‘And I even offered her food.’
Auntie Abena turned to Karabo. ‘Is that true?’
‘I panicked,’ Karabo said. ‘I thought she was taking me to the doctor.’
Morocco helped Karabo off the table and onto her feet. She hugged Karabo and whispered French words of endearment in her ear.
‘Ma chérie,’ she said. ‘Ça va aller.’
Karabo buried her face in Morocco’s neck. ‘If you hadn’t come when you did, she’d have raped me for sure.’
Then a curious thing happened. Officer Apenteng went down on her knees in front of the three women and began pleading for mercy. She cupped her injured hand and struck the other as if she were begging for alms. And as she did so, thick drops of blood dripped onto the floor from the gash on her finger.
Then Morocco walked up to Officer Apenteng with that loose-limbed gait of hers and slapped her lightly across the face. Officer Apenteng did not flinch but something dark and menacing fluttered briefly in her eyes. Karabo tugged on Morocco’s skirt. She could hear footsteps pounding up the stairs.
‘Please,’ Karabo said. ‘Let’s go.’
CHAPTER 51
Fatima had been right after all. Karabo was going home. When Teacher came to tell her she’d been released she just smiled at him. He looked disappointed by Karabo’s muted reaction but what did he expect? That she would scream with joy and pump her fists in the air? Fatima had tol
d her already, it wasn’t news anymore.
When Karabo saw Teacher, neither of them had known what to say to the other. They sat and stared at each other through the metal grille, feeling as awkward as if they were both undressed. It seemed to be harder on Teacher than it was on Karabo. She could see the word sorry hovering on his lips and several times she thought it might tumble out. But it never did. So she stared at him until he stood up and left.
There’d been a time when Karabo had looked up to Teacher, a glorious time when Kojo Bentil could do no wrong. Teacher could have stuck a knife in her mother’s neck and Karabo would have found a plausible reason to explain the murder away. Because he was Teacher. Her very own Teacher. But the earth had shifted beneath her feet ever since she’d arrived in Ghana. The edges hadn’t come together properly again and she didn’t think they ever would.
‘Do you really want to leave?’ a voice whispered in Karabo’s head. ‘What home will you be going to? Teacher’s?’
She argued with herself, pointing out the squalor, the daily humiliations, the near total lack of privacy and the meagre shit that passed for food. But then she thought of the shrivelled man Teacher had become and somehow, staying in prison didn’t seem so terrible after all.
That night Karabo slept in Auntie Abena’s bed with the old woman’s arm draped protectively over her. She took Auntie Abena’s hand and rubbed it over her face. She covered the inside of her palm with small kisses and inhaled deeply of her old woman’s smell. Wasn’t that what Teacher was supposed to do? Hold her tight and keep her safe?
That night it wasn’t Morocco who cried, it was Karabo.
The next morning was the day of the big prayer service in the men’s prison and the women were all excited because they’d heard the president was to attend. There was a sense of despair as well because the president wasn’t scheduled to come to the women’s prison. And yet faint strands of hope dangled in the air because he might change his mind and come after all. The women all wore their very best attire on the off-chance the president might magically appear and cry out in his Oxford-educated voice, ‘Release that woman, I say!’ Karabo wore her best clothes too, a denim skirt and a T-shirt with the words It’s because I’m cute pasted across the front. Well, why not? She was going home.
