Sleep Well, My Lady

by Kwei Quartey

  Araba was torn. One side was telling her to stand strong, the other to have compassion. “Gus—”

  In a sudden move that startled her, he knelt beside her and took her hands. “I know I’ve been irresponsible and foolish. The drinking stops today. I promise you. The suspension from my job is the last sign I need to straighten out my life.”

  “And if you don’t get your job back?” Araba asked. “Are you going to be able to deal with that?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll get it back, don’t you worry. I’m going to write to the board and sway their minds before they even meet. I’m not going away. I’ve made a lot of money for the station, and they know that.”

  Araba hoped he was right. She wanted him to bounce back, and in that moment, she promised to help Augustus, to give him one last chance, regardless of what her family said.

  PART TWO

  TWELVE

  Ten months after

  At the Sowah Private Investigators Agency, Emma Djan was bored. There was a pending investigation awaiting fresh information before she could get started. Apart from that, she didn’t have a single new case, and neither did her three colleagues. In her downtime, she looked through pictures on her phone. A few weeks ago, Emma had discovered an abandoned box of old family photographs while visiting her mother Akosua in Kumasi. There were several hundred.

  “Why have I never seen these before?” Emma had asked in astonishment.

  “I forgot they were there,” Akosua had replied with almost a shrug.

  “Forgot!” Emma exclaimed in consternation, rummaging through the jumbled collection. “Mama, you can’t just forget treasures like this.”

  “All right, dear,” Akosua said.

  Emma found this insouciance puzzling at first, but sifting through the photos, some of them faded by the passage of time, she realized that those of her father Emmanuel and his close-knit family outnumbered his wife’s by far. From the little that Akosua had let on, Emma had gathered that her mother’s childhood had been as fractured as broken glass. Perhaps looking at Emmanuel’s cheery photos reminded Akosua of what she’d never had.

  At any rate, Emma had carted the whole lot back to Accra with her and begun scanning and categorizing them. She wasn’t even close to finishing, but not long after beginning the project, the difference in demeanor between her mother and father in the photos was plain. Papa was always grinning and animated for the camera. Mama was stiff and proper. Emma’s parents had also been diametric opposites when it came to showing affection—her father very much a hugger and kisser, while Akosua wasn’t comfortable with physical closeness. As an adult, Emma was somewhere between the two extremes. Emmanuel’s doting on his daughter began the moment she’d been born. He’d spontaneously christened her “Emma,” a shortened form of his own name. Confusion sometimes arose because the male name Emmanuel was often shortened to “Emma” as well, although pronounced “Im-MAH” rather than “EM-mah,” the female form.

  That Emma dearly missed her father was an understatement. He had been a homicide detective until the rupture of a stomach ulcer essentially bled him to death from the inside some seven years ago when she was twenty. All through her childhood and teenage years, she had been devoted to her father, often accompanying him to his Kumasi office at the Manhyia Division of the Ghana Police Service (GPS). There, without knowing it, she had absorbed much of the talk between detectives, having seen and heard them interviewing suspects and witnesses. While his colleagues sometimes used force to obtain a confession, Emmanuel’s technique had always been quiet and coaxing to the extent of even appearing to empathize with a suspect. Emma had seen her father reduce the toughest criminals to tears as he slowly but relentlessly extracted the truth. The result was a girl who wanted very much to be like her father—a conscientious, driven homicide detective.

  The oddest thing to observers either inside or outside the family was that Emmanuel had taught his daughter to do “boyish” things like playing soccer or swimming and diving in Lake Bosomtwe. Akosua had never approved of that sort of nonsense. It was unladylike and inappropriate, from her perspective. “Why are you trying to make her like a boy?” she asked her husband.

  “I’m not,” Emmanuel replied. “But she can do things just as well as boys and she likes it, so why not?”

  Had Emma’s attachment to her father bred Akosua’s resentment? Was that the reason she had never loved her daughter with the same warmth and enthusiasm that Emmanuel had? Perhaps in part, but besides that, Akosua had taken offense when Emma had left her in Kumasi to enroll in the police academy in Accra.

  “There’s an academy right here in Kumasi,” Akosua had objected. “Why do you have to go to Accra?”

  “The training school there is much bigger, Mama,” Emma had told her, “and I have a better chance of becoming a homicide detective at CID headquarters.”

  “So you’re just going to leave me here by myself,” Akosua said pointedly. “You’re trying to get away from me. I’m sure if your father were still alive, you would stay right here.”

  Emma had protested, although afraid it might be true. Nevertheless, she moved from Kumasi to Accra, looking forward to becoming a homicide detective like her father at the end of her police training. How naïve she had been. She quickly learned that she would have no say in where she would be assigned in the bureaucratic maze of the GPS, a top-down, undemocratic organization. Homicide? No, she was sent to the Commercial Crime Unit, a department that bored her to the point of despair. And then, only months into her job, Emma suffered a catastrophe that left her both shaken and abruptly fired from the GPS. There followed a period of her life with little direction, an aimless retail job at the Accra Mall and several opportunities for her mother to say, “I told you so.” But then, by God’s grace, Emma found the Sowah Agency, or the agency found her.

  Compared to most private detective agencies in Ghana, Sowah was relatively luxurious and well-resourced. Nevertheless, it was beginning to show some wear, and was in need of a new paint job and more electrical outlets to accommodate the multiplying electronic devices. Mr. Sowah’s success was born of decades in the business, but his agency was not immune to the ups and downs of the economy, and now there was a market slump. Some clients, especially those overseas and new to the agency, refused to pay anything until they saw a formally written interim report that spoke to Sowah’s reliability. Assignments came from all over, but those from Europe and the US paid the most.

  With no fresh investigations and more downtime than usual, the group sat at their individual desks in the common office area and engaged in mostly inconsequential conversation, all the time aware that relaxed moments like these weren’t good. Next to Emma was Walter Manu, the most senior employee at the agency, who had a graying beard and salt-and-pepper head of hair to prove it. He had a good track record, but in Emma’s discreet opinion, he was rather full of himself. Pushed away from his desk because his generous belly prevented him from sitting comfortably close-up, he was complaining about his various in-laws. And women are always labeled the gossipers, Emma thought. At one point, in reference to his mother-in-law, Walter said, “You know how women are,” then looked apologetically at Emma. “Present company excluded, of course.”

  Sorting folders on her desk, Emma made no comment. It wasn’t worth the trouble, and anyway, her objections wouldn’t change Manu’s mind. He was too set in his outlook.

  The other two detectives, Gideon and Jojo, were closer to Emma’s age, more open-minded and easier to get along with. Jojo, small-framed and baby-faced, was almost thirty but could pass for nineteen. He often took undercover assignments posing as a teenager. On the other hand, Gideon, broad and solid as a brick wall, could appear older than his thirty-one years if he grew out his beard and dressed the part. Like siblings with a friendly rivalry between them, the two men constantly took verbal shots at each other.

  Beverly, Sowah’s always-well-tu
rned-out assistant, came up to Emma and said quietly, “Someone here to see you.”

  Emma stood and followed Beverly to the foyer, where a woman sat waiting. In her late fifties, she was short and sturdy, with a face that announced she didn’t tolerate rubbish from anyone. She rose to her feet as soon as she saw Emma. “Good morning, Miss Djan.” They shook hands. “My name is Dele Tetteyfio.”

  Emma wondered how this woman knew of her. “Welcome. How may I help you?”

  “I need to talk to you urgently.”

  Emma felt a small surge of anticipation. This could be a new job. “Please, come in.”

  At her desk, she offered the visitor a chair. Walter stopped his discourse, aware of Sowah’s rule that idle chitchat in front of visitors and clients was a strict no-no.

  Emma settled into her seat. “What can we do for you, Madam Dele?”

  “Have you heard of Lady Araba?”

  Emma searched her memory, retrieving the details quickly. “The fashion designer? Who was murdered a year ago?”

  “Ten months. She was my niece.”

  “I’m sorry, madam.”

  “Thank you. You probably noticed that it faded from the news, but to me, it has never been resolved.”

  “They arrested someone, right?” Emma said, trying to recall whom.

  “Yes,” Dele said, “Araba’s driver. On what basis, I don’t know, but I’m positive he is innocent. This is the way the Ghana Police operates. They pin the crime on someone peripheral as a smokescreen and claim the investigation is ongoing. Meanwhile, they have no interest in pursuing the case any further, the thing dies, and everyone forgets about it. That’s why I’m here. I want the real culprit to come to justice.”

  “Okay,” Emma said with a nod. “Madame Dele, can we discuss this further with my boss, Mr. Sowah? He will need to hear about it, and I don’t want you to have to repeat yourself.”

  “Okay,” Dele said, with the slightest hesitation. “But . . . I would like it to be you in charge of the investigation. I read about you, and I have confidence in you.”

  Emma smiled. “Thank you, but first things first. Let’s see if Mr. Sowah will even approve of me taking the case.”

  Sowah was free and his door open. He welcomed Dele to his office with customary grace. Compact rather than small, he was wearing a crisp pale-blue shirt, a tie—always—and dark slacks. He was completely bald on most of his crown, leaving him with gray hair on the sides. He looked like a cross between a professor and a businessman. He asked Dele to take a seat on the scarlet leather sofa—the “hot seat,” as it was called—while he and Emma sat opposite. Dele repeated what she had told Emma so far.

  “I was following your niece’s case in the media,” Sowah said to Dele. “I know it dwindled from the public eye, but for you and the family, it must still be very much alive.”

  “It burns in my heart as if it happened yesterday,” Dele said, thumping her chest so hard Emma almost flinched. “So much pain. No one loved Araba more than I did. Not her father nor her mother, not even her brother, Oko. Araba spent much more time with me than she did with her parents.”

  “I understand,” Sowah said. “Now, if I remember correctly, the police arrested Lady Araba’s driver.”

  “Don’t mind the police,” Dele said with a toss of her head. “They looked for a scapegoat and chose the lowest man on the totem pole—their usual MO. Kweku-Sam was Araba’s faithful driver, and he wouldn’t have killed Araba any more than I would.”

  “Who do you believe did it, then?” Sowah asked. “Have you formed an opinion about that?”

  “Of course,” she said, as if the whole world should already know. “Augustus Seeza.”

  “Seeza?” Sowah interjected. “The one with the radio show?”

  “Yes, him. He should be the prime suspect, but the police and the judiciary have either sided with him or been paid off to let him go scot-free. Augustus is getting away with murder. His father is an influential judge, and I can see his hand in all of this.”

  “What do you have to support that belief?” Sowah asked, echoing Emma’s own thoughts.

  “Mr. Sowah, look,” Dele said, her jaw setting. “You may or may not know that Augustus was once the highest-paid TV personality in Ghana. But he was a fool with his money—a big spender who lived beyond his means. By the time he started a relationship with Araba—after separating from his wife, Bertha, who, by the way, is also rich—he was already in serious debt. He saw an opportunity in Araba. People say women are the gold diggers, but not this time. Now, the second problem—Augustus is an alcoholic. The worse his debt became, the more he drank. The more he drank, the more ill-behaved he became.

  “And yet, Araba stuck with him! At one point, she was giving him money so he could buy things for his two kids. Augustus was into expensive cigars, and she was getting him those as well—on top of all that, she bought him a shiny new Jaguar. It was too much. Her mother, father, and brother intervened and told Araba she had to put a stop to her relationship with Augustus and get him completely out of her life. She tried, but of course, he couldn’t bear that. They went in and out of a toxic relationship. I believe Araba wanted to end all that, but he wasn’t having it.

  “Augustus had a spare key to her house. Even after Araba had told him to stay away, she never changed the locks as I advised her to. As far as I know, apart from the house girl, Augustus was the only one with a key to her home, which is important because the morning Araba was discovered dead, all the doors to the house were locked—the front door, the kitchen, the entrance from the garage, and the upstairs terrace. The detective who was on the case, Sergeant Isaac Boateng, confirmed that to me and said there were no signs of forced entry.”

  “What about the driver?” Sowah said. “What’s his name again?”

  “Kweku-Sam.”

  “Could he have had a key?”

  “Possibly, but I doubt it.”

  “And, Madam Dele, did you have a key to her house?”

  “I did not. I loved Araba, but her life was her own. I gave her that respect.”

  “I’ve failed to ask you what the official cause of death was,” Sowah said.

  “I’ve heard blunt force trauma to the head,” Dele said, “and I’ve also heard strangulation. No one has shared the official report with me, not even my brother, Fifi.” She shook her head in resignation. Emma thought that was interesting—family dynamics at play.

  “At any rate,” Dele continued, “about two weeks after Araba’s death, I made an appointment with the head of CID, Madam Tawiah, to demand that they come out with the results of the DNA evidence, which I was informed were collected at the scene. You know what this woman told me? That she wasn’t aware of any DNA in existence. Yes, the director of CID told me this. How worthless are these people?”

  Sowah said, “That’s a real shame. And you feel confident that if they did have such evidence, it would prove the murderer was Mr. Seeza?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I take it you disliked Mr. Seeza?”

  “Intensely.”

  “What about Lady Araba’s immediate family, though?” Sowah asked. “Any issues there?”

  “Well, her father, Fifi Tagoe—my brother—is an Anglican priest. He was always very strict with his children, especially Araba, whom he watched all the time to be sure she stayed out of trouble. I think he was too strict, which is why Araba preferred to spend time with me when she was a child. I’ve run my clothing business for a long time, and that’s where Araba learned the trade. Now Oko, Araba’s brother, is very brainy and always loved school, unlike Araba, who clashed with Fifi over that.”

  “I see,” Sowah said. “You are aware, Madam Dele, that if we take this case and solve it, the result may not be what you had in mind. If, for any reason, you’re out to get Mr. Seeza, so to speak, you might be disappointed.”

 
Dele sat forward and said, “If it wasn’t Augustus who killed my niece, then so be it. But I don’t believe I’m wrong.”

  “I hear you,” Sowah responded.

  “Very well, then. May I ask you a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “That if you take this case, Madam Emma here will be the investigator?”

  “She will indeed be on the case. One other matter, though.” Sowah extracted a sheet of paper from his left bottom drawer. “Please take a look at our fee schedule first, because that might ultimately be the deciding factor.”

  Dele looked over the document, which detailed the retainer and then the subsequent payments.

  “Please, any chance of a small discount?” she said, looking up at Sowah with a coy smile.

  “I can reduce the retainer by ten percent,” Sowah said.

  “That will be fine, sir. Thank you. Do I sign here at the bottom?”

  Sowah already had a pen poised to go. Madam Dele signed.

  THIRTEEN

  Ten months after

  Kweku-Sam was the color of asphalt. Once, he had been quite thickset, but he now looked as if the fat had simply melted off. Remanded in custody for the murder of Lady Araba, he had spent the last ten months in the hell of the vastly overcrowded Nsawam Prison, 34 kilometers northwest of Accra.

  In the morning, the prison guards released the prisoners to the yard, and beyond that, a large field. Meanwhile, the queue to the much-needed toilet was long. In Kweku-Sam’s section of the facility, four toilets were available for over six hundred men. It often happened that three of the toilets were out of order, making the demand a case of impossible arithmetic. In the long line for the john, some inmates had “accidents.”

  Not too far from the toilets was an area for eating and washing. Breakfast was “porridge,” which looked and tasted like cloudy water. Using a cup, a prison guard spooned the gruel into the tin bowls the prisoners brought with them to the serving line.