by Kwei Quartey
“Socrate is our webmaster,” Genevieve said as he and Dawson shook hands, “but he’s also happy to get out there and photograph our street children, aren’t you, Socra?”
He tried to smile as his eyes moved away from hers, collided with Dawson’s for an instant, and swerved back. Dawson instinctively understood that the man really didn’t enjoy going out to photograph street children. He was doing it for Genevieve, but if he had his way, he would spend all day sitting in front of his computer. He was no Patience.
“Socrate,” Genevieve said, “have we ever had a boy here by the name of Musa Zakari?”
He rubbed his chin. “That name doesn’t sound familiar to me, but I can check my records.” His voice was nasal and pinched.
“Thank you,” Genevieve said. “You do that while I show Inspector Darko around.”
Genevieve’s and the other administrative offices were on the ground floor. There was one common office with space enough for four caseworkers, although SCOAR had only two at the moment.
“Budget cuts,” Genevieve explained. “Things are tight.”
“Everywhere,” Dawson agreed.
“Most of our funding is from European organizations, but their trust in us has waned over the years.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“As you said, finances are tight everywhere. Donors don’t want to pour their aid into some bottomless pit anymore. They’re saying to us, if you’re not rehabilitating a certain number of children or getting a certain number of kids successfully into school or a trade, what’s the point in our giving you money? In many ways, I understand their point of view. On the other hand, because we’re often dealing with transient children, some of the results the donors demand are unrealistic.”
Round the corner, Genevieve and Dawson went into a classroom where four young teenagers—three boys and one girl—were absorbed in front of computer screens learning word games under the supervision of a young female teacher. The boys, one of whom was bare-chested, all wore low-sagging basketball shorts. The girl had on a sleeveless red blouse and a wraparound skirt.
“These are poor children who live on the streets of an African city,” Genevieve said to Dawson, “yet they love computers and video games as much as any pampered boy or girl in the U.S.”
“Do you have Ghanaian traditional activities for them as well?” Dawson asked.
“Yes—for instance, we have drumming and dancing lessons on Fridays.”
“What was Ebenezer most interested in?”
“He was completely illiterate when he came to Accra, but he learned basic reading and writing during the time he was here. He was a good drummer as well.”
Dawson became aware of how close to Genevieve he was standing. She was wearing a light fragrance, but he also caught the pure scent of her skin—different from Christine’s but just as intoxicating. He moved back slightly, afraid of the attraction.
“Come this way, Inspector,” Genevieve said. “There’s much more to show you.”
Next door to the classroom was a small, rudimentary clinic run by a nurse, who was busy giving advice to a teenage mother cradling her baby.
“It’s young pregnancies like hers that often make school an impossible prospect for teenage girls,” Genevieve said as they went up to a room on the second floor with five sewing machines, two of them in use by girls training to be seamstresses. Beyond that was a woodshop, where two boys were carving traditional masks out of fresh mahogany.
The Refuge Room, the subject of the poster announcement downstairs, was the largest space so far. The front section had no furniture, just scores of floor mats on which a dozen or so children were lying down. Others were in the back recreation area playing table tennis and oware while the rest watched a DVD.
“This is their escape from the cruel streets,” Genevieve said. “Sometimes the kids stage small performances or poetry or rapping contests.”
“You do a lot of good work here,” Dawson said. “I’m really very impressed.”
“Thank you.”
“Are there ever any fights here?”
“Rarely. Much less often than you might expect.”
“Is it possible that Musa Zakari also visited the center but you don’t remember him?”
“Possible, but unlikely. We know our kids intimately.”
“And Tedamm? Has he ever been here?”
“I think that boy is too busy causing havoc out there to come here.”
As they went back downstairs, a thought occurred to Dawson.
“Do you know a nine-year-old called Sly? He comes—or came—from Agbogbloshie.”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t,” Genevieve replied. “And I think I would remember the name Sly. Who is he?”
Dawson related how he had met the boy and then how Sly and his uncle had disappeared. In Socrate’s office, someone was sitting next to him in front of the computer. His appearance was striking. A pale, sharp depression in his skin ran from the front part of his scalp to the middle of his forehead.
“Austin!” Genevieve exclaimed, beaming.
He gave her a huge smile. “Hey, Sis. How are you?”
They embraced.
“Meet Inspector Dawson. Inspector, my brother Austin.”
Shaking hands, Dawson concentrated on the man’s eyes, avoiding his forehead. A bad accident, maybe? He was older than Genevieve, and there was little, if any, resemblance. A half brother, perhaps.
“Austin is doing his Ph.D. in social systems among migrant groups in Accra,” Genevieve said, pride in her voice. “And that of course includes our street kids.”
“Congratulations,” Dawson said to Austin.
“Originally my idea,” Genevieve boasted, impishly. Austin smiled affectionately at her.
“Does the study include crime within these social systems?” Dawson asked.
“Oh, yes, very much,” Austin said emphatically. His speech was rapid and tumbling, as though something was flogging it to go faster. “Crime is an integral part. I gather from Socrate that you’re investigating the murders of two street teens, one of whom used to frequent this center?”
“Right.”
“I would like to discuss the cases with you when you know a little more, Inspector. Would that be possible?”
“I don’t see why not. How far back in time do you go in your study?”
“About fifty years. Urban crime patterns have changed, and much of it has to do with the increase in migrant and transient populations.”
“I assume you’ve met Dr. Allen Botswe?”
“More than met—he was one of my professors last year. Great man. How do you know him?”
Dawson explained.
“Small world,” Austin commented.
Dawson turned to Socrate. “Did you find Musa in your records?”
“No, sir. I didn’t.”
“Thank you for trying.”
Patience put her head in the door. “Inspector? I’m ready to go out to the streets if you’d like to join me.”
23
As she drove to their first stop, Patience explained to Dawson how, on a day like this, she would visit several of the street children’s gathering places.
“Rule of thumb is,” she said, “where there’s commerce, there are kids, because that’s where they get jobs. Carrying loads, cleaning, sweeping, assisting traders, and washing cars—things like that. Lorry stations, for instance, where boys hang around looking for luggage or farm produce to carry, and the big marketplaces. And that’s where I try to engage them and talk to them about drugs, sex, alcohol, prostitution, AIDS, and such.”
“Those are the problems that must keep you awake at night,” Dawson said.
“Yes.” She smiled at him. “It’s as if you know me already. The sad thing for me is how many people like to say these kids are responsible for filth and disease in the city—not that they’ve come to a place that already has its vices, which the kids pick up. There are so many aspects about the attitude t
oward these children that I find ironic and troubling. For instance, it’s often working class people who find street children so distasteful. Something else I hear is contempt for the boys and girls from northern Ghana specifically. I’ve heard people make reference to them as animals, which is very shocking to me.”
“Speaking of the north,” Dawson said, “I’m looking for a nine-year-old boy called Sly. Do you know anyone by that name?”
Patience shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”
She knew the Brooklyn Gang had their base near the railway station, so Patience had decided to visit the adjacent market called Kantamanto. She parked in the secure lot next to Merchant Bank across the street, where she charmed the security guard into letting her car stay without paying a fee.
Dawson crossed Kwame Nkrumah Avenue with Patience and went through the gated entrance to the station’s huge, unpaved, dusty courtyard. For a part of town where space was scarce, there was a surprising amount of unused land around the defunct building. It was completely enclosed by a brick wall. Thirty meters to the right along the south wall was a pair of latrines, one for men and one for women—simple wooden stalls with bright blue doors, twenty pesewas for their use.
Walking past the latrines took them across a wide gutter to a slightly higher piece of land adjacent to the east wall, which ran alongside Nkrumah Avenue on its other side. Halfway along the wall, which went as far as one end of the railway building, there was a garbage dump.
The railway tower clock was permanently stopped at 5:32. The station, painted light salmon and gray with a corrugated tin roof, seemed sad and wistful. It could have been a beautiful showpiece of old architecture, even a museum, if only someone would renovate it. Dawson could guarantee that nobody would. The building would sit there and rot over the decades.
Squatters’ laundry and mosquito netting were suspended between the columns along the station’s veranda, and to complete the domestic picture, there were pots and pans scattered around. In an area that must have once been a passenger waiting room, a pastor was holding forth through a distorting microphone to a small congregation sitting on blue plastic chairs. Church wasn’t just for Sundays.
Passing through another room where a young man was sleeping with his feet oddly propped up against the wall, Dawson and Patience emerged on the station platform. A group of kayaye sat talking and giggling with one another, their northern Ghana origins obvious from their heavy eyeliner and facial tribal marks.
Dawson and Patience crossed the tracks to the gray brick wall on the other side, where there was a prominent sign, DO NOT URINATE HERE, USE PUBLIC URINAL, a warning that was lost on a young man peeing a few meters away. Far up the tracks was a railway car with nothing to do but rust away.
Kantamanto Market was on the other side of the wall. Dawson and Patience entered the noisy world of buyers and sellers, porters and truck pushers. They passed by a loudspeaker blaring highlife. Raising her voice above the din, Patience told Dawson they were going to stop at Akuffo Junction, an area popular with the street kids.
When they got there, Dawson saw just why that was the case. It was a video game hangout—a narrow, noisy, and airless room with boys from six to eighteen squeezed together on a long wooden bench in front of a row of eight screens. All eyes were glued to the videos flashing before them, but only about every third boy had the use of a console.
“They pay for ten-minute segments,” Patience explained. “It can be expensive, so some of them split the cost two or three ways and take turns playing within each segment.”
“I don’t see how you can compete with the video games for the kids’ attention,” Dawson commented.
She laughed. “I can’t, and I don’t try. I work on the ones waiting their turns outside.”
Patience spotted a cluster of boys loitering on the steps of a shop next door. She walked over to chat. She knew each one of them by name, lightheartedly teasing them and joking with a kind of affectionate toughness. She introduced Dawson casually to them. They had agreed beforehand that she would avoid telling them he was a policeman, at least at the beginning.
“Who knows Ebenezer Sarpong?” she asked them in Twi.
“Brooklyn Gang?” a boy with a green bandanna said.
“Yes.”
“I know him,” he said, “but it’s a long time since I’ve seen him.”
Before he could say anything more, the boys’ attention was drawn away by the approach of a tall, lanky youth of fourteen or fifteen. They broke into a chant.
“Mosquito-Mosquito-Mosquito …”
“We’re in luck, Inspector,” Patience said. “This is Mosquito—he’s in the Brooklyn Gang.”
A smile broke out on Mosquito’s small, tight face as he joined his friends.
“Ei, Mosquito!” Patience exclaimed. “Won’t you ever stop growing? Look, even your trousers are already too short.”
He laughed, shaking hands with her, and then with Dawson after a moment’s hesitation. She beckoned to Mosquito to come with them over to the side where there was less video noise.
“How are you, Mosquito?” Patience asked, seriously now.
“Please, I’m fine.”
“When was the last time you saw Ebenezer?”
He frowned, worried. “He didn’t come back last night. We looked for him everywhere, but we didn’t find him.”
Patience rested her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. “I don’t like to bring bad news to you, Mosquito. I’m sorry, eh? Ebenezer was killed last night. I’m sorry, Mosquito.”
“You say what?” He took a step back. “He was killed?”
“Yes,” she said. “They found him in Jamestown.”
“Oh.” Mosquito nodded. For the moment, he didn’t appear to be completely absorbing it. The full impact would take effect later.
“What time were you expecting Eben last night?” Dawson asked gently.
The boy shrugged. Dawson realized it might be difficult to get information from him right now. The news had thrown his mind into turmoil.
All of a sudden Mosquito looked up at Dawson and then at Patience. Something had struck him.
“Is he a policeman?” He was referring to Dawson as if Dawson wasn’t present.
“Yes, Mosquito. He’s just trying to find out what happened to Eben,” she explained.
Dawson wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Mosquito turned and bolted, gangly legs moving with astonishing speed. Dawson took off after him and followed as the boy took a sharp right down a row of shacks and past a group of butchers waving flies away from their fresh, red meat. He was sure Mosquito was headed to the south side of the market, where he could disappear in the maze of streets, but he ran into an obstacle before he could make it. A crowd was gathered around a fast-talking card trickster. Scrambling to make a path through, Mosquito lost his lead, and Dawson caught up with him as the con artist’s audience yelled insults at Mosquito for upsetting their gathering.
Dawson grabbed the boy’s arm and led him to an alley nearby.
“Why are you running?” Dawson demanded, breathing as hard as Mosquito was.
The boy kept his head down and turned away. He was trembling and pouring with sweat.
“Sit down for a moment,” Dawson said quietly.
Mosquito sat. Dawson squatted on his haunches next to him.
“Wote Twi?”
The boy nodded, so Dawson continued to speak it.
“Why did you run away?”
“Please, I thought you were going to arrest me.”
“Did you do something wrong?”
“Please, no.”
“Then what are you running away for?”
Mosquito had no answer.
“Ebenezer was your good friend?” Dawson asked.
“Yes, please.”
“I’m very sorry, eh?”
Mosquito was silent, head bowed.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Dawson asked.
“Yesterday morning.
When I came back to the base in the night, he wasn’t there. I asked Issa where he was, but he didn’t know.”
“Who’s Issa?”
“The leader of our gang.”
“When was the last time Issa or the other boys saw Ebenezer?”
“Ebenezer was the first watchman. They saw him before they slept.”
“Watchman?”
“We have to be on guard, otherwise someone will come and try to steal our money.”
“What did you do when you saw Ebenezer was gone?”
“We went to look for him. We were calling his name, but he didn’t come.”
“Do you know anyone who would want to kill Ebenezer?”
“Please, no.”
“Do you know Tedamm?”
“Ah. Everybody knows Tedamm.”
“Did Ebenezer fear him?”
“Not at all. Ebenezer didn’t fear anyone.”
“Where can I find Tedamm?”
Mosquito shook his head. Dawson wasn’t going to get an answer on that one. He stood up and reached his hand out. Mosquito took it and got to his feet.
“Oh, my goodness.”
They turned at the sound of Patience’s voice as she came around the corner and joined them in the alley. She was completely out of breath.
“I was trying to run after you,” she managed to say, “but I’m even more out of shape than I thought.”
Dawson smiled. “Catch your breath.”
But Patience wasn’t going to wait. “Ah, Mosquito, but why did you run like that? Didn’t I tell you never to run away from a policeman?”
“Yes, please, ma’am.”
“But you forgot? You’re growing so fast your brain is left behind?”
Mosquito grinned sheepishly.
“Will Issa be at your base right now?” Dawson asked him.
“Mepaakyεw, dabi. Unless this evening.”
“We can go with him to the base so you can see where they stay,” Patience suggested to Dawson. “Maybe you can come back this evening to talk to them.”
“Good idea. Come on, Mosquito, let’s go. This time, we can walk.”
