by Kwei Quartey
“Chronology,” Fiti said slowly, as if considering the nuances of the word.
“When the body was found and so on.”
“Yes, I know what the word chronology means,” Fiti said.
“I apologize, Inspector.”
“Today is Tuesday. Gladys went to Bedome on last Friday in the afternoon. She was killed sometime during the evening or night of Friday. On Saturday morning, Gladys’s brother Charles came to report her missing, and on the same morning, Efia, a woman from Bedome, found her body. Crime scene unit came in the afternoon and took their photographs and all those things, and then the body was taken to the VRA morgue on Saturday night to await the postmortem.”
“Did the crime scene guys say when they’d be ready with their report?”
“They said next week,” Fiti replied with a shrug. “They always say next week. It could be next year.”
“You’re right,” Dawson agreed. “Back to Gladys, though. What was she doing in Bedome?”
“She was a volunteer with the GHS AIDS outreach program,” Timothy explained. “We provide voluntary counseling and testing—VCT—in both urban and rural areas, and we have a limited supply of antiretroviral medicines to dispense to HIV-positive people, especially for pregnant women.”
“You use a lot of volunteers?”
“A few. We have an arrangement with the medical schools. Every year they provide us with three or four medical students who do their electives with us. Gladys was one of them. Ketanu and Bedome were on our VCT list this year, and she picked those.”
“Was she the only volunteer for the two towns?”
“Yes.”
“Might there be anyone in Ketanu or Bedome who didn’t like what Gladys was doing?”
Timothy took a breath. “Unfortunately, yes. She clashed badly with Bedome’s head priest—name’s Togbe Adzima—over this trokosi business. Have you heard about it, Inspector Dawson? These women they call trokosi? Supposedly wives of the gods serving at a shrine as penance for a family crime? They’re often brought to the shrine as girls as young as nine, and once they reach puberty, the fetish priests begin to have sex with them.”
“I thought all that had been outlawed.”
“Technically, yes. There’s a law on the books, but not a single person has ever been arrested in connection with trokosi.”
“Why is that, exactly?”
“Good propaganda is one reason, if not the only one. The fetish priests—who, by the way, don’t like being referred to that way—insist trokosi is an age-old tradition that should be respected. And if anyone tries to eradicate it, they say, the gods will be angered and take revenge in some way. That scares away even the police. And then there’s AfriKulture.”
“Afri-who?”
“AfriKulture. It’s an organization dedicated to saving aspects of Ghanaian culture and tradition that it claims are under attack from the Western world, trokosi being one of them. I’m loath to admit it, but their campaign is gaining strength. You can hardly get to a shrine without going through AfriKulture.”
“What does AfriKulture say about the girls taken into the shrine?”
“That they’re privileged young women who will learn the ways of morality. They deny that any of them are cast into perpetual servitude.”
“I take it you think that’s a load of nonsense.”
“Yes, I do. Look, this thing might have worked centuries ago, but it doesn’t fit with modern times. I think these so-called priests are con artists enslaving young women under the guise of a so-called tradition.”
“Togbe Adzima being one of these con artists, in your opinion.”
Timothy nodded vigorously. “Without a doubt. Gladys felt the same way.”
“She confronted Adzima?”
“Not just confronted. She went head-to-head with him. I told her she had to tone it down, but she wouldn’t. She kept telling him she was going to bring down the hand of the law on him, and he kept invoking the power of the gods against her. Told her she would be struck down by them if she continued in that fashion.”
“And now she’s been struck down,” Dawson said.
“Yes,” Timothy said bitterly. “It really gets to me.”
“At any rate, it would seem to make Adzima a suspect. What do you think, Inspector Fiti?”
“I think Togbe Adzima believes in his gods,” Fiti replied. “He really would trust them to destroy Gladys on their own power, and so I think he would leave it for the gods to do and not kill her himself.”
Interesting point, Dawson thought.
“The one I really suspect is Samuel Boateng,” Fiti went on.
“Who is he?” Dawson asked.
“This boy Samuel—he was constantly pestering Gladys to be his girlfriend and, according to Charles Mensah, some farmers saw him talking to her near the forest the last evening she was seen alive.”
“You say ‘boy.’ How old is Samuel Boateng?”
“He’s nineteen, something like that.”
“You’ve questioned him?”
“Yes, and I’m going to arrest him. I believe he became very angry that Gladys was rejecting him and he killed her soon after he was spotted with her that evening.”
Dawson nodded. “I see. What about Gladys’s family members?”
“All of them loved Gladys,” Fiti said, “and they were proud of her because she was going to be a doctor. Only one thing—there is some bad talk about her aunt Elizabeth. Some people say she killed Gladys using witchcraft.”
“Witchcraft,” Dawson echoed in surprise. “Why do they think that?”
“She’s a widow,” Fiti said, “she has no children, she’s an older woman, and she makes money. Those things make people suspect her.”
“The profile of a witch, so to speak. Did she have a motive?”
“Witches don’t need any motive,” Fiti said witheringly “Elizabeth’s husband died in his sleep years ago without any explanation, and people accused her of the same thing.”
“I don’t know if you’ve ever been to this part of the world before, Inspector Dawson,” Timothy said, “but belief in witchcraft is very strong around here.”
“Believe it or not, I was here twenty-five years ago.”
“Oh, is that so?” Timothy said. “What brought you, may I ask?”
“I came with my mother to visit her sister. She still lives here.”
“What’s her name?”
“Osewa Gedze.”
“Oh, yes,” Fiti said. “I know her. Kweku’s wife.”
“Maybe later you can show me to their house,” Dawson said. “I’m not sure if they live in the same place, and Ketanu has grown a lot since I was last here.”
“Constable Gyamfi can take you there,” Fiti said.
“Did you also visit Bedome when you were here as a kid?” Timothy asked.
“No, I didn’t. How far is it from here?”
“About a kilometer away on the other side of the forest. Shrines prefer to be somewhat obscured by bush or forest.”
“Makes sense,” Dawson said. “Especially now with all this scrutiny.”
“Indeed,” Timothy said. “Where will you be staying while you’re here?”
“The MoH guesthouse,” Dawson answered. To Fiti he said, “Are you all right with my being in Ketanu with the investigation?”
“Look, it’s no problem,” Fiti said. “Anyway, when we go and arrest Samuel today maybe it will be all over and you can go back to Accra and live in peace ever after.”
He suddenly grinned at his own verbiage, showing a set of yellowed horse teeth, and Dawson couldn’t help smiling himself.
“Before arresting Samuel,” he said, “can we go to the scene of the crime?”
TIMOTHY SOWAH LIVED IN Ho, and he had to get back. Dawson walked him to his car, a sleek, silver Audi 80. Timothy opened the trunk and pulled out a bag containing two bottles of liquor. Dawson took a peek. One was Beefeater London dry gin and the other was German schnapps.
&nbs
p; “Good heavens,” Dawson said. “Look at the size of these things.”
Timothy affected a rueful look. “Standard gifts to take to a fetish priest. Besides, I want to make sure Togbe’s tongue gets loosened.”
“Thank you,” Dawson said. “Very thoughtful.”
They exchanged calling cards.
“I’ll put my personal mobile number on the back,” Timothy said. “Just in case you need me.”
“Left-handed, I see,” Dawson commented as Timothy wrote it down.
“Yes,” Timothy said. “Is that of particular interest?”
“Yes. My mother was left-handed, and my brother is ambidextrous, so I tend to like lefties.”
“Oh, thank you,” Timothy said, looking pleased. “I certainly hope we’ll meet up again soon in less unpleasant circumstances, Detective Inspector. Best of luck.”
“Thanks, Mr. Sowah.”
“Oh, please—do call me Timothy.”
Dawson and Inspector Fiti set out into the forest. The midafternoon sun had fled from a mob of black clouds building up in the northeast corner of the sky.
“We have to be quick,” Fiti said. “The rain is coming.”
They picked up the pace. Dawson caught sight of a compound in a grove of trees in the distance to his right, and immediately his recollection of it swept in. Isaac Kutu’s place. He remembered it clearly, and Isaac as well. Deep, dark, flashing eyes with secrets in them.
“Does Isaac Kutu still live there?” Dawson asked, pointing with his chin.
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“I met him at my auntie’s house the time I visited with my mother.”
“We can go and see him tomorrow if you like,” Fiti said. “He knew Gladys Mensah very well.”
They turned left off the Ketanu-Bedome footpath into the forest. What resembled a trail soon disappeared, and as the sky darkened, the vegetation thickened around them and slowed their progress. Now Dawson remembered the same padded and insulated quality of the forest that he had experienced when here as a boy. Sound was quickly muffled by the trees and undergrowth. Every footfall, every scrunch of dead leaves or crack of a branch had a kind of nearness isolated by the cocoon of the forest’s stillness.
After several minutes of tramping along, Fiti stopped, put his hands on his hips, and looked around. “I think I’m lost.”
He turned one revolution, getting more confused. “Which way did we come?”
“That way,” Dawson said, pointing with his chin. “Southwest headed northeast.”
If he had been blessed with one attribute, it was the ability to tell direction with compass precision, which few Ghanaians concerned themselves about. Fiti frowned at him as if he had spoken Greek.
“Let’s go back,” he said.
This time Dawson took the lead.
“Ah, here!” Fiti suddenly exclaimed. “This way—I remember now.”
He made a direction change—due west, Dawson noted.
After another few minutes, Fiti said, “Yes, it was near here.”
They went a little farther, and then Fiti stopped. “This is the place. She was lying just past this palm tree under that bush.”
Dawson stooped down. “In what direction?” He had studied the photographs but wanted to be sure he had his bearings.
Fiti made a forward and back gesture. “Like that.”
“And the shoe that was missing—where was that?”
“Over there.” Fiti pointed a few feet away. “And then the briefcase she was carrying was farther up. It had a mobile inside, but the crime scene people say the rain completely spoiled it, so they have to see if they can get it to work again.”
Dawson nodded. All Gladys’s items found at the scene were now at the crime lab in Accra.
“You didn’t notice any footprints around?” he asked.
Fiti shook his head. “No.”
Dawson looked around. “A lot of banana trees,” he commented as he stood up.
“These are plantain,” Fiti corrected.
“Ah.” Dawson went closer and saw fat green bunches of the fruit hanging. “Yes, I see.”
Fiti was amused. “City man doesn’t know how plantain tree look.”
Dawson smiled absently. He took a few additional steps, searching some more.
“What are you looking for?” Fiti asked him.
“Nothing in particular.”
Dawson penetrated some way into the plantain cluster and kept going without knowing why. At length, he found something curious: a collection of fifteen or so rounded rocks piled on top of one another to form a pyramid about two feet in height. Dawson knelt down in front of it.
“What is this?” he called out to the inspector.
Fiti came up behind him and stared at the pyramid for a moment. “Maybe some kind of juju to chase away evil spirits or witchcraft.”
“Why here?” Dawson said. “Spirits like to be around plantain trees?”
“They can be anywhere, Inspector Dawson,” Fiti said charitably. “People put juju near their farms so their farming won’t be spoiled, understand?”
Dawson reached for the top rock of the pyramid, but Fiti deflected his hand.
“No! Inspector Dawson, I’m sorry, but you don’t touch something like that, sir. Something could happen.”
“Happen like what?”
Fiti sighed and shook his head. “Please, I’m just telling you for your own good—don’t touch it.”
Dawson shrugged. “All right. Where would someone get those rocks?”
“There is a stream not far away that has some like that.”
The forest had grown dark, and the sky was black. Lightning, flittering from one horizon to the other, lit up the juju pyramid, and a rumble of weighty thunder lumbered through.
“We have to go now,” Fiti said. “The rain won’t wait anymore.”
It began to pour before Fiti and Dawson made it back to the police station, and they were soaked enough to need a change of clothes. Dawson grabbed a shirt and pants from his bag and changed in Inspector Fiti’s office.
They talked about the case, and Fiti told him about the Mensahs. It was obvious how much admiration he had for them. They were relatively successful people who ran several different enterprises, and their talent was clear: Kofi, the patriarch, and his wife traded in cocoa, palm oil, and cassava. Charles, the oldest son, helped with the farm as well, but he was also a carpenter who could put up anything a hundred times faster than any government-sponsored project. Kofi’s sister, Elizabeth, was a seamstress and cloth trader, and of course, Gladys, the star, had been a medical student. Her becoming a doctor would have been the pinnacle of the family’s successes.
In contrast, Fiti had nothing but distaste for the Boatengs, particularly Samuel, whom he accused of petty theft in the recent past. Fiti was determined to arrest him, and he wanted to do it before dark. It was now going on five in the afternoon.
“The rain is stopping,” he said, rising from his chair. “We can go now.”
Dawson took Gyamfi in his car, and they followed Fiti and Constable Bubo in the official police vehicle. It was impossible to drive right up to the Boatengs’ house. A gutter ran directly across their path, and the rain had swelled it with mud. They parked the cars just in front of the gutter, jumped over it, and walked the rest of the way. It was barely drizzling now, but there were huge puddles and broad patches of sticky mud in their path.
“That’s the house,” Gyamfi said, pointing.
It was constructed of mud brick and a rusty corrugated tin roof. The outer walls were eroded away by rain at their junction with the ground, making the house sit on steadily thinning support.
Fiti led the way and went in unannounced. There were six people in the front room, one sleeping, three of them playing a boisterous game of cards, and the two most senior, whom Dawson assumed were Mr. and Mrs. Boateng, were chatting. In the corner was a woodstove, cold at the moment.
“Boateng, where is Samuel?” Fiti asked.
“Good evening, sir.” Thick voice, something like treacle.
“Good evening. Where is Samuel?”
“Please, he’s not here, sir.”
“Where did he go?”
“Please, I don’t know, sir.”
The adjoining room was small, windowless, and dark. Fiti switched on his flashlight and took a quick look inside. No one was there.
“We’ll find him,” Fiti said. “Split up. Gyamfi, stay with Inspector Dawson, Bubo is with me. Come on.”
Outside, the two pairs went in opposite directions.
“Where might he be?” Dawson asked Gyamfi.
“He can be anywhere. Probably with his friends going around looking for girls.”
Gyamfi described Samuel to Dawson so he would recognize him. After about ten minutes of trudging around, they hadn’t spotted the suspect anywhere.
Suddenly they heard running footsteps approaching and then a shout, “Stop him! Stop him!”
A man was coming toward them fast, running for his life, bare feet kicking up mud. Close behind him was Constable Bubo, and Inspector Fiti brought up the rear.
“Catch him!” Fiti yelled.
The man saw Dawson and Gyamfi, and sharply veered away to avoid them. But Gyamfi was nimble. He sprang as if out of a cannon and cut back at an angle to intersect the man’s path. They collided and spun to the ground like wrestlers. Bubo got to them a second later. For a moment there was a lot of thrashing around and shouting, but out of it Constable Bubo extracted the screaming man and yanked him up. As he did that, Inspector Fiti came galumphing, belly wobbling with the exertion.
“Hold him well! ” he shouted.
A crowd was gathering fast. Both constables had a firm grip on their captive, who was putting up a healthy struggle. Dawson now saw that he was only eighteen or nineteen. Samuel Boateng, he realized.
Inspector Fiti came up to him, face twisted with anger.
“Stupid boy!” he screamed. “Stupid! You think you can get away from us? Heh?”
Samuel’s shirt had been ripped off in the struggle. His chest was heaving and his skin ran with sweat.
