Gold of Our Fathers

by Kwei Quartey

  Oh, Ghana, he thought, shaking his head. Why can we never get it right the first time? With his surgical mask on to filter out some of the vehicle exhaust fumes, Dawson wound through cars and tro-tros like a snake evading capture. In Accra’s traffic tangle, the margins for vehicles and pedestrians alike were razor thin.

  The congestion cleared somewhat once Dawson got onto Ring Road Central, and there was only one more logjam to tackle at the Ako Adjei Interchange before he got to the Criminal Investigations Department Central Headquarters on Ring Road East. Civilian vehicles were no longer allowed in what used to be parking spaces around the building, and even official police vehicles entering were checked underneath with long-handled inspection mirrors. Terrorism wasn’t an improbability for Ghana anymore. Often, it engulfed parts of Nigeria only two countries away to the east. One could not be too careful.

  Other things had changed too. In the previously empty space between CID and the Ghana Police Headquarters, a separate entity, the public relations building, had been completed. The new structure would have press conference and media rooms with Wi-Fi for reporters to file their stories in a comfortable atmosphere. Evidently the Ghana Police Service (GPS) had decided it was better to win friends and influence people than to make enemies. The seven-story CID building, which had been around for decades, was itself undergoing piecemeal improvements as well. It had a new sun-yellow coat of paint.

  Dawson parked the Honda outside the rear wall of the CID premises and walked around to the front entrance, where the sentry, a sergeant, saluted him and deferentially waved him through.

  Dawson went up the narrow stairway to the fourth floor detectives’ room. Apart from the four large tables and a bunch of scattered chairs, the room was quite bare, with no adornments on the beige walls. This time of the year was the coolest, and a light, refreshing breeze came through the now modern tinted sliding panes that had finally replaced the old-fashioned louvers.

  This room was always noisy—a microcosm of Accra itself. Officers of every rank from lance corporal up to chief inspector, Dawson’s new title, sat writing reports or stood around perched against the tables talking, arguing, and laughing. Don’t people have anything to do? Dawson wondered. He caught a snatch of a debate among four officers on the veracity of a bizarre news item about a woman accused of bestiality, and a more reasoned but just as vociferous discussion around the economic mess Ghana suddenly found itself in. In spite of offshore oil now flowing, the cost of living had shot up. That meant everything: fuel, transportation, food, and lodging. Like so many other Ghanaians, Dawson and Christine had been experiencing the economic pinch with a sinking feeling that Ghana was sliding backward.

  In the midst of the racket in the room, two male officers were interviewing a handcuffed male suspect while other officers stood around watching. CID didn’t have private interrogation rooms. One used whatever space one could find.

  Dawson’s junior partner in the Homicide Division of the Crime Unit, Inspector Philip Chikata, was in the middle of another heated discussion with a fellow officer over which soccer team was most likely to win the next Africa Cup.

  “Morning, boss,” Chikata said, as Dawson pulled up a chair and sat opposite him.

  “Morning, Philip.”

  Dawson shook hands and snapped fingers with Chikata’s companion, a corporal who was back from spending two weeks on duty in the mayhem of the charge office on the ground floor.

  “How are you?” Dawson greeted him in Twi. “How was charge?”

  “Fine, sir,” the corporal said. “But I’m glad to be back.”

  “What do you think?” Chikata asked Dawson. “Ghana will beat Egypt in the next round, anaa am I lying?”

  Dawson shook his head. “You know I don’t talk sports or politics at work.”

  “Please, excuse me, sir,” the corporal said, standing up. “I have court this morning.”

  “Later,” Dawson said to him, turning back to Chikata to ask him about a cold homicide case they were working on. Cold as the corpse itself. No new leads had materialized over the weekend with Chikata’s investigations.

  “What should we do next?” he asked Dawson.

  “Let’s wait for the DNA report.”

  Chikata sucked his teeth. “This DNA lab. So slow. It’s been four weeks now.”

  “It’s not so much the slowness,” Dawson said. “It’s the backlog.”

  Chikata conceded the point. Ridiculously handsome and powerfully built, he was sporting a neat regulation mustache these days.

  Dawson turned his head toward a loud bang, unmistakably the impact of flesh on flesh. The handcuffed suspect, who could not have been more than twenty-three or so, was reeling from an open-handed slap delivered to his right cheek by a detective sergeant. “Please, I beg you, no—”

  “No, what?” The sergeant hit him again. “How do you think your victim felt when you were assaulting him, eh?”

  “What’s going on over there?” Dawson asked Chikata

  “Armed robber,” he answered. “They caught him red-handed attacking an elderly man.”

  The kid was crying and some of the officers began to laugh and derisively call him kwasea, a word for “idiot.” Yet another officer whacked him on the back of the head, making the boy shriek and attempt to get away.

  “Where are you going?” the sergeant asked, pushing him back into the chair. He raised his palm up again, and the suspect cowered and began pleading again.

  Dawson glanced around and saw that for the moment, no one in the room was senior to him in rank. “Jess,” he said, quietly.

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, turning.

  Dawson transmitted the message with his eyes. It’s enough. “Have you completed the paperwork on the suspect?”

  “Almost, sir.”

  “Okay, then proceed.”

  The sergeant took his seat and the other officers dispersed. It would have been poor form to chastise an officer in front of a prisoner, but Dawson hadn’t wanted the beatings to continue. Vigilante justice was common in Ghana, But as police officers, let’s be at least a little above it, he thought. There was one hopeful sign these days: compared to fifteen years ago when Dawson had joined the force, the quality of new police recruits had improved, with many of them holding bachelor’s degrees. Perhaps their approach would be more intellectual and less physical.

  “Chief Superintendent Oppong is in, by the way,” Chikata said, referring to the man who had taken over from Theo Lartey. Dawson detected an over-casual inflection in the inspector’s tone. He was going to miss the uncle who had always been like a father to him, but he was being brave about it.

  It was perhaps this separation from Lartey that was prompting Chikata to stray in other directions, which concerned Dawson a good deal because he did not want to lose his partner. Chikata had developed an interest in the Panthers Unit, an elite strike force based at CID Central Headquarters. Trained in the use of firearms and tactical maneuvers, the Panthers’ officers were the very best: fit, fast, and fierce. Chikata was all that, and that’s why Dawson feared he would one day be snatched away.

  “You’ve met the chief super?” Dawson asked.

  “Yes,” Chikata said, without much enthusiasm. “This morning. He told me to ask you to go up to his office when you get in.”

  “I will,” Dawson said. “What is he like?”

  Chikata shrugged. “He’s okay.”

  Dawson smiled slightly at the tepid endorsement. “All right,” he said, standing. “I’ll go now.”

  He went one flight up to the chief superintendent’s office. He couldn’t count the number of times over the years that he had made this trek to face Theophilus Lartey, almost invariably a firing squad experience. It felt strange to be going to someone new. The brass nameplate on the solid door now read chief superintendent joseph oppong. Dawson knocked and heard the faint “come
in” from the other side. As he entered, Dawson immediately took account of the scrupulous tidiness of Oppong’s desk, a transformation from Lartey’s chaos. The man in the leather executive chair was different too. He was tall and bone thin, whereas Lartey had been diminutive.

  Oppong looked up over a pair of half spectacles. He was probably in his midfifties, but his hair was a premature and shocking white. He wore an impeccable dark suit and tie.

  In a condensed form of a salute for non-uniformed officers, Dawson put his hands at his side and braced.

  “Good morning, Dawson,” Oppong said neutrally. He gestured at the chair on the other side of the desk. “Have a seat.”

  Dawson sat. He didn’t know Oppong at all, since the chief superintendent had been stationed outside Accra at different divisional headquarters of the GPS for at least a decade. Dawson’s first impression was that he was methodical and quiet—another contrast to Lartey. Anticipating a lecture about what was expected of him, Dawson waited while the chief super flipped the pages of a large notebook in front of him.

  “I’ve just been reading through the hand-over notes from my predecessor, now Assistant Commissioner Lartey,” Oppong said, looking over his glasses again. “I have reviewed your file. You’ve shown good work—apart from some growing pains in the beginning.”

  That comment, delivered in a voice that sounded to Dawson like a 60-hertz electrical hum, could have been a wry joke, but Oppong cracked not even to trace of a smile. He was referring, no doubt, to Dawson’s anger management difficulties years ago—an explosive temper that had slowly settled down since.

  Oppong was studying a sheet of paper headed with the GPS insignia. “Were you made aware of your impending transfer to Obuasi?”

  Dawson’s eyebrows shot up. “Transfer to Obuasi, sir? What transfer?”

  Oppong read from the document. “Following the untimely death of Chief Inspector Pascal Addae, supervising crime officer at Obuasi Divisional Headquarters, his post is to be filled for a period of at least one year by Chief Inspector Darko Dawson of CID Headquarters, Accra.”

  One year? Dawson fell back in his chair, dumbfounded. Oppong looked up at him. “Evidently this comes to you as a surprise.”

  “No one told me,” Dawson said, hearing his voice sharpen. “Was this a decision by ACP Lartey?”

  “I don’t know whose decision it was,” Oppong said kindly. “All I know is that the notification is signed by him. Since he is my senior officer, it is my duty to implement it, not to question it.”

  Dawson was furious. This was a dirty trick by Lartey—a parting shot, a last laugh even as he left his post. He knew all about Dawson’s family, the trials of Hosiah’s surgery and nursing him back to emotional and physical health, and yet he had still done this.

  “Dawson?”

  He startled back to the moment. “Yes, sir.”

  “You need to get to Obuasi as quickly as possible,” Oppong said. “Seeing as how you are taken by surprise by this development, I will give you a grace period of two weeks, so that you can get your affairs together. Are you planning to move with your family?”

  Dawson’s impressions of the chief superintendent changed. Seemingly aloof at first, Oppong appeared to have the heart that Lartey did not.

  “I’m not sure, sir,” Dawson said despondently. “I don’t know. What happened to Chief Inspector Addae?”

  “I think it was some kind of stroke,” Oppong said.

  Dawson felt guilty that he wasn’t feeling as much sympathy as he should have. “Who will take my place here at headquarters?”

  “Chikata will report directly to me on any cases.”

  Dawson nodded. At least that would be good. Chikata could gain added experience and prestige that way.

  “Well,” Oppong said, folding his long fingers in front of him. “That’s all for now.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Dawson didn’t remember getting up and leaving the room. He was in a daze.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The quiet Myohaung Street at the rear of the CID premises, named after a place in Myanmar in recognition of Ghana’s contribution to the WWII defeat of the Japanese in Burma, was often Dawson’s place to think and brood. He thrust his hands in his pockets and walked in the shade of the trees that lined the street, passing embassy residences and expensive gated communities.

  So much to think about. He tried to clear his head and work through it methodically. Obuasi. About 160 miles away in the southern part of the Ashanti Region, it was one of the major gold-mining towns in Ghana and home to the huge multinational AngloGold Ashanti. Dawson thought the population might be around a couple hundred thousand people. It and other areas in the region had been in the news of late because of illegal gold mining by not just hundreds, but thousands of Chinese who had flooded into Ghana from a certain region of China—Dawson couldn’t remember the name at the moment—and succeeded in laying waste large tracts of fertile land as they dug feverishly for alluvial gold.

  Dawson couldn’t possibly be away from Christine, Sly, and Hosiah for that long, could he? No, they would have to come with him to Obuasi. But that meant finding the boys new schools and Christine a new job. He winced at that. Christine had just been promoted to assistant headmistress. How could she be so prematurely uprooted now from a post that was providing her experience and prestige, and bringing in a little more income? Maybe the family should stay in Accra and Dawson could visit from Obuasi as often as possible? But he knew what that meant in reality. When a case becomes very busy, there is barely time to get away. He would be missing his family for intolerable weeks on end.

  A new worry struck him. Over the last year, Hosiah had gained social confidence and overcome the physical and emotional consequences of his long illness. With new activities in which he could take part, he was enjoying life to the fullest. In particular, he had become best friends with one boy in his class called Seth. Sometimes it seemed that Seth was at the Dawsons’ home more than his own. Wrenching Hosiah away was going to be tough on both boys.

  Sly was more adaptable to change than his younger brother because of his past street life. Dawson wasn’t worried about him, and in fact, Sly would be of great moral support for Hosiah.

  In the evening after the children had gone to sleep, Dawson would talk it over with Christine. He turned back toward CID, his stomach churning with anxiety.

  As soon as Dawson walked back into the office, Chikata saw that something was wrong. The two men had known each other long enough to intuitively sense each other’s moods.

  “What happened, boss?” Chikata asked him. “Chief super gave you a tough time?”

  Dawson slumped into a chair beside Chikata. “Your uncle has posted me to Obuasi. For one year.”

  Chikata’s jaw went slack. “What?”

  Dawson despondently rested his forehead against his fist. “Oppong just told me. The transfer is in your uncle’s hand-over notes.”

  Chikata shook his head. “I don’t believe it.” He picked up his phone from the table. “I will call him right now.”

  Dawson put a gentle restraining hand on Chikata’s. “No, don’t do it. There’s no point.”

  “How no point, boss?”

  “Forget it, Chikata.”

  “I’m sure this isn’t my uncle’s doing,” he insisted. “I should call him to reverse the decision.”

  Dawson hesitated, torn. He didn’t like to use his junior officer as a tool, but it was tempting. If he could get the decision reversed . . .

  “Okay,” he said finally.

  Chikata made the call, and left a message when his uncle didn’t pick up. There wasn’t any point dwelling on the matter further, so the two men moved on to other things. After discussing both the cold cases and others, Chikata left for training with the Panthers Unit, and Dawson was alone for the rest of the morning.

  Jus
t before lunch, Dawson’s phone rang. It was from ACP Lartey, who got straight to the point.

  “The decision came down just yesterday,” he told Dawson. “I did not have time to call you this morning. No, it was not me who thought up the plan of sending you to Obuasi. It came from higher up than me. Sorry, Dawson, but that’s how it is. Unfortunately, when you are as good at your work as you are, you come to people’s minds very quickly.”

  Half praise, half blame, Dawson thought ironically, like honey sprinkled with quinine.

  “The Obuasi office needs you, Dawson,” Lartey added. “Don’t let them down.”

  And as he always did, Lartey ended the call quickly and abruptly, leaving Dawson feeling not much better.

  At the end of the day, Dawson wanted badly to talk to Christine about the situation confronting him, yet he was dreading it at the same time. How would she react? In the past, his postings to different parts of the country had not sat well with her.

  Darko fought evening peak traffic for an hour before finally reaching his neighborhood of Kaneshie. He pulled into the small yard of their once cream-colored bungalow with olive trim. It needed a fresh coat of paint. Inside, Christine was helping the boys with homework, which they interrupted to give Dawson an animated account of all that had happened in school that day. Dawson had to keep track of all the characters—good and bad—in their school. He pushed aside the events of his own day to pay close attention to theirs, giving no indication that anything was amiss. Hosiah in particular was apt to pick up negative signals.

  It was later on when the boys were in bed and Christine and Darko were cleaning up in the kitchen—she washing the dishes and he sweeping up the floor—that he broached the subject. He leaned the broom against the counter.

  “Christine,” he said. “Something has come up at work.”

  She looked up, searched his face for a moment, and then shook the excess water off her hands. “I can almost predict. They want to transfer you, right?”