Gold of Our Fathers

by Kwei Quartey

  Once Brave had bid them goodbye, Dawson asked Obeng a question that persisted in his mind. “I’m curious—is this site really legal the way the foreman said?”

  Obeng laughed. “Don’t mind him. No dredge mining is legal in Ghana. It is spoiling our rivers. Do you see how the water is colored that ugly brown?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not how it’s supposed to be. That is all the pollutants making it like that. Now, imagine not just ten or twenty of these barges dredging, but hundreds and hundreds of them all along Ghana’s rivers. How will our rivers survive, and the fish in the rivers, and the people who eat the fish and drink the water? And what can the government do? Nothing.”

  Obeng and Dawson fell silent as they returned to the taxi and considered the sheer magnitude of a problem that seemed to have grown larger than anyone could handle.

  Back in the taxi, they went on to Aniamoa. It was smaller than Dunkwa, a large village rather than a town. A group of boys was playing soccer in a dusty field devoid of grass and full of dips and rises that the boys negotiated as if it were second nature.

  Since Aniamoa was where he grew up, Obeng knew a lot of people there, and as they alighted from the vehicle he was already calling out and waving to several. He and Dawson stopped by four men playing cards and asked them if they knew Kudzo Gablah. After some discussion, they decided they had seen him earlier on and pointed vaguely in one direction. Following that lead, Dawson and Obeng moved on. A skinny tan-colored dog resting under a tree watched them with interest and decided to follow them. Goats wandered about or stood placidly chewing whatever goats chew.

  “I’ll ask these women,” Obeng said, indicating a young woman in front of a house pounding fufuo while her synchronized partner turned the glutinous mass in the mortar with the same rhythm.

  “Dabi,” she said, shaking her head without breaking her rhythm. “We don’t know anyone by that name.”

  Something about the way she said that alerted Dawson. He looked around and spotted a young man appearing from behind the wall of the next house and then ducking quickly back when he saw the two detectives. Dawson touched Obeng on the shoulder and beckoned him to follow as he walked quickly toward the target house.

  “I saw a guy just now,” he told Obeng quietly. “I think it was him.”

  Dawson didn’t know what Kudzo looked like, and he could be wrong, but he didn’t think so. He signaled Obeng to circle round in one direction while he went the other. When he got to the back wall of the house, Dawson peeped around it and saw the young man on the lookout, his head craned the other way. Dawson stepped out quietly from behind the wall. “Kudzo Gablah?”

  The man took off like a rocket and bolted for the bush at the outer perimeter of a row of houses, but Dawson was ready, and broke into a run just as soon as Kudzo did.

  “Stop!” Dawson called out.

  He was hoping Obeng would be coming around the corner at just the right moment. But it wasn’t the sergeant who collided with Kudzo—it was the dog who had taken a liking to the two detectives. Its tail wagging as it looked back at Obeng, it didn’t see the fleeing Kudzo in time to move out of his way. With a yelp, the dog tried to avoid Kudzo, but it was too late. Kudzo tripped and tumbled. The dog scuttled away, apparently unwounded except for his pride.

  Kudzo was quick to get back on his feet, but he was smart enough to know that there was no escaping the two policemen.

  “On the ground,” Dawson commanded. “Get down now.”

  Kudzo obeyed, lying on his stomach and submitting to handcuffs. Dawson, breathing hard, kneeled beside him to rest a hand on his shoulder.

  “Are you Kudzo Gablah?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’m Chief Inspector Darko Dawson. You are under arrest.”

  “I beg you, don’t beat me.”

  “No one is going to beat you. But you’re still under arrest.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was late afternoon by the time Kudzo had been processed into the Obuasi Police Station. Dawson was hungry and tired but dismissed his flagging spirits. He was going to see this through before he slept tonight. With Obeng in attendance, he conducted the interview in the CID room. About twenty-four, Kudzo was almost as tall as Dawson, but the intensity of the mining work had made him dense with muscle. His forehead was creased with two lines, like a permanent question on his face.

  Kudzo, like Brave, was an Ewe from Keta, in the Volta Region, and Dawson’s first question to Kudzo was whether he spoke Twi. Not well, the young man answered. Obeng didn’t speak Ewe, so English would have to be the language of communication—for this interview, at least.

  “Why did you run away from us?” Dawson asked.

  “Please, I haven’t done anything,” he said huskily.

  “Then that should mean that you don’t have to run, not so?”

  “Yes, please.”

  But Dawson knew that the young man’s instinct had told him otherwise and led to his panicky attempt to flee. The police often scapegoated poor people like him. “Do you know why we were looking for you?”

  Kudzo hesitated. “Please, because of the Chinese man?”

  “Correct. We are not accusing you of anything. We only want to know what happened. What time did you go to work yesterday?”

  “Five forty-five.”

  “What did you do first?”

  “I started digging the gravel.”

  “Apart from Mr. Bao and Mr. Wei Liu, how many people do you work with?”

  “Please, three.”

  “Were they also digging?”

  “Yes, please. First I started, then they also began.”

  “I see.” Dawson was studying Kudzo, but the young man kept his eyes firmly directed toward the table.

  “Mr. Bao Liu was your boss?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “What about Mr. Wei? What did he do?”

  “He was the manager. Usually, he is there every day, but Bao is there only on Tuesdays and Fridays.”

  “Mr. Wei arrived at what time yesterday morning?”

  “Please, around six-thirty,” Kudzo said. He seemed to be loosening up a little. “I thought Mr. Bao was there by then, because he told us he would come to fix the excavator early in the morning.”

  “So it was strange that he hadn’t arrived.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Okay, go on,” Dawson prompted.

  “I started to do my work, and Mr. Wei too, when he came to the site he asked me where Mr. Bao was and I said please I don’t know.”

  “I see. And then what happened?”

  “Please, when I was digging, then I hit something with my shovel, and I didn’t know what it was. I hit it another time to try and move it.”

  The deep cuts in the dead man’s skull. Rather than mortal wounds, they could have been from Kudzo’s shovel.

  “Then I saw it was somebody’s head,” Kudzo continued, “so me and my friends, we started to dig around it to get it out, and Mr. Wei too, he came to help and then he saw it was his brother.”

  Kudzo shuddered visibly, and Dawson had to agree that it was shudder inducing.

  “Before you saw the body, did you notice anything different or strange?”

  “Please, I saw the soil on top of the body is a different color.”

  “What does that mean, Kudzo?”

  “That someone had poured another soil on top of the normal one—the one that was there the day before.”

  “In order to bury the body?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where would someone get the new soil from?”

  Kudzo seemed to be trying to hide some amusement. “Please, plenty soil is all around.”

  Dawson agreed inwardly he had put the question badly. “Okay, let’s say it was you who wanted to bury the body. How wo
uld you do it?”

  Kudzo swallowed and looked away uncomfortably.

  “What’s wrong?” Dawson asked.

  “Please, nothing is wrong.”

  “Then answer my question. If you were to bury Mr. Bao Liu, how would you do it?”

  “Instead of digging with a spade,” Kudzo said softly, “I will use the excavator, to dig a hole, then put the body inside and drop the soil back on top.”

  “But your excavator was not working,” Dawson pointed out.

  The boy nodded. “But there are other excavators around there.”

  Dawson leaned back. This might be a lead. “You’re talking about the four machines in the site next to yours?”

  “Yes, please. That belongs to one American guy.”

  “You know him?”

  Kudzo shook his head. “Please, I know his name only, but I never talk to him.”

  “His name is what?” Dawson asked.

  “We call him Mr. Chuck.”

  “Okay.” Dawson didn’t know whether that was a first name or surname. “So, for example,” he said, wanting to delve more into this, “if I use the excavator, how long will it take me to bury a body?”

  Kudzo shrugged. “If you know how to operate it well, it will only take some five minutes. Plus the time to drive the excavator from where it is parked and back again. Maybe some twenty minutes.”

  The question was whether the murderer had been trying to hide the body or make it discoverable. Surely he—or was it they?—knew that the location chosen was an active digging site.

  Dawson stared at Kudzo for a while until the boy became discomfited. “Do you know how to operate an excavator?”

  Kudzo fidgeted.

  “Who taught you how?” Dawson persisted without the answer.

  “Mr. Wei.”

  Interesting, Dawson thought. “Did you drive the excavator over there to bury Mr. Bao after you tied him up like that? Did you help someone do it, or did you do it by yourself?”

  Kudzo began to tremble. “No, please.”

  “He didn’t pay you the day before, not so?”

  Kudzo was startled. “Please, how did you know?”

  Dawson dismissed the question. “And because of that you were angry with Mr. Bao and you wanted to kill him.”

  Kudzo withered. He shook his head sadly. “He pays me. Why should I kill him?”

  “Then was it Mr. Wei who killed him and you helped Wei bury Bao with the excavator?”

  Kudzo became tearful all of a sudden, and hastily wiped the moisture off his cheeks.

  “Why are you crying?” Obeng abruptly chimed in, almost startling Dawson.

  “Please, I don’t know,” Kudzo whispered.

  “Because you killed the Chinese man, not so?” Obeng barked.

  Kudzo shook his head dumbly, tears streaming, and Obeng snorted with contempt. Dawson didn’t send any restraining signals to the sergeant. Sometimes, two contrasting interrogation styles could be effective.

  “Did you notice any excavator tracks coming from Mr. Chuck’s site over to your side?” Dawson asked Kudzo.

  “No, please.” He hesitated. “Please, when you are returning the excavator to the parking spot, you can go in reverse and drag the bucket of the excavator on the ground. That will clean the tracks.”

  Dawson was intrigued that Kudzo was suggesting how the crime could have been committed while denying he did it

  “Where did you sleep Thursday night?” Dawson asked Kudzo.

  “In Dunkwa. At the house of my mate’s father.”

  “One of the mates who works with you at the mine?”

  “No, please. A different one.”

  “Can he confirm you were at the house all night?”

  “Yes, please. If you like, I can give you his number. His name is Ekaw.”

  Dawson appreciated that unexpected display of assertiveness. “Thank you.”

  Kudzo flashed the number to him; Dawson dialed it and put the phone on speaker. Ekaw answered promptly. Dawson explained who he was and why he was calling. Kudzo greeted his friend to confirm he was indeed there.

  “Hold on one moment,” Dawson said. He took the phone off speaker and left the room with it, shutting the door behind him. “Ekaw, I am now speaking to you in private. Kudzo cannot hear what we are saying. Did you sleep at your usual place Thursday night?”

  “Yes, please.” Ekaw’s vocal timber was steady and resonant—a good radio voice, should he ever choose that career.

  “Who was with you?”

  “My friend Ibrahim and Kudzo and my family.”

  “Did Kudzo sleep there the whole night?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “At any time, did you see or hear him leaving the house?”

  “No, please.”

  “What time did you wake up, and what time did he wake up?”

  “We wake at the same time. Five thirty.”

  “Is it possible for Kudzo to leave the house without your knowing?”

  “Please, I don’t think so,” he said definitively. “With my mother and father and my brothers and sisters, there are ten of us in the house. Someone will ask him where he is going. On top of that, the door to the house makes a lot of noise when you open and close it.”

  “Okay.” Dawson ended the call with thanks, put his head inside the door, and beckoned Obeng outside for a quick confab. He told the sergeant the results of the call. “What do you think?”

  “Well, maybe he and this Ekaw are in it together,” Obeng suggested.

  “Maybe, but let’s go back first to look at motive. Can we see any reason why Kudzo would kill Bao Liu? We’ve heard that Bao was sometimes tight with money and didn’t always pay promptly, but is that good enough? I don’t think so.”

  “In fact,” Obeng said, cracking a smile, “I think that has happened to many of us.”

  “Amen to that,” Dawson agreed. “I know you didn’t have the benefit of hearing Ekaw answer my questions, but the way he did so satisfies me. I don’t think he was lying about anything, and so I feel confident that Kudzo has established his alibi—at least for now. If something changes, we have his phone number and Ekaw’s as well, and we’ll track him down as needed.”

  “So, we should release him?” Obeng said.

  “We have nothing to hold him on. But on his release, warn him to stay accessible to us.”

  “Yes, sir.” Obeng appeared both doubtful and hesitant.

  “Something wrong?” Dawson asked.

  “Please, it’s just that . . . these galamsey guys, they can’t be trusted. It’s so early in the investigation and as soon as we release him, he will bolt and we will never be able to get in touch with him again.”

  “What do you suggest, then?”

  “Please, if we can hold him at least until tomorrow evening in case of any new developments in the next twenty-four hours.”

  Dawson nodded. He didn’t see anything wrong with the sergeant’s reasoning, and it was always good to go along with a junior officer’s suggestion if it was a good one. “Okay, we’ll do that. Thank you for thinking it through.”

  As Dawson returned to the room, he felt as if he were missing something. He searched for it in his brain and found it. The American miner.

  “This Mr. Chuck you mentioned,” he said to Kudzo, “the one with the mining site next to you, was everything peaceful between him and Bao?”

  Kudzo clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Not at all. Terrible. They used to quarrel all the time. Bao always went to Mr. Chuck and tell him that he is trespassing on Bao’s land; then Mr. Chuck say, ‘Fock you, moddafocka, get outa here before I kill you.’”

  That could be empty bluster, or it could be serious. At any rate, it was clear that Bao and Mr. Chuck did not get along. The question was whether Chuck had hated
the Chinese man enough to kill him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Early Sunday morning, Dawson finally had a clear enough schedule to pay a visit to the Kumasi guesthouse he and his family would be occupying, God willing. Later on, in the afternoon, he would return to Obuasi to interview Kudzo one more time. He had no directions to Gifty’s house, but he was to contact her Uncle Joe once he got into Kumasi. Uncle Joe owned a car rental business in the city.

  Dawson took a packed tro-tro from Obuasi, arriving at the terminal Kumasi stop at Ketejia Market. Normally it was teeming with shoppers, vendors, head porters, and truck pushers, but this was early on a Sunday: everyone was getting ready for church—except Dawson, apparently. Enjoying the relative quiet of the morning, he called Joe. No one responded, but it was only seven o’clock, so Dawson decided to wait a little while and try again. He bought his choice of soft drink, a cold Guinness Malta on Asomfo Road and then, leaning against a storefront pillar, he watched smartly dressed churchgoers hurrying by, Bibles in hand. Dawson could hear hymns being sung from the red brick and white trim Presbyterian church up the street.

  He thought about Kudzo Gablah and Wei Liu: two people worlds apart, both seeking gold fortune for themselves and family left behind, and both “misconducting” themselves—the Chinese man taking a swing at a police officer, and the Ghanaian running away from one. In the end, they could have saved themselves a lot of trouble because both were effectively off the suspect list—that is, if you could call it a list.

  Dawson needed to find this Mr. Chuck, who, according to Kudzo, had threatened Bao’s life while calling him derogatory names. If Chuck had no alibi, he merited further investigation. Land disputes, an infamous source of friction in Ghana, must be a thousand times more deadly where gold is involved.

  His phone rang. It was Uncle Joe, who apologized that he wasn’t going to be at the guesthouse, but the foreman was there. Joe had a squeaky voice that reminded Dawson of a cartoon character. Before ending the call, Dawson had an idea. “Please, Uncle Joe, I don’t have any transportation here in Kumasi, and I have been using a taxi so far. Can I rent a small, cheap vehicle from you?”