by Kwei Quartey
Dawson drove to the Obuasi lorry park, locked the Corolla up, and joined the line for Dunkwa. Because the weather was so bad, it was less crowded than it might have been, but the queue was long enough in this misery that Dawson’s torso was wet in no time, his feet were soaked, and the sodden ground squelched with mud that threatened to suck off his shoes every time he took a step.
The vehicle was packed to maximum capacity, and to get one extra person in, the driver’s mate, who collected the fares and managed passenger entry and exit, rode perilously on the back of the Land Rover standing on the footrest. How he did that in this weather was beyond Dawson, who had ended up the man in the middle squashed between a corpulent woman and a bone-thin man.
On the Dunkwa road, the Land Rover dipped, swerved, and slithered around potholes and waded through deep puddles. Our fate is in the hands of this driver, Dawson thought, and the driver looked like he might have been twenty years old at the most.
The rain wasn’t lessening. If anything, it was getting heavier. Every few minutes, a flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a sharp crack of deafening thunder. When Dawson and the other passengers alighted at the Dunkwa tro-tro depot, water on the ground was ankle high. Crouching under his now almost useless umbrella, Dawson called Akua.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“At the tro-tro station.”
“Okay, stay there, and we’ll pick you up in the SUV. We’re not far.”
Dawson found an abandoned vegetable stand to shelter underneath, watching rivers of muddy rainwater flowing from the lorry park while pedestrians negotiated the least hazardous routes to tread while pulling up the hems of their trousers and skirts to avoid soaking them, but it was no use. A soaking was inevitable.
Dawson spotted Akua and Samuels approaching in the Prado. Dawson hopped into the backseat and heaved a sigh of relief to be out of the rain.
Akua smiled at him from the front passenger seat. “Weather couldn’t get any nastier than this.”
“Terrible,” he agreed. “I’m an Accra man. We don’t have rain like this.”
“Some wellies and a raincoat in the back for you,” she said. “Try them on.”
“Thank you,” Dawson said. To Samuels in the driver’s seat, he said, “Morning, Mr. Samuels,” although afternoon was close.
“Morning, sir.”
The Wellingtons were a little tight, but they would do, and the raincoat was excellent.
Samuels turned off the main road at a snail’s pace, engaging four-wheel drive as they dipped into muddy floodwater that grew progressively deeper.
“The river crested last night,” Akua said. “Everyone is headed for higher ground.”
Ahead of their vehicle, a stream of people waded through thigh-deep water, some with their kids on their shoulders. A few random items like small pieces of furniture were floating free.
“The main road is at a higher elevation,” Akua explained, “so that’s where people are headed, and there’s also a hill on the other side of town.”
The Prado dipped even lower, making Dawson anxious that they might get stuck, but the vehicle handled it with barely a loss of traction and the water level dropped again as they came to the main road where people were standing under shelter on anything that would keep them above water level—stacked tables or chairs.
“Let’s go up the hill,” Akua said to Samuels, “and then we can take some shots of the Ofin River.”
At the crest of the hill, much of the town had gathered to escape the floodwater, but it was still ankle-deep. Samuels pulled over and the three got out and trudged through the mud to a spot overlooking the Ofin. It was churning gray and brown as it rushed along swiftly, as if desperate to get to its destination, but at one silt-laden area, it had nowhere to go but up and over.
“We’ll descend now, as close as possible to the riverbank,” Akua said.
They slid down, holding on to vegetation to avoid slipping and tumbling. It was most hazardous for Samuels, as he had the expensive camera equipment. At one point, Akua did lose her footing and fell with a thud on her posterior. She cursed, and then began to laugh hysterically at the frank absurdity of the mission as rain pelted her in the face. “Oh, my God. Why do I even do this?”
Dawson, a little bit ahead of her, came back and stood over her smiling. “Maybe because you care about your work?”
“Ugh,” she said. “There’s caring, and then there’s insanity.”
Dawson extended a hand and she pulled herself up, still laughing. Samuels, a few meters away, asked her if she was okay.
“I’m good, Samuels. Come on. Let’s keep going. I want to get to a good spot where I can do a piece with the river showing in the background.”
Dawson admired her tenacity, and wondered if Christine would do anything like this. She would, but only for the most necessary of reasons—like to rescue a family member. He had a spontaneous vision of throwing his mother-in-law down this hill into the river, and had to suppress a laugh. Not nice. Still, it was funny.
“This should be a good spot, Akua,” Samuels said, and for the first time Dawson wondered if there was anything between the two of them.
They spent some time setting up the scene and doing a couple run-throughs before the final take. Dawson’s attention was drawn to the Ofin River. No mining sites were visible at this particular spot, and the vegetation on the banks was thick and green, but downstream, the telltale signs of a stripped landscape began. As Dawson stared at the area, he saw someone appear at the edge of the river on the same side. He wasn’t difficult to recognize.
Yaw Okoh.
He was barefoot and shirtless, his taut, broad shoulders and V-shaped torso glistening wet. He had stopped to urinate in the bushes.
Dawson looked quickly back at Akua and Samuels. They were engrossed in their video production. Dawson began to make his way in Yaw’s direction. The din of the rain, the noise of the river, and the episodic clap of thunder all combined to disguise any giveaway sound of Dawson moving in the bush.
Once Yaw had answered his call of nature, he continued walking downstream in the rain. Dawson tried to keep an eye on him while struggling with mud and vegetation, while Yaw seemed to move effortlessly. I need to spend more time in the bush, Dawson thought, annoyed at his clumsiness—not that his “wellies” were of any help.
As the river turned course slightly, it also narrowed, and to Dawson’s surprise, Yaw approached the water and got close to the edge, studying the currents. Impossible, Dawson thought. Yaw could not possibly cross the river as swift and deep as it was, could he? But, yes, he took two steps into the water, gauging his landing spot on the other side and how strongly he needed to swim. Dawson moved quickly, half jumping, half sliding the remainder of the way to the river. One boot entered and he pulled it back sharply. Good thing it was a little too small, or he would have lost it.
“Yaw!” Dawson called out, but it wasn’t loud enough. “Yaw!”
The muscleman turned his head, saw Dawson, and then deliberately continued his advance into the river.
Furiously, Dawson yelled out, “Stop!”
But as he got closer, Yaw had already waded into the river to neck height, launching himself across. Dawson stopped, his chest heaving as he watched Yaw making his way at a diagonal to the other bank. For Dawson, a man who could not swim to save his hide, it was incredible that one man could take on a river in a storm like this. Sure, it wasn’t as wide as the grandest of Ghana’s bodies of water—Volta, Pra, Ankobra—but it was still a significant river, especially in Dawson’s eyes.
Yaw reached the other side and climbed up the bank as casually as if taking a stroll on a fine day, walked to the forest ahead of him, and disappeared without a word. Dawson’s jaws were clenched. At first he had had sympathy for this man who had lost his brother, but now Yaw was being just plain evasive. That made Da
wson all the more determined. I will get to him and make him talk.
Returning to where Akua and Samuels had been doing their report, Dawson found them wrapping up for the day. After she redid a couple of spots in the segment to perfect it, they packed up and Dawson joined them on the trudge up the hill. It was difficult to say whether going up or coming down was tougher.
“Where did you go?” Akua asked Dawson, breathing heavily.
“Just to take a look downstream,” he said, his instincts telling him that it was not yet time to discuss Yaw Okoh with her.
In the shelter of the Prado, they heaved a sigh of relief and rested for a moment.
“Okay,” Akua said to Dawson. “Let’s get you back to Obuasi. Where are you staying?”
“Coconut Grove Hotel.”
“You know it?” Akua asked Sammuels.
He nodded. “Yes.”
As they made their careful way out of Obuasi, Akua removed a Samsung tablet from her bag, switched it on, and passed it back to Dawson. “I thought you might have a look at some of Mr. Samuels’s photos of the different mining sites. We’re going to put the best ones in an online gallery.”
He looked through them, admiring the way she had sequenced some of the increased devastation at particular spots over several months—from forest to bleak, yellow-gray moonscape. Some of the photos showed galamsey workers toiling in groups at the edge of a river; in others they were panning for gold in solitude. There were also the large industrial operations with bulldozers and excavators, giant pits, and massive trommels washing tons of gravel by the hour. Dawson was struck by the tone of sadness conveyed by the way Samuels had shot the images.
“You are very talented, Mr. Samuels,” Dawson said. “Congrats on these amazing photographs.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Dawson skimmed through more, stopping at an image of a Chinese worker operating a bulldozer as it mowed down a line of neatly planted cocoa trees as if they were nothing but insignificant twigs. The time stamp was from about three months ago.
In the next picture, also from three months ago, Samuels had captured an excavator in slow transit from one mining area to the next along a narrow, muddy path deep in the forest. He had shot it in sequence from wide angle to close. Here, the operator was not Chinese; he was Ghanaian. As the camera moved in, it showed him clearly. There was the scar across the lip and the infamous bare torso. Dawson’s breath caught. Yaw Okoh knows how to operate an excavator. Three months ago, before his brother’s death, perhaps he worked for a company or individual involved in small-scale mining.
It was a stunning revelation. The day was wet and gloomy, but suddenly Dawson saw it as clear and bright. What he had only yesterday considered unlikely had turned out to be entirely plausible.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dawson had had a good night’s sleep at Coconut Grove with no surprise leaks but the hotel was still without power. For a few minutes as light crept to the sky, he lay in bed with his mind roaming. When would the family be up from Accra? When, if ever, would the guesthouse be inhabitable?
And this murder case. He felt there was a track he must follow, given yesterday’s discovery that Yaw Okoh could operate an excavator. If that piece of heavy machinery was used to quickly bury Bao Liu, Yaw had the skills to do it, and he had a powerful motive as well. And so did his father. Could it have been a collaborative effort? In the overpowering of the Chinese man, two men would have been far more effective than one.
Dawson felt the sense of eagerness he always had whenever a potential lead appeared—like walking around without direction in the bush until a path suddenly appears that might well take you where you want to go. But he also knew that sacrificing any loose ends at the altar of a promising lead was foolhardy, and at the moment, the uninvestigated item was still Chuck Granger, the American whose mining concession was adjacent to the Lius’ site.
According to Akua, Granger stayed—or had stayed—at the bed-and-breakfast called Four Villages Inn. It was time to pay a visit. Dawson swung his feet to the floor and headed for the shower. He hoped, at least, that water was flowing.
•••
The rain had diminished to on-and-off sprinkles, but that didn’t mean Kumasi traffic was any less chaotic than if the downpour had continued at full power. Flooding at various points of the city was still very much in force, particularly at the roundabouts where traffic came to a standstill and drivers lost their tempers with each other. Trading insults in traffic was the Ghanaian way, but the melodramatic displays were never as serious as they might seem.
Crawling forward by the inch toward the Ahodwo section of the city, Dawson took the opportunity to call Daniel Armah, his dear friend and mentor.
“How are you, Darko?” Armah said, his voice gentle and perhaps not quite as steady as when he was a younger man. By now, he would be in his sixties, Dawson calculated.
“I’m fine, Daniel. So nice to hear your voice.”
“I’m sorry it took a little while to get back to you. The wife and I were in the Upper East Region, and reception wasn’t very good there.”
“No problem at all,” Dawson said, smiling. “I wanted to say hello and find out when we can see each other again.”
“Whenever you are free. My schedule is mostly flexible now that I’m in semiretirement.”
Dawson suggested he could come around with the family when they came up to Kumasi.
“Excellent,” Armah said. “I’ll be glad to see you.”
Whatever mood Dawson was in, it was always good to hear Armah’s voice.
As he neared Four Villages Inn, Dawson noticed several Chinese establishments—hotels, restaurants. Outside a Chinese-owned casino, a cluster of Chinese men and women smoked and talked. Dawson wished he could get inside their heads. What did they really think of Ghana and its people? Lian Liu had certainly let her feelings be known, and Dawson supposed that the destruction of land carried out by the Chinese illegals was an indication of just how much they didn’t care. But over and over again in history, it was much the same story. Just like the Portuguese, the Dutch, Germans, or British, the Chinese wanted what Ghana had, and Ghanaians were going to let them have it with few or no strings attached. Why?
Four Villages Inn was tucked into a lush, quiet corner away from the street, with tall eucalyptus trees flanking the outside wall of the compound. The uniformed watchman at the sentry box acknowledged Dawson as he pulled in.
“Good morning, sir,” the watchman said, coming up as Dawson parked and got out of the Corolla.
“Good morning. I’m looking for Mr. Scott.”
“Please, he is inside. You can knock on the door.”
A generic brown-and-white dog barked fiercely at Dawson from the top of the steps leading up to the front veranda, but it took off with its tail tucked in as Dawson got closer.
The veranda was wide and festooned with hanging potted plants, and two sets of glass tables and cushioned wicker chairs were arranged at the opposite ends. It was far more like a home than a hotel. Dawson knocked on the solid mahogany door and waited, looking around at the beautifully laid-out garden to the right of the veranda.
The door swung open, and a petite Ghanaian woman in a smart outfit greeted Dawson, who introduced himself and asked to see Mr. Scott.
“Let me call him. Please have a seat.”
Dawson chose the closest wicker chair and grinned at the dog, who had come back warily to eye him.
“Mr. Dawson, is it?”
He turned to find a white man in a Ghanaian-print shirt. His girth was generous, and his pale hair was thin and wispy at the top of his head.
Dawson stood to shake hands. “Yes, Detective Chief Inspector Darko Dawson, CID.”
“Oh!” Scott exclaimed enthusiastically. “Whatever the crime is, I confess.”
He burst into a hearty peal of laughter that se
emed to rise from the depths of his abdomen, while his face colored pomegranate- red with mirth. “Have a seat, Mr. Dawson,” he said, still smiling.
They both sat down, and Mr. Scott folded his fingers together over his jolly tummy.
“So how can I help you?” he said. He sounded American to Dawson, but Akua Helmsley had said he was Canadian.
“I’m investigating the death of a Chinese miner by name of Bao Liu.”
“Ha!” Scott exclaimed. “I wish you the best of luck with that, Chief Inspector, but don’t get your expectations up too high.”
“Why do you say that?” Dawson asked with curiosity.
“No one’s going to tell you anything useful,” he said, chuckling. “Except me, maybe. Everyone’s going to keep their mouths shut.” He grew sober. “But yes, bad deal that murder, but”—he shrugged—“you reap what you sow.”
“How do you mean?” Dawson asked, interested.
“Well,” Scott said matter-of-factly, “if you run around trampling all over a country that doesn’t belong to you, destroying people’s farmland and their livelihood, then you’re pretty much setting yourself up to be well and truly whacked, aren’t you?”
“Whacked by whom?”
“Anyone!” he exclaimed. “The Ghanaian galamsey dispossessed by these Chinese marauders, the villagers and farmers whose land the Chinese guys steal—hey, if I was one of those cocoa farmers whose trees guys like Bao Liu bulldoze, I’d commit a couple of murders myself.”
“You look quite serious about that.”
“I am. Have you gone around to some of these mining sites, Chief Inspector?”
“I have.”
“Then you know it’s a goddamn shame,” Scott said, his jaw hardening. “I’ve lived in Ghana for more than twenty years, and I’ve never seen so much destruction in so short a time. And what are the police and the government doing about it? Nothing, because everyone’s palms are being greased—corrupt bunch of sycophants. They’re about as disgusting as these Chinese plunderers themselves.”
