Ashanti Gold

by James Crosbie

  ‘That will suit me fine.’

  ‘Return ticket, sir?’

  ‘One way, Miss. I don’t know when I’ll be coming back.’

  ‘In that case, I have to ask if you have an entry visa?’

  Colin’s eyes screwed up in consternation. ‘Entry visa?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The girl recognised his bewilderment. ‘It’s airline regulations, sir. They won’t carry you on a one-way ticket unless you have an entry visa. You see,’ she explained, ‘if the airline carries you to your destination and you are refused entry, then the airline is responsible for getting you back again.’

  Shit! Colin cursed to himself. Something like this would have to happen. Aloud he asked: ‘And where do I get a visa, Miss?’

  ‘You’ll have to go round to the Ghanaian embassy, sir.’ She scribbled down the address. ‘You shouldn’t have any difficulty.’

  He took the paper with a sigh. ‘All right, Miss. I’ll be back as soon as I get this sorted out.’

  *

  ‘Excuse me,’ Colin addressed the girl behind the reception desk in the foyer of the Ghanaian Embassy. ‘I’d like to apply for a visa, please. Who do I see?’

  ‘I have the application forms here.’ The receptionist handed him the paper. ‘You can fill it out over there,’ she indicated a desk against a wall of the foyer.

  ‘Thank you.’ He accepted a form from her and moved over to a chair beside the small writing desk.

  The reception area was quiet as he worked away at filling in the form. At one point three laughing Africans entered the hallway, looking over curiously when they spotted him sitting at the desk. Five minutes later he was handing the girl the completed document.

  ‘Thank you,’ she smiled at him and slipped the form into her ‘in’ tray.

  ‘Well,’ Colin waited. ‘What about the visa?’

  ‘We will write to you soon.’

  ‘But … I need the visa now,’ he explained. ‘I want to travel to Ghana tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the girl told him. ‘Your application has to be processed. We will write to you within a day or two and you can come down with your passport.’

  ‘But I’m buying a ticket today. I’ve got my passport here and I want to fly out as soon as possible,’ Colin explained.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Your application must be processed.’

  ‘Is there anyone here I can speak to?’ he finally asked in exasperation.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘But this is the way it is done.’

  Jesus Christ! Colin tried to maintain his composure. ‘Miss,’ he enunciated the words slowly, ‘can I please see someone in authority?’

  ‘Excuse me …’ Colin felt a hand on his arm. ‘Can I be of any assistance?’

  He turned to see one of the three young black men who had entered earlier standing beside him.

  ‘I’m trying to get a visa,’ he explained. ‘But the girl here tells me I have to wait. Do you think you could help me?’

  ‘Well, normally visa applications do take a few days to process. Are you in any particular hurry to travel?’

  ‘I thought I just had to buy a ticket,’ Colin explained. ‘I didn’t know anything about a visa and I want to travel out tomorrow. Is there any way you can help me?’

  ‘Please come with me,’ the man said in a pleasantly soft tone. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He led Colin through a door leading off the hall and showed him to a chair. The man took the seat facing him and held out his hand.

  ‘I’m Yarty Okufu,’ he introduced himself.

  ‘Colin Grant.’ He extended his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Actually, we have met before, you know,’ Yarty smiled.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Colin cocked his head and looked closer at the black man facing him.

  Yarty looked at the room’s other occupants and lowered his voice. ‘About four years ago in the Central Criminal Court – The Old Bailey, as it is better known. I had just begun my law studies and your case was my first experience there. I believe the result was a long term of imprisonment?’

  Colin could see no point in denial; the man obviously knew what he was talking about and he didn’t appear to be very concerned.

  ‘Aye,’ the native Scots surfaced in his voice. ‘You’re right enough,’ he admitted. ‘S’matter of fact, I only got out last week.’

  ‘You have my sympathies,’ Yarty told him. ‘I would hate to be locked away behind bars like that.’

  ‘That’s how I feel myself,’ Colin answered. ‘And that’s the reason I want to get to Ghana. There’s too much business going about just now and I don’t want to become involved. If I’m out of it for a while, maybe I can stay clear.’ He could see no reason not to lay it on a little.

  ‘Stay clear?’ Yarty smiled grimly. ‘In my country you would be in more than serious trouble if you did not, as you put it, ‘stay clear’. And the prisons …’ He spread a slim hand and shrugged. ‘You would not survive four years in a Ghanaian prison as well as you seem to have survived Her Majesty’s hostelry here.’

  ‘Believe me,’ Colin spoke sincerely. ‘I’m only going for a holiday. All I want to do is lie in the sun and relax.’

  ‘Are you quite sure a holiday is all that you have in mind?’

  Colin smiled. The possibility of ‘earning’ had occurred to him. But he spread his arms. ‘What else?’ he appealed.

  ‘Business,’ Yarty employed the same inflection Colin had used. ‘If nothing else, my experience at the Old Bailey instilled in me a great respect for the ambition, willingness and sheer audacity of the London criminal.’

  ‘What possible business could I get involved in out there?’ Colin asked. ‘I’m not even certain where the place is.’

  ‘H’mm …’ Yarty gave him a calculating look. ‘Then why bother to go? My country could hardly be described as a holiday resort.’

  ‘I’ve an uncle there – manager in a cocoa mill. He invited me out for a holiday to help me get over …’

  ‘I understand,’ Yarty interrupted him. ‘So you’re definitely not going to Ghana to seek employment then?’

  ‘No way.’ Colin assured him. ‘It’s a holiday I’m after. I need a break.’

  ‘There’s not much work in my country for Europeans, you know. Hardly enough work for my own people.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about me doing anyone out of a job,’ Colin assured him, seeing the way Yarty’s mind was working. ‘The less I have to do the better.’

  ‘You have a passport with you?’ Yarty held out his hand as he came to a decision.

  Colin handed over his passport and watched him leave the room. Five minutes later Yarty was handing his passport back to him, a visitor’s visa taking up almost a full page. ‘Permitted to enter Ghana for the purpose of ……………………’ The blank space had the word ‘VACATION’ stamped on it. Another endorsement stipulated: ‘Valid for twenty-eight days’.

  ‘Twenty-eight days! I’ll be there a bit longer that that,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Yarty assured him. ‘A tourist visa is the easiest type to get. Once you’re in Ghana you can simply keep renewing it at the Government Office in Accra. You’ll be able to stay on as long as you like, as long as you don’t start working.’

  ‘Thanks again, Yarty. I’m obliged to you.’ Colin gave the helpful African a wave as he went down the steps to the pavement, fingering his passport through the cloth of his coat pocket, anxious to get back to the British Airways office and finalise the details of his flight.

  5

  The ‘No Smoking’ and ‘Fasten Seat Belts’ signs lit up on board the British Airways 707 as it headed downwind, parallel with the main runway of Accra International Airport.

  From his window-seat, Colin could see the runway lights, bright orange against the pitch-black of the countryside below. Further away, coming into view as the aircraft banked into its final turn, a myriad of lights picked out the city of Accra and his stomach
churned with excitement as the big jet slid down the dark sky. There was a sudden glare of light, a flash of black and white striped tarmac, then the wingtips were ripping past orange runway markers as the giant plane touched down.

  A large crowd waited behind the railings of the single-storey arrivals building to greet the passengers. Colin tried to pick out his Uncle George, hoping he would be able to recognise him after a gap of almost ten years. He had no problem. In fact it was his uncle who looked uncertain, until Colin caught his eye and smiled.

  ‘My God! Colin!’ George’s voice was full of surprise. ‘What a difference in you.’

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ Colin smiled, pleased at his welcome.

  ‘And you’ve certainly changed,’ George told him as they shook hands and walked the short distance to immigration control with the steel crush barrier between them. ‘I’ll see you once the formalities are done with. You shouldn’t be held up for too long.’

  He was waiting outside when Colin emerged and stepped forward, hand outstretched for his suitcase. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a friend waiting with a car; we’ll soon be away from here.’

  Once his cases were stowed in the boot of the car Colin was introduced to Brian Smithers, the cocoa buyer for the same company George worked for. A lean six-footer, with a dry, laconic air about him, Brian was younger than George’s forty-six years, but the African sun had dried him out and he had the mien of a much older man as he shook hands with Colin. Two minutes later they were leaving the lights of the airport behind as they headed in towards Accra.

  Colin was fascinated by the sights, sounds and scents he was picking up as the car traversed the outer edge of the city. Their route took them between long lines of single-storey whitewashed cottages, the black openings of unlit doors and windows giving them the appearance of a long domino set. He could see the locals outside on the broad packed-earth pavements, sitting round candlelit tables and engaged in a loud, vociferous, hand-banging card game. Now and again their excited voices reached inside the car. Other groups of men and women sat at street corners, socialising under the yellow glow of street lights, talking, laughing and singing as small children crawled over them or lay curled contentedly fast asleep at their parents’ feet. He found the whole throbbing scene enormously exciting.

  The humid night heat had a muffling effect which enhanced the peaceful mood, and too soon for him the car turned off onto a quieter road, coming to a halt in the driveway of a large villa set in the residential suburb of Ikeyi, on the northern outskirts of Accra.

  ‘We’ll be here for the night,’ George explained as they entered a spacious lounge.

  Brian broke in. ‘This is a company house, Colin, and there’s always a place here for you when you visit Accra. If I’m away on business Koffi, the houseboy, will be here to look after you.’ He waved a hand at a smiling African who stepped forward to be introduced.

  Sighing with contentment, Colin relaxed into an armchair, inspecting his palatial surroundings as Koffi poured him a very welcome ice-cold beer. Sure beats a cell in Wandsworth, he caught himself thinking with a smile. I’m going to enjoy myself here all right. Fuck me! They’ve even got servants!

  ‘And once you’re settled in at Takoradi …’, he realised his uncle was speaking to him, ‘… you’ll find plenty to do with yourself. There’s the Volta Dam Scheme, the diamond fields at Tarkwa, bauxite mines at Kumasi and the goldmines at Obuasi. Plenty to keep you interested.’

  Colin’s ears pricked up. ‘Diamond fields, goldmines? I didn’t know they had things like that here. I thought it was all cocoa beans.’

  ‘Cocoa beans, yes,’ Brian spoke out. ‘But there is also the timber industry, vast mineral deposits, a good yield of industrial diamonds and the richest gold mine in West Africa.’ He raised his glass. ‘There’s lots for you to see here, Colin.’ He drained off his beer as he finished speaking. ‘Well, I’m off to bed. Got an early start in the morning. George will show you to your room. There’s a shower and toilet en-suite, so you should have everything you need.’ He rose to his full height and stretched himself before bidding them goodnight, his ‘See you in the morning’ floating over his shoulder as he mounted the open stairway.

  George turned to Colin when they had the lounge to themselves. ‘Well, Colin, I hope you enjoy your stay here. It’ll certainly be a change from the other place, eh? And, by the way, no one here knows anything about you, except that you’re my nephew here on a prolonged vacation.’

  ‘That’s fine, Uncle George.’

  ‘And you can cut out the “Uncle” bit, m’lad. What are you trying to do, put years on me?’

  Colin smiled. ‘Anyway, I’d like to say thanks, George. I appreciate you putting me up and I’m glad to get away from that London scene for a spell.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have no difficulty in keeping out of trouble here, son. There’s very little in Takoradi to get involved in, so we’ll say no more on that aspect of things. And now, I think it’s time for bed. Come on, I’ll show you your room – Koffi will have the bed turned down by now.’

  After a welcome shower Colin lay back on the large, comfortable bed, listening to the hum of the air-conditioner as it blew cold air into the room. Diamond fields! Goldmines! He couldn’t put them from his mind and was still considering their absorbing possibilities when he drifted off to sleep.

  6

  Cruising through bright sunlit air at 3,000 feet enhanced Colin’s view of the exotic scenery sliding by below. Absorbed, he watched the turquoise blue waters of the South Atlantic foam into white lines of surf as invisible waves tumbled onto mile after mile of golden beach. He changed seats to get an inland view and was surprised at the richness of colour the rolling coastal hills afforded.

  George pointed out the university township of Cape Coast and its neighbouring Cape Coast Castle, an old fortress that had in the past held captured natives before they were shipped off to the West Indies as slaves in the diabolical conditions of the ‘Triangular Trade’. Ironically, this ancient fortress that had once witnessed so much human suffering now served as a police training barracks, although a small section of it had been set aside as a museum; a grisly reminder of days gone by.

  ‘Sekondi,’ George nodded downwards as some larger stone buildings slid under the aircraft’s wing. ‘Five miles east of Takoradi. We’ll be landing in a minute or two.’

  As he spoke, there was a whine of hydraulics and the undercarriage reached out from the underside of the wings, the flaps dropped and suddenly the ground seemed to leap towards them. Then the wheels touched down, spinning into furious motion as they bit greedily into the tarmac of Takoradi.

  Being a domestic flight there were no landing formalities and in minutes a waiting car was whisking them through the dusty streets of Takoradi towards the cocoa mill, three miles east of town on the road to Sekondi.

  It was the sight and sound of monkeys capering high in the trees that brought it home to Colin that he really had shifted continents; that he had finally left the cold and the danger of London thousands of miles behind. A wide smile spread across his face and he craned his neck to keep the cavorting animals in sight as a tremendous feeling of freedom and adventure surged through his entire body, an exciting, exhilarating feeling that he had never experienced in the streets of London or his native Glasgow.

  The car slowed to negotiate a right turn, a roughly painted sign simply nailed to a convenient tree trunk indicating that the Ghana Cocoa Company lay ahead. Half a mile on they passed through a large gateway and turned up a short, steep hill that took them past the cocoa mill and on to the living quarters of the European workers.

  ‘Here we are,’ George said as the car turned into a short drive and came to a halt in front of an elegant, whitewashed bungalow.

  Colin had guessed his uncle enjoyed good accommodation, but the beautiful stone bungalow went well beyond his expectations. Twin flights of steps curved on either side of the long, low building to open onto a wide, flower-b
edecked verandah that was furnished with white garden lounge chairs surrounding a large, glass topped, wrought iron table. Above the flowers an exotic parrot squawked a welcome as it danced excitedly from foot to foot on its open perch. Suitably impressed, Colin was still admiring the scene when a young African man appeared from inside the house and George introduced him to Sam, his houseboy. In moments Sam had led them inside and produced two iced Heineken beers before returning to the car and bringing in their luggage. Yes, Colin told himself, sipping at his drink, I really am going to like it here.

  *

  The first days passed quickly as Colin settled in. A cup of tea and a biscuit from the attentive Sam prepared him for a mid-morning breakfast before he began his daily dawdling tour of the factory. He was content to remain within the cocoa mill’s boundaries these first few days. The novelty of meeting the various characters as he wandered about kept him thoroughly interested. In the evenings, as cooling breezes brushed the verandah, he sat with George, nursing sweating glasses of Heineken and looking down over the tangled vegetation of the hillside to the crashing waves of the South Atlantic as they rolled in from the broad Gulf of Guinea. Often a ship would be in sight as sea traffic steamed along the coast or headed directly for the port of Takoradi itself. It seemed an idyllic existence to Colin, recent memories of Wandsworth only serving to emphasise his appreciation.

  As the days grew into weeks, Colin settled into life in Takoradi. George had introduced him to Takoradi Sports Club, the hub of social activity for the local European population, and it soon became a focal point for him. And there was a girl there too, Lesley Farrell, the blonde-haired, twenty-two-year-old daughter of the manager. They had been introduced and he had spoken to her several times, but it was difficult to get her full attention, especially with her father always hovering in the background. Still, he nursed the hope of getting to know Lesley better as time went on. A spare set of golf clubs was found for him and he spent most afternoons hacking happily over the nine-hole golf course, often joining his uncle for a round in the early evening when he had finished at the cocoa mill. Altogether he was having a great time and the use of an elderly but reliable company car solved his transport problem, giving him some extra independence.