Death by His Grace

by Kwei Quartey

  She felt her heart skip a couple of beats and warmth rising from her neck into her face. “I must get going,” she said. “Thank you for seeing me, Bishop, uh, Clem.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  Katherine came out of the Bishop’s office to find John writing in a notebook. She went a little closer. “You write poetry?”

  “A little bit,” he said with a bashful smile.

  “I had no idea,” Katherine said. “May I take a look?”

  Standing next to John, Katherine read some of the pieces. She thought he wrote very well and she was attracted in particular to one of the poems called “Hibiscus Fever.” Katherine recited it. “That’s beautiful,” she said.

  “Really? You like it?” John was pleased. “Thank you.”

  “It’s refreshing to see poetry from our young folk,” Katherine said. “Rather than the usual rap music.”

  “It’s true,” John agreed. “Can I text the poem to you?”

  “But of course,” she said. “That’s very kind.”

  Katherine thought back to what Solomon had once told her about John. He thinks the world of you. Perhaps Solomon had been right.

  John hesitated as he looked up at her. “Madam—”

  “It’s okay to call me Kate.”

  “Thank you, Kate.” John cleared his throat. “I know you’ve been having some troubles of late, you know, with Solomon and so on. Maybe it’s not my place to say anything to you about it, but I wanted to tell you I’m sorry this has happened to you. You don’t deserve it, and you have all my support.”

  Kate was touched. “Thank you.” She squeezed his hand. “What you’ve said means a lot to me.”

  When Katherine got home, she stood in the middle of the bedroom and looked around with a feeling of heaviness and fear. What legal wrestling match was about to take place between Solomon and her? What was her future? Would she ever become pregnant? How, why, had this catastrophe befallen her? She thought of Jesus crying out in despair to his Father.

  Chapter Nine

  at 11 p.m. on her last Friday night at home, Katherine reassured Christine and Nana she could finish packing up on her own. In the morning, Christine would return with a truck to load up the boxes, and Katherine would finally leave the home she had shared with Solomon.

  For a while, she gazed at the wedding picture in which she reached up to Solomon and gave him a delicate kiss on the cheek as he gave her a mischievous, sidelong glance. In the past, she might have shed tears, but photographs representing the love between Solomon and her now provoked a mixture of bitterness and sadness.

  She felt the same conflict over this home, where she had once anchored her dreams of a happy marriage and a loving family. A part of Katherine didn’t want to leave, but now, every corner and every object in the house reminded her of some aspect of marital rancor. So, yes, in the end she had come to agree with her mother that departing was the only option.

  She went to Solomon’s side of the closet to touch his crisp, starched business shirts and his suits. Leaving them behind seemed strange because his clothes had become part of her. Most of the time it had been Katherine who had taken his dress shirts and pants to the cleaners. She had shopped for clothes for him as well. Katherine slid the closet door shut with a sudden stab of anger and turned away.

  She wanted to go to bed, but first, she had to wash the day’s dirt and sweat away. In the middle of her shower, the electricity went off. Accra’s power cuts were tiresome. Practically every neighborhood was on an unendurable 12-hour on, 24-hour off schedule that everyone called “dumsor, dumsor,” meaning, “off-on, off-on.”

  Because an external electric pump maintained water pressure, the shower slowed to a trickle. Katherine waited for Gabriel to start up the generator outside. As it roared into action, the lights flickered on, the air conditioners hummed again, and the shower restored itself. Katherine rinsed and toweled off.

  In bed, her mind flitted from thought to troubled thought. She felt herself drifting off to sleep, and she stayed suspended somewhere between drowsiness and slumber. In a dream, someone was knocking on the window. She woke with a start and propped herself up on one elbow to see who was there. No one.

  Katherine listened. The knocking was from the front door, so it must have been Gabriel. What did he want this time of night?

  She slid her feet into her house slippers and padded to the front. “What is it, Gabriel?” she said through the door.

  But it was someone else who responded. Katherine raised her eyebrows in surprise. So he’s come after all, she thought. He hadn’t taken no for an answer. She felt an intangible thrill of both excitement and apprehension.

  Katherine hesitated, torn. “Okay,” she said with uncertainty. “Okay, come in.” And she unlocked the door.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Ten

  At 6:05 on the Saturday of the big move, Christine Dawson left Darko and their two sons at home and set out to Katherine’s house in a borrowed Toyota pickup truck. Christine’s heart was heavy with regret that Kate’s marriage to Solomon had turned so disastrous. As cousins, Christine and Kate were close and always had been. Before the wedding, Christine had approved of Solomon. At one point when Kate was having doubts, Christine had encouraged Kate to stay the course, but now, all had changed. Christine was firmly on her cousin’s side against Solomon.

  Whereas Christine was involved with the Kate saga, Darko had distanced himself from it. Christine knew he had challenges of his own with his father, Jacob, who was becoming more demented by the day, but she wished her husband would lend more moral support to her than he did. Sometimes, his detachment seemed callous.

  Christine turned off Nkrumah Highway and drove toward Dzorwulu, an upper middle-class and burgeoning part of town, a product of Accra’s exuberant urban sprawl. Houses sprouted like mushrooms, but it didn’t mean paved roads came with them. New Town Road, a major street with auto repair shops, billboards, and mobile phone outlets, was broad and surfaced, but Katherine’s street, Tetteh Owusu Road, was bumpy and unpaved. The dirt vehicles kicked up throughout Accra made it the dusty city it was.

  Christine passed a stone-colored, a beige, and an orange house—all generous in size with satellite dishes mounted like giant ears—before Katherine’s sunset-yellow house came into view.

  Christine frowned in puzzlement as she saw a group of about fifteen people hanging around Kate’s front gate. For a brief, silly moment Christine thought the neighborhood had turned out to wish Kate goodbye. Dismissing that thought, Christine pulled over on the opposite side of the street in front of an unfinished home.

  She approached the cluster of people, recognizing one—Kate’s next-door neighbor, Yaa. She was a tall woman with a long, graceful neck and a colorful head wrap.

  “Morning, Yaa,” Christine said. “What’s going on?”

  “Good morning.” Yaa looked shocked. “Oh, Christine! Gabriel, Kate’s watchman, is dead!”

  Christine gasped. “What?”

  “Esi, the house girl, came in for work around five this morning and found him dead on the ground in the courtyard. His head was almost cut off.”

  “Ao!” Christine cried out, staggering back. “When we left him last night, he was safe and sound. Have you talked to Kate about it yet? Have you seen her?”

  “No!” Yaa said, looking apprehensive. “I didn’t see her come outside. Maybe she’s not even home? People were crowding around to stare at the dead body. And then the police arrived and went inside the house. They locked the gate, and they won’t let anyone in or tell us anything except they’re investigating the murder.”

  Christine dialed Katherine’s number at once. When it went to voicemail, Christine tried texting. Still no response. Her thoughts were crashing and spinning like a body thrown down a ravine. Where was Kate? Was she inside with the police? Were they suspecting her of Gabriel’s
murder? Was she home? If Kate was home, was she okay? Christine felt dizzy and sick.

  “Oh, God,” Yaa whispered, her hand over her mouth. “This is a terrible, terrible day.”

  Christine pushed her way through the group, which had started to grow into a crowd, and reached the tall, solid dark-blue cast-iron gate topped with razor wire. She banged on the door with her fist.

  “Hello! Hello!” She looked through the small gap between the gate and its post. She could just see Kate’s white Kia under the carport. She must be home, surely. “Open the gate, please!” she called out.

  She saw a policeman in dark blue approaching, and she stepped back a little as he undid the bolt lock and opened the gate partway. He was a young guy with a broad, flat face—probably Ashanti, Christine guessed—and he was angry. “Heh!” he yelled. “Who is shouting like that? Is it you?” He glared at Christine.

  “Yes, officer—”

  “Why are you disturbing, eh?” he demanded. “Like, I will arrest you just now if you don’t take care! Can’t you see we are busy?”

  “But do you know who I am?” Christine snapped.

  “Who are you?” the officer challenged.

  “I’m Christine Dawson, cousin of the woman who lives here, Katherine Vanderpuye—”

  “And so what? In Ghana, everyone is somebody’s cousin.”

  Christine ignored the people who tittered behind her and decided to pull rank. “Do you know Chief Inspector Darko Dawson?” she shot at the officer. “He’s my husband. What is your name? I will report you to him. As a matter of fact, let me take a picture of your badge and I’ll text the photo to him right now.”

  She dug into her purse looking for her phone. That got the policeman’s attention. “Wait one moment, please. I’m coming.” He banged the gate shut.

  Christine waited, arms folded, forehead sweating from stress and the already burning sun.

  The gate opened again and a different person peeped out. Plain clothed, he was much older than the first man. “Are you the one who said you’re Chief Inspector Dawson’s wife?” he asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Good morning, madam. I know your husband. I’m Detective Inspector Twum-Barima.”

  “Morning, sir,” Christine said. “Please, I would like to know what is happening. Is my cousin Katherine inside?”

  “Madam, I—” He looked at her as if lost for words. Christine’s stomach plunged as she saw a deep sadness come over the detective’s expression. Something was awfully wrong. “Please, madam, if you can wait for just a few moments, then I can talk to you. I beg you, oh. Is it okay? Please.”

  Christine pressed her lips together. “All right. But still, I’m going to call Chief Inspector Dawson.”

  Rather than appearing threatened or insulted, Twum-Barima’s face brightened. “Thank you, madam.”

  Christine stepped to one side. Yaa joined her. “What did he say?”

  Christine shook her head. “Nothing. I’m calling my husband.” As she did, she noticed a man in green and black standing on the veranda of the unfinished home across the street. He stared at her without moving, his eyes bloodshot as if he hadn’t slept or had been smoking wee, or both. His hair and full beard were unkempt, like the wild brush on hinterland roadways. Christine shivered and turned away.

  Chapter Eleven

  Darko Dawson had woken up early to prepare a lecture for police academy recruits: How to Interview a Suspect. He knew how to conduct an interview. Teaching the skill was another matter. Ever since he had become chief inspector the year before, his superiors had been delegating these types of tasks to him.

  From his small desk in the sitting room, he glanced over at his two sons, Hosiah and Sly, on the sofa watching cartoons. At nine years old, Hosiah took after his father, and not only in appearance. The boy was as observant of people and their behavior as Darko had been at that age. You couldn’t get a lie past Hosiah. Like his father also, he appeared to have a form of synesthesia, which was a type of crossing of the senses.

  Sly, eleven, was adopted—an uncommon practice in Ghana—and had been in the Darko family for three years. A lanky prankster, he had the gregariousness that Hosiah lacked somewhat. Darko loved them both to his bone marrow, as he did his wife.

  The two let out a loud groan of protest as the power went off, ending their TV entertainment for the morning. In an exaggerated gesture, Hosiah threw himself on the floor and writhed in angst. Unfortunately, the Dawsons didn’t have a generator, and electricity wasn’t scheduled to return until around six that evening.

  The blackouts were a well-established part of life in Ghana, with the duration of the outages appearing to lengthen every week. The exceptions to that were the upscale neighborhoods of Labone, Cantonments, Airport Residential, and the like. They rarely experienced the blackouts because, as an official once said, “they are the customers who pay for their electricity.” It was true that in poor areas, theft of electricity from the main cables was common.

  “In any case, that’s enough TV for today,” Darko said, getting up from the laptop. “It’s time for breakfast, and then you have football practice.”

  His sons beat him to the kitchen, which, after all, was no more than a few meters away in this small house the family was outgrowing. Both of the boys were shooting up in height and eating staggering amounts of food.

  No doubt, the Dawsons could have done with more spacious accommodations, but the price of housing in Accra was prohibitive. For the time being, they had a relatively stable rent from Christine’s Uncle Ransford, who loved his niece and had taken family ties into consideration.

  Christine’s father was dead, but he had had several brothers. The only one with whom Darko had any familiarity was Uncle Ransford. His daughter, Katherine, was Christine’s favorite cousin, and Darko liked her too. Through Christine, Darko knew about Katherine’s infertility and her marriage problems, but he had stayed clear of getting involved. In Ghana, the family was all-important, but it could turn ugly and brutal as well.

  “Mama left porridge,” Sly said, lifting the lid off the pot on the stove. He and Hosiah served themselves generous helpings. As usual, Sly ate quickly while Hosiah chatted nonstop and dawdled over the meal.

  “Eat up,” Darko prodded him. “You’re going to be late.”

  “Daddy, are you going to Grandpa’s house today?” Sly asked.

  “Yes. After football, you go straight to Grandma’s house, understood?”

  They chorused their “yes.” Grandma Gifty was Christine’s mother.

  “Please, may I be excused?” Sly asked.

  Darko nodded. “Yes, you may. Get your backpack for practice.”

  “I’m going to do that now,” Sly said, putting his plate in the sink.

  “Hosiah—” Darko began.

  “Yes, Daddy,” the boy said, “I’m hurrying. But Mama always says I should eat slowly.”

  “Right,” Darko said, getting up to the sink, “but not when you’re late.”

  “Oh,” Hosiah said. Seconds later. “There. Finished!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Darko guided his father into the bathroom, positioning him in front of the toilet. Jacob began to sit down.

  “Wait, Daddy,” Darko snapped, and then regretted sounding so impatient. “We have to take your shorts down first. Otherwise, we’ll have a mess on our hands. Mostly on mine.”

  “Okay, okay,” the old man said. He was losing weight, refusing to eat much of anything.

  Once Jacob’s shorts were down, Darko straightened up. “Grab hold of my arms.”

  “Don’t let me fall,” Jacob said, voice quavering.

  “I’m not going to.”

  His father began to cry out in fear of falling as Darko helped him lower onto the toilet seat. Darko shook his head and blew his breath out. Every morning the same old wahala.
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br />   With Jacob secure, Darko stood next to him, his hand resting lightly on his father’s shoulder, should he begin to topple over.

  “What am I doing here?” Jacob asked, looking up at his son.

  “You know what you’re here for, Daddy,” Darko said with a slight smile. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

  Jacob grinned—most of his teeth were gone—and then cackled like a guinea hen. Darko laughed with him, but his father trailed off. “What am I doing here?” he asked with childlike panic.

  “You have to go poo-poo,” Darko said.

  “I can’t,” Jacob protested.

  “Yes, you can. You go every morning. Now do it.”

  Darko tried to banish his emotions, but he felt a mixture of revulsion and deep regret as he waited for his father to finish defecating. The disgust rendered Darko guilty, and the pity he felt for Jacob wasn’t the right kind either. This man, who now could not shit on his own, once regularly beat Darko and his older brother, Cairo, when they were kids—especially Darko, the less athletic and gregarious of the two siblings. For the smallest mistake or a minor disobedience—a sound beating. And now look at him, Darko thought. A quivering, frightened man with brains like fufu.

  While Jacob had been mentally competent, he had managed quite well living alone in this house, but as he slid into dementia, it became clear to Darko and Cairo that their father needed help. At first, it had been a little bit of assistance, but one day when Darko looked in on Jacob, he had found him disoriented, dressed only in soiled underpants and peeing on the bedroom floor. The truth and urgency of Jacob’s condition stunned Darko.

  “He has to live with us, then,” Cairo had said, as soon as he heard the story. “He can’t manage on his own.”

  Darko had taken a deep breath. “If we remove him from the environment he knows, he’ll just . . .” He shrugged, shaking his head. “I think he’ll go crazy.”