by Kwei Quartey
Derek was filled with suspicion. “Dad, this could be a scam.”
“Why do you say that?” Gordon said, frowning.
“It has scam written all over it. That’s what all these Ghanaian and Nigerian guys are doing these days—you know that.”
Gordon winced. “That was kind of a racist comment, don’t you think? I wouldn’t have expected that from you, especially since your late mother was Ghanaian. You’re half Ghanaian, remember?”
“It’s not racist,” Derek said, setting his jaw. “It’s the dirty truth. And please leave Mama out of this. It’s got nothing to do with her. Fact is these scams are at an all-time high and a big chunk of them are out of Ghana and Nigeria. There isn’t a financial institution that doesn’t shudder at anything to do with Ghana or Nigeria.”
“There’s plenty of corruption right here in the United States,” Gordon said. “We have our own con men.”
Derek flipped his palms up. “Did I say we didn’t? You’re deflecting the issue, which is that you’re sending money to someone you don’t know. It’s a huge no-no.”
Gordon flared. “Two months, Derek. In fact, more than two months I’ve been talking to Helena. We’ve spoken on the phone, we’ve texted on WhatsApp, we’ve Skyped. I’ve seen her with my own eyes, live and talking to me. She didn’t even ask me for any money. I was the one who offered.”
Derek was unmoved. “You know what you should do? Ask this Helena or whatever her name is to take a selfie of herself and the so-called injured sister and see if she does.”
“Jesus Christ, Derek,” Gordon muttered.
“Dad, they’ve set you up. All that Skype stuff? They just use webcam software.”
“I know that,” Gordon said, annoyed. “And sure, I’m no Internet wizard, but I’m not stupid either and I think I can pretty much tell when something’s a hoax. Helena is not a hoax. I can guarantee you that.”
“When you Skyped with her,” Derek probed, “you didn’t have any strange pauses or inappropriate facial expressions or answers to your questions?”
Gordon shook his head. “We’ve only Skyped a little. More contact on the phone.”
“And when you call, she immediately picks up?”
“Yes, of course.”
For a moment, Derek entertained the possibility that this could be real. Could it be? No, he was certain his dad was being duped.
“Is that all you’ve sent her?” Derek asked. “The money, I mean. Is there more I don’t know about?”
“That’s all,” Gordon said sullenly. “And stop treating me like a child. I don’t like it.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Derek said. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just—” He finished with a sigh. “But can you promise me you won’t send any more money?”
“She told me her sister is doing better, so there’s not going to be much need.”
“Until the next thing,” Derek countered. “A funeral or some shit like that. You know them and their funerals.”
“I’m distressed by your tone,” Gordon said, shaking his head. “So much contempt.”
“Just keeping it real.”
An unpleasant silence fell between them. Derek got up abruptly. “Gotta go,” he muttered. “No more money, okay? Her sister’s accident, or whatever, isn’t your problem.”
His jaw clamped, Gordon walked his son to the front door in silence. Physically they were in proximity, but emotionally they were miles apart. Once Derek had left, Gordon sat at the kitchen table to brood. Who was right here—Gordon or his son? Or maybe it wasn’t an issue of right versus wrong but rather of perspective. Derek was suspicious, cynical, and skeptical. Gordon was accepting, open, and more benevolently inclined. Or was his heady liaison with Josephine coloring his judgment about Helena? Gordon rested his head on his hands and groaned. He was confused, and he knew it.
NINETEEN
February 14
Derek heard a notification from his phone and rolled over on the sofa with a grunt. He’d fallen asleep in front of the TV. He looked at the phone screen: 10:17 p.m. and a text from his father.
Derek, it’s time to do what my soul tells me. Helena and I have talked it over carefully, and the decision is made. I’m texting you from Dulles, about to fly out to Accra, where I’ll be finally meeting Helena tomorrow morning. I don’t know what the future holds for us, but for now, this is our destiny. I am deeply, deeply in love with a very lovely lady. I’ll be fine, son. Take care. Love you.
“What the fuck.” Derek sat up and read the message again. “Dad,” he said, as though Gordon was sitting next to him, “don’t do this.”
Derek tried calling his father and wasn’t surprised that he didn’t pick up. Dad, he thought, have you gone crazy? But then maybe it was Derek being irrational. What if Helena was real? To be fair, besides what Derek had seen on Dad’s Messenger, he hadn’t been privy to their extensive and private conversations.
Perhaps Derek was the one making the mistake. I hope so, he thought. I hope so. But a moment later, he shook his head. This bullshit can’t be real. It’s a con. Derek’s impulse was to shoot his father a what-the-hell-are-you-doing message, but he realized there was no point to that. Dad was gone and for the moment there was nothing Derek could do to get him back. Best to put a more affirmative spin on it.
He picked up his phone again and replied.
Hi, Dad—got your text. Thanks for letting me know. Not sure what phone you’ll be using in Ghana, so I’m emailing. It’s your absolute prerogative to do what you feel is right for you. I know we’ve argued over this, but I still wish you the best and I’m praying your instincts on this are right and mine wrong. Just want you to be careful out there. You, Mom, and I were in Ghana decades ago, but from what I read, a lot has changed in the country since then. Please, please let me know how you’re doing or if you need anything. You know I’ll do my best for you. Text me asap. Take care. Love ya.
What next? Cas.
Derek called Casper Guttenberg. “Have you heard from my dad?”
“I was about to call you. I just read his email that he’s headed to Ghana to meet this woman, Helena.”
“Did you know anything about it?” Derek asked.
“He mentioned the lady to me sometime last month, that he was thinking about meeting up with her in Ghana, but I didn’t think he was seriously planning anything this soon. How about you? Did he talk to you?”
“Yes, but not voluntarily,” Derek said. “I found out by accident and told him I thought it was a scam. I still do. What if someone’s luring him out there to rob him or something?”
“Why jump to the worst scenario possible? Your dad’s a savvy guy. Let’s give him a few days to sort things out. Who knows, this might be a new and happy chapter in his life.”
Derek was not as sanguine as the old man, but for now he was willing to adopt the more positive outlook and pray it came true.
TWENTY
February 15, Accra, Ghana
When the Boeing 767 broke through the morning’s light cloud cover over Accra, Gordon remembered how the savanna scrub dotted the laterite soils of the region, but he realized with surprise, almost shock, that the once uninhabited expanses of land that had surrounded the metropolitan area were now crowded with buildings, roads, and highways. He recognized the University of Ghana campus with its iconic tower on the hill, but not much else. What had happened to the boundary between city and suburb?
Eagerness to see this development from ground level and the anticipation of finally meeting his new woman in person set up a level of excitement Gordon had not even expected himself. Touchdown at 8:15 a.m. was a respectable ten minutes late. With its three terminals, Kotoka Airport was now several-fold larger than when Gordon had last seen it. Terminal 3, the international one, had a glittering, glass façade and modern jetways. It used to be that deplaning was by staircase. Now, in this se
aled environment, Gordon missed that first blast of hot, humid air one used to get on emerging from the aircraft—the announcement that yes, you really are in tropical Africa.
Immigration was uneventful, the officer warming to Gordon when he told her he had been in Ghana with the Peace Corps decades ago. As Gordon picked up his luggage, his eagerness grew as he pictured Helena waiting for him outside when he exited.
In the wide arrivals hall, family, friends and chauffeurs waited behind the barrier. Gordon scanned the crowd, his heart beating hard as he searched for Helena’s beautiful face. He knew she was quite tall, and he visualized her in a light, flowery blouse and a pair of slimly fitted slacks—or perhaps a knee-length skirt. He didn’t spot her yet, but there was still quite a distance before he got to the back of the crowd several rows deep. Around him, people hugged and cried out with joy as they reunited with loved ones. Reaching the end of the phalanx, Gordon circled the periphery, checking to see if he and Helena might have missed each other somehow. He still couldn’t find her.
He felt a burst of anxiety but told himself to calm down. Helena was probably close by or running a little late. He texted her on WhatsApp, and then tried calling to no avail. The number rang for a while, and then cut off sharply. He was wondering what to do next when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Gordon turned to find a smallish man with a luminous smile. “Please, are you Mr. Tilson?” he said.
“Yes, I am.”
“Welcome, welcome to Ghana. My name is Robert. I’m here to take you to Kempinski Hotel. You walked past me up at the meeting point, but I saw you searching around and guessed it might be you.”
“Oh, yes,” Gordon said, blanking for a moment. He had forgotten he had given his flight information to the hotel. “Thank you. Actually, I was expecting someone to pick me up.”
“Please, someone?”
“Well, she’s a friend,” Gordon stammered, still looking around for Helena. He felt disoriented.
“Oh,” Robert said, thrown off course. “Will you prefer to wait for her?”
Gordon reasoned he’d better take the shuttle. He could always reach Helena later. Anyway, she was late, not him. He realized he was irritated. “No, it’s fine,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”
“Good, sir. Let me take your bags,” Robert said, grabbing Gordon’s luggage. “This way, please.”
Leaving the arrivals hall to the parking lot nearby, Gordon walked alongside Robert, who made small conversation about the trip. The vehicle was a light blue van with the Kempinski logo on the side. Robert loaded the luggage into the trunk. Gordon got into the van to join two passengers—both white—who were already there.
As they drove away from the airport with its brand-new road signs and branching exits, Gordon noted the cluster of high-rises changing the cityscape. Like ungainly giant birds, cranes dotted the horizon. Nothing in his recollection of Accra was here. Nothing appeared familiar. Nor did he recall the giant billboards at the sides of the road—ads for phones, luxury apartments, fancy clothing. Billboard hell, Gordon thought.
They were in the heart of morning rush hour with traffic at a crawl, giving the itinerant vendors their chance to sell the day’s newspapers, shoes, world maps, puppies, cold drinks, ice cream, home tools, and cheap Chinese trinkets. The traders moved easily within the dense lines of cars.
Thoughts of Helena shifted Gordon’s focus away from the bustle around him. For the first time, an out-of-body why are you here? sense filled him, and his mind cast back, annoyingly, to Derek’s warnings. Once again, he texted Helena, but it was as if his message disappeared into a void.
Only these doubts prevented Gordon from wholeheartedly enjoying the magnificence of the Kempinski lobby, which had marble floors and a towering ceiling suspending a giant chandelier from its center. After checking in, a bellboy took his luggage up.
His room was just as lovely—polished wood floors, cappuccino-colored closets, and a capacious bathroom. He might even use the bidet, he thought absently and with some humor.
When he texted Helena again and received no reply, he tossed the phone onto the precisely made king-size bed and stood in the middle of the floor wondering if he was in a dream. A bad one.
TWENTY-ONE
February 17, Washington, DC
Three days after Gordon had left, Derek received an email from him.
Derek—
No doubt you’re worried sick about me. I wanted to let you know I’m doing okay—no, better than that because I met up with Helena and we’re having a wonderful time getting to know each other. Don’t have a picture yet, but I’ll send one soon! Don’t worry about anything. It’s working out fine. I’m at the Kempinski Hotel in Accra, which is first class. I’ve put you on WhatsApp, which everyone uses here, so download it and then we can send each other messages.
Dad
Gordon had included his phone number in Ghana. Unconvinced by his father’s anemic reassurance, Derek read the message again. The email glossed over the details, like varnish over blemished wood. A wonderful time getting to know each other? He didn’t have a picture “yet?”
Derek tried the phone number. It rang several times and cut off with a prim, British-accented woman letting Derek know that the number he was trying to reach was not available and he should please try again later.
Next, Derek called Cas, who didn’t answer but got back ten minutes later. “What’s going on?”
“Dad emailed me, said he was doing fine and had met the wonderful lady or whatever.”
“Oh, that’s great!” Cas said.
“I don’t believe it,” Derek said. “The message sounds fishy, like he hasn’t really met Helena and is either playing for time or too embarrassed to admit it.”
“Oh,” Cas said, with little inflection. “Well, can you send his WhatsApp contact number to me? I’ll try calling and texting him as well.”
“Thank you, Cas.”
Derek Googled “American in Ghana,” and “Gordon Tilson, Ghana,” checking for a chance news item. Nothing came up, but by serendipity, Derek found himself reading descriptions of the different types of online scams. A common theme chilled him: the number of otherwise intelligent, rational Americans and Europeans who fell for them. A retiree from Maryland spent almost all her life savings on a supposedly stranded Iraq war vet. A guy in New York fell for a scheme to buy gold ingots in Ghana, only to find himself robbed of his money and no gold to show for it.
Derek discovered something else: a bizarre phenomenon called sakawa—the use of magical powers to achieve high success in the con business. Sakawa involved going through an intermediary like a traditional priest who might prescribe bizarre, even revolting, rituals to achieve the desired goal. Derek’s lip curled as he read about the panoply of human and animal body parts used as sacrificial offerings to the gods, and in one case, a bloodstained rag from a traumatically penetrated virgin. Fucking crazy nonsense, Derek thought. At the same time, the claim that even normally smart, logical people could not resist the power of sakawa struck him. The irony was not lost because here was Gordon falling for something Derek would never have expected him to.
For five days, Derek heard nothing from his father. At night he slept fitfully, sometimes waking to turn on the light and sit wondering. On the sixth day, at around ten in the morning, Derek received the WhatsApp call he had been praying for.
“Hi, son,” Gordon said, his voice as taut as a stretched rubber band about to snap.
“Dad. Thank God. Are you okay? Where are you?”
“I’m fine. I’m still at the Kempinski Hotel in Accra. Nice place, five-star—all the trimmings.”
“Okay, that’s cool,” Derek said impatiently, “but what’s going on?”
His father took such a long time to respond that Derek thought the line had cut. “Hello?”
“I didn’t really meet Helena,” Gordon said. “I li
ed to you because I was so embarrassed. You were right, I was wrong. I called and texted her for days. The number’s a dud. I’ve been had.”
“Shit,” Derek said. “Jesus.”
“Right.”
“Dad, I’m sorry.” Gordon was silent, but Derek could sense the heaviness of his brooding. “Fuck. Dad, I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, ‘I told you so?’” Gordon said with resignation. “You might as well, since that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Dad. Come on. I’m not the enemy here.”
“I know, I know. Sorry. Cheap shot.”
“Don’t worry about it. So, what happened exactly when you arrived in Ghana?”
“Not a whole lot,” Gordon said with a bitter laugh. “No Helena at the airport, no Helena reachable by phone, WhatsApp, email, you name it. I waited for that message or phone call to come, but it never did. I feel like such a goddamn fool. I’ve been scammed. I’m one of those idiots who’s been duped by some fucking teenager sitting in front of a computer in some shitty Internet café. I don’t think I’ll ever live this down.”
“You can, and you will,” Derek said. “I’m here for you.”
“Thank you. Feels good to hear that.”
“Of course.”
“It’s weird. Every so often I feel this little glimmer of hope. That she’ll call. My mind clinging by its fingernails to a futile hope.”
“I imagine that’s a normal reaction,” Derek said. “You’re coming back home as soon as you can, right?”
“I’ll need to go to the Delta office in town to find out the earliest flight I can get back. Today’s Saturday and Monday is a national holiday here, so it’ll have to be Tuesday.”
“Okay,” Derek said. “Meanwhile, just relax at the hotel, take it easy. And don’t talk to anyone about this, either.”
