The Missing American

by Kwei Quartey

  “The fetish priest?”

  “Yes.”

  Yahya came close to an eye-roll. “Foolish man. I don’t like him at all. He’s a fake. If you want to see people with real power, come to Tamale or Bolga.”

  Emma smiled. “But do you know Ponsu personally?”

  Yahya shook his head vigorously. “I know where he live in Atimpoku, but that’s all.”

  “Did Mr. Tilson ask you anything about Kweku Ponsu?”

  Yahya nodded. “Yes. First, Mr. Tilson ax me questions about sakawa. I told him what I know—that they use juju to make money on computer and all that. Then he ax me if I know where Kweku Ponsu live and if I can take him there because he want to talk business with him.”

  This is promising, Emma thought. “Did you? Take him?”

  “Yes, and I stay with him there because the customer is my responsibility.”

  “I understand you,” Emma said. “And so, Mr. Tilson, did he meet with Ponsu?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember the day?”

  “Either thirtieth or thirty-first March.”

  “What happened over there?”

  “Ponsu’s macho men, those twin guys, took us into his house to greet him. Mr. Tilson ax him some questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “About sakawa boys. And, if these big police people take part in sakawa too.”

  Ah, interesting, Emma thought. “And how did Ponsu answer the questions?”

  Yahya grunted. “First, he didn’t say anything, then Mr. Tilson gave him some money, but Ponsu still don’t talk. Then Tilson get annoyed, and he say everyone lie to him and Ponsu challenge him to ask him if Tilson is calling him a liar too. Then, Tilson too, he tell Ponsu he doesn’t fear him at all, and Ponsu say, ‘you should fear plenty other people before me.’ Tilson didn’t understand him, but Ponsu just laugh and say, ‘white man, you will see.’ I tell Mr. Tilson to relax small and we should go, otherwise plenty trouble start and those twins can beat us if we don’t take care. So, we left from there, and the white man don’t say anything after that.”

  This was terrific information. “Anything else you can tell me?” Emma asked.

  “No please, madam,” he responded. Oddly, though, Emma caught the slightest shift in his gaze.

  “Mr. Yahya, thank you very much for all your help.”

  They stood up simultaneously and shook hands. Emma gave him a few cedis—practically all she had left on her person—considering his plight and his cooperation. When they parted, Emma was certain Yahya had had nothing to do with Gordon Tilson’s disappearance. Besides that, Yahya had supplied very important information: Tilson had indeed had a highly confrontational encounter with Ponsu, and Ponsu had said something that could well have been a threat to Tilson: “White man, you will see.”

  Emma saw Yahya as one of the “good guys.” Just one thing bothered her a little. She wondered about that last subtle but visible change in Yahya’s expression. Was he not telling Emma something?

  FORTY-NINE

  May 22, Accra, Ghana

  It was almost the end of Friday and DCOP Laryea was looking forward to spending some time with his grandchildren when the phone call came in. It was Commissioner Andoh and he wanted to speak to Laryea. Now.

  Laryea went up the stairs as quickly as possible, which was decidedly slower than when he was a young man, oh, so long ago. He knocked on the director-general’s door and entered.

  “Laryea,” Andoh said, signaling him to a chair at the side of his desk. “I finished meeting with the IGP about an hour ago. He’s concerned about this Tilson case—the American man.”

  “Yes, I know of it, sir. It’s DI Damptey handling it—under Chief Superintendent Quaino.”

  “I want you to look into this. What are those two doing? It’s almost two months since the American man has been missing, not so? What’s going on? They need to give you a full update on the progress on Monday and I want your supervision thereafter.”

  “No problem,” Laryea said. “I will take care of it.”

  “This is beginning to look bad,” Andoh grumbled. “You know, Ghana’s reputation is suffering with these increasing stories of Europeans and Americans defrauded of money by sakawa boys and the like. A lot of videos on YouTube now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now,” Andoh said, “President Bannerman has given the IGP the task of cracking down on Internet fraud. Once he comes up with the blueprint, he will set up a summit to unveil the plan.”

  “Yes, sir, I see,” Laryea said. “Very good. I pray we succeed with this.”

  Andoh nodded, but absently. After a pause, he said, “But I hope we will see more than the customary lip service that we’ve experienced in the past.”

  “We have to be serious about it, yes, sir.”

  “And the question is whether we have the right people in place to implement these plans. You know, poor leadership leads to poor results.”

  Laryea wasn’t exactly sure to whom Andoh was referring specifically, and he was loath to ask.

  “We have some hypocrites in high positions, Laryea,” he said with a surprising amount of bitterness. “I won’t name names, but they know themselves. They are just yes-men, puppets doing the president’s bidding.”

  “Yes, sir.” That’s about as far as Laryea would commit himself.

  “So that is it. I will let you know of any new developments. And of course, you know everything said in this room is to remain confidential.”

  “But of course, sir.”

  “How is the family?”

  “Doing well, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Andoh smiled. “That’s good. Well, have a good weekend.”

  As Laryea returned to his office to pack up for the weekend, he wondered what or whom the DG had been speaking of in his outburst, as cryptic as it was, when he talked about hypocrites, yes-men, and puppets in high places. The IGP? Did Andoh hold some grudge against Mr. Akrofi?

  Laryea dismissed the thought. It wasn’t any of his business, and besides, he would never want to be caught up in that kind of contention. There was enough disarray at the CID as it was.

  FIFTY

  May 23

  Saturday night, Emma was undecided about what looked best with her skinny black jeans for her date with Courage. She was no fashion maven, and her closet was sparse—apart from the blunt truth that she was behind on her washing. The pile of dirty clothes in the corner was appalling.

  She could go with a white sleeveless blouse or a filmy fuchsia long-sleeve shirt. She tried both on, watching her reflection in the full-length mirror as she made a 360-degree turn. Thin as she was, she could pull the outfit off okay, but she still thought she could afford to put a few curves and a couple of kilos on her frame.

  Just as she settled on the sleeveless, her phone buzzed, and she had to dig under a pile of vetoed outfits on the bed before she located it. Courage was texting her to say he would be there in about ten minutes. Emma was just about ready, but should she go outside now, or wait for him to arrive first? She decided on the latter, stepping out the door only when he texted that he had arrived.

  Courage, dressed in all black, was at the roadside standing next to a shiny, dark Rav4. “You look so lovely, dear,” he said, as he opened the passenger door for her.

  “Thanks,” she said. “So do you.”

  “You are so nice to say so. Thank you.”

  He had on a strong but nice fragrance, which reminded Emma she had forgotten to put on any of her own.

  As they headed south toward town, Emma thought Courage drove as crazily as a taxi driver.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, holding on to the passenger armrest.

  “Afrikiko,” he said, flashing a smile at her. “Do you know there?”

  “I’ve heard of it,” she s
aid, “but I’ve never been.”

  “You’ll enjoy it,” he said. “Do you dance?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you.”

  Emma felt that mixture of excitement at the prospect of dancing and dread of “looking funny” doing it.

  “This is a nice car,” she said. “It smells new.”

  “Thanks. Yes, it’s about six months old now.”

  “I’m impressed,” Emma said, wondering where he found that kind of money.

  She wasn’t expecting Latin music at Afrikiko, but apparently Saturday was Latin night. Who knew there was such a thing in Ghana? Emma wasn’t used to it—and certainly not at that earsplitting volume. She could hear some similarities of the music to traditional Ghanaian highlife—the type her grandparents listened to, not the new stuff. Chairs and tables were arranged around a slightly elevated wood stage where couples danced away. It was obvious who the regulars were. They twirled and whirled in dazzling choreographic displays of agility that amazed Emma. Both she and Courage ordered nonalcoholic drinks. When they were through with the first round, Courage said, “Let’s dance.”

  Emma opened her mouth to decline, but before she could say a word, Courage had her on her feet and they were nudging their way onto the crowded stage. They found a space, and Courage began to teach Emma to tango. She managed to make out his shouted instructions above the music.

  At first, she was awful and got frustrated quickly by her clumsiness, but he was patient with her, and when she finally made her first turn, she found it exhilarating. After two numbers, she was dripping with sweat from her efforts while Courage was dry as a bone. They stopped for another drink and Courage ordered them a meal—goat kebabs for himself and Thai fried rice for Emma. She couldn’t help noticing his wallet stuffed tight with 50-cedi bills. Where was all this money coming from, or was he just trying to impress her?

  After a couple of hours at Afrikiko, Courage took Emma to an ice cream parlor on Oxford Street in Osu. They sat outside on the open patio. The night was still humid, but it had cooled off a little. The club across the street was playing music, but not too loud that they couldn’t talk at normal levels. Emma’s ears were ringing slightly from Afrikiko, and she was thankful for the relative quiet.

  “So why don’t you have a boyfriend?” Courage said, licking the rim of his strawberry cone.

  She spluttered, taken by surprise. “What?”

  “You heard me,” he said. “Attractive woman like you—why should you not have a man?”

  “I’m not sure I’m that attractive,” she said.

  “You are a whole lot lovelier than you realize. And anyway, you’re supposed to say thank you, not try and reverse the compliment.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Bad habit. Thank you very much.”

  “You are welcome.” He smiled. “You still didn’t answer my question.”

  Emma shrugged. “Basically, I don’t know.”

  “Really,” he said, apparently not satisfied with her response.

  “Now it’s your turn,” Emma said, adopting his tactics. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

  He laughed, showing his nice set of teeth. “She’s now my ex—over a year now. I’ve just been dating, but I’d like to settle down sometime soon.”

  She spooned up a mouthful of vanilla ice cream. “That’s good.” She realized she wasn’t giving him much conversation fodder.

  “Let’s watch a movie tonight,” he suggested. “I have a fifty-two-inch TV at home.”

  Fifty-two inch! “Are you rich or something?” she asked.

  He smiled and shook his head. “I just know how to make use of my talents.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He continued the enigmatic smile. “I’ll tell you one day. Maybe. So, will you come to my place to watch a movie?”

  Emma said, “No, thank you. I have church tomorrow—the early service.”

  “Really.” He looked at her askance.

  “You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to,” she said, amused.

  “Okay then. I believe you.”

  Emma wanted to switch the general tenor of their exchange. “There’s something I’d like to ask you in turn.”

  “Okay.”

  “What do you know about DI Doris Damptey?”

  Courage looked disappointed. “So, we have to talk about work?”

  “Sorry. After this, I won’t talk about it again.”

  “Damptey?” He chortled with disdain. “Every once in a while, that woman organizes raids on sakawa boys just to look good to Director-General Andoh. Apart from that, she is one of the laziest women I know.”

  “How does she get away with it?”

  “A lot of people get away with laziness at CID,” Courage said with a smirk. “In her case, she’s sleeping with her boss, DCS Quaino, so she can do almost whatever she likes. Or nothing at all.”

  Emma’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. “Sleeping with her DCS? How do you know that?”

  “Open secret,” he said. “Lots of people know, but no one says anything.”

  “Does the director-general know, do you think?”

  “He might,” Courage said, “but you know the highest-ranking officers prefer to stay out of the gutter with this kind of thing, or else they just look the other way.”

  Emma shook her head and shuddered, which made Courage chuckle. “Why the shivers?”

  “Your boss should never sleep with you. Ever. And I suppose DCS Quaino is married.”

  “But of course! I’ve seen his wife at some of the events SWAT covers.”

  “So, they’re committing adultery as well.”

  “It happens all the time,” he said. “Maybe you’ve never been in that situation before, but believe me, when it comes around you may find yourself powerless.”

  Emma immediately had a flashback to Director-General Andoh’s assault on her and she felt ill. Her appetite for ice cream vanished.

  “What’s wrong?” Courage asked, noticing the change in her mood.

  “Sorry,” Emma said despondently. “I don’t feel very well.”

  Courage was concerned. “Is it what we ate at the club?”

  Emma shook her head. “No, it’s not that. Would you mind if we leave now?”

  “No, problem.” Courage leapt from his chair and extended his date a helping hand.

  FIFTY-ONE

  DCS Quaino loved DI Damptey’s big, overbearing body, her fat thighs and tremendous buttocks, and when she dressed in one of the dominatrix outfits her cousin had brought her from Amsterdam, he went crazy. Tonight, as she burst out of the bathroom in a red, see-through halter dress with strappy elastic webbed suspenders, black fishnet stockings, stiletto heels and a tiny triangle of black patent leather over the entrance to her pleasure grotto, Quaino’s eyeballs almost exploded from their sockets and he gurgled with excitement. For what had seemed an eternity, he had been lying on the bed waiting for her to emerge in all her glory. They had checked into Labadi Beach Hotel early that evening, he into 321, she into 418, and then he had joined her in her room. As far as their respective spouses were concerned, the two officers were on a highly confidential stakeout that was likely to go all night—don’t wait up.

  And Doris had a black whip. My God, that whip made Quaino’s heart beat as if it was trying to break out of his chest. He lay spread-eagled on the bed in his boxers watching her every move as she sashayed around the bed. Her body was bursting out of its outfit—not in a curvy way, but as an undifferentiated mass of flesh, and he loved it.

  She stood at the side of the bed and gave him a poke in the ribs with the end of her whip. “You may speak.”

  “Yes please, my Queen.”

  “Heh!” she snapped. “So, you don’t know how to address me? How do you address me
?”

  “Em, is it my Queen?” he said, cringing.

  “Your Majesty!” she bellowed.

  “Yes, yes, Your Majesty. Please, I’m sorry. I beg you, don’t punish me, Your Majesty.”

  “You will have to be punished,” she sneered. “You must be punished.”

  “I beg you, oo, Your Majesty! I beg you.”

  “I will whip you very well on your bottom.”

  “Ohh, no please. Your Majesty. Have mercy on me.”

  “Turn over on your stomach. Hurry up! I said, turn over.”

  Whimpering, he obeyed.

  “Pull down your shorts, you miserable subject!”

  He shimmied out of them, exposing his round, bulbous buttocks.

  “How do you call me?” she growled.

  “Your Highness.”

  “No!” She struck him across the buttocks, and he jumped and cried out. “How do you call me?”

  “Your Lordship.”

  Whack!

  “My Queen.”

  Whack! Whack!

  Quaino howled in exquisite ecstasy. “My Lady.”

  She hit him again and again. He was sobbing and laughing at the same time. “No please, please, please.”

  “Turn over,” she commanded.

  “Yes please. Your Majesty.”

  “Ei!” she exclaimed as he faced upward. “Did I permit you to display such an egregious erection of your male organ?”

  “No,” he stammered. “No please, Your Majesty.”

  “What is this thing, eh?” she said, softly stroking his tumescence. “I think I have to punish it. How should I punish it?”

  “Your Majesty,” he whispered, “whatever pleases Your Majesty.”

  She dropped the whip and clambered on the bed to straddle him. “Like this?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, close to tears of joy.

  “Don’t touch me!” she said as he tried to reach for her body. She leaned forward and pinned his hands at the side of his head while she bounced on him like a flabby rubber ball.

  “You like to be punished, you bad man,” she said. “Bad man.”