The Missing American

by Kwei Quartey

  Ponsu’s responses were evasive and unhelpful. He sat there, passive as a block of wood. Gordon tried to entice him to say more by initially handing him a hundred dollars in crisp bills.

  “Mr. Ponsu, do you know the director-general of CID, Commissioner Alex Andoh?” Gordon asked.

  “No, sir. I do not.”

  “Do you know of him being involved in sakawa?” Gordon asked.

  “Not at all.”

  “What about Inspector General Akrofi?”

  “What’s your question?”

  “You know him? Does he do all this sakawa stuff too?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  And on it went. Gordon asking more questions and Ponsu remaining as impenetrable as Fort Knox. And then Gordon lost it. He was frustrated and angry. Ponsu was a liar. Of course, he knew all these top guys—MPs, police commissioners, and the like.

  “The truth will come out,” was Gordon’s parting shot to Ponsu. “And then we’ll see how the whole corrupt system works.”

  Another minute and the muscle twins might have thrown Gordon out, but Yahya had ushered him away in time to prevent such an occurrence. Initially after the meeting with Ponsu, Gordon had been despondent, bitter, and at his wit’s end. What was he doing here in Ghana? What was the point of it all? He wanted to go back home to DC. He had been here six weeks and that was long enough.

  But yesterday, his resolve began to creep back with a little help from Cas, who reminded Gordon that he had never been a quitter. That was true, and in fact, now Gordon was feeling more in command and he had a lot more fight in him. He felt he had a mission to complete.

  The cigarette had kept the mosquitoes at bay, but now that Gordon was done with it, he could feel and hear them mounting an attack. He went back inside the chalet and got into bed, turning over several times as he tried to get comfortable. He drifted off and wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep before he woke to a light tapping on the front door. What, or who, was that?

  He got out of bed and tiptoed to the door. It was definitely someone knocking. A male voice said, “Mr. Tilson?”

  “Yes?” he answered warily. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Mr. Labram, please.”

  “Uh, is something wrong?”

  “Small problem, please.”

  “Oh? Well, yes. Sure.”

  Gordon unlocked the door, looked out cautiously and saw the silhouettes of two men.

  One of them had a club, which he swung hard against Gordon’s skull.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  May 28, Akosombo, Ghana

  Zacharia and his son Solomon had paddled upriver in their sixteen-foot canoe. The Adome Bridge was straight ahead. Eleven in the morning, the sun was powerful but not yet at full strength. Solomon was at the stern steering while Zacharia at the bow was casting the net.

  They were halfway between banks near a thicket of river weeds so dense it appeared solid. A few other canoes—single- and two-man—were out on the river at various distances.

  The bright reflection off the water reduced visibility, but Solomon made out a grayish mound nestled in the weeds.

  “Papa,” he said.

  “Yes?” Zacharia answered, looking back.

  Solomon pointed and his father followed his finger to the mound.

  “Bola,” he concluded.

  “No,” Solomon said, turning the canoe and paddling for the island.

  “Agh,” Zacharia said with annoyance. “Where are you going?”

  Solomon said nothing and sidled the canoe up to the bundle. When he poked it with a stick, it barely moved. They detected a stench now. A bag of dead fish? But that made no sense.

  Solomon leaned over to tug at the object, which was heavier and larger than it seemed. Most of it was beneath the surface and appeared to be attached to the weed clump.

  “We have to pull it to the shore,” Zacharia said, getting into the water.

  He disappeared under the surface for a few seconds and struggled to free the object from the vegetation, which proved difficult. Solomon joined him in his efforts until the two men could finally secure their cast net around the mass, and then Zacharia got back in the canoe to help paddle it to the nearest available space onshore. Solomon jumped out and pushed the canoe securely onto land. Wincing from the odor, they rolled the thing up onto dry land. It was a coarse, sodden grayish-brown sack about three meters in length and swollen with its contents. They could make out the shape of rocks at one end, but the rest was a firm, unyielding, rubbery mass.

  “It’s the man,” Zacharia said, breathing hard from their efforts. “The American they said was thrown in the river.”

  Solomon looked back and forth between his father and the grisly find. Zacharia stared at it awhile, then took out his fish knife. He cut a long slit in the sack at its bulkier end and took a brief peek inside. The odor assaulted him so strongly that he recoiled as though jabbed with a spear. He’d seen enough, in any case.

  “My phone,” he said to Solomon, who always safeguarded his father’s device. Solomon gave it to him and Zacharia squinted a little at the phone’s screen as he looked for Emma’s number. Finally, he found it. He took a deep breath and called.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  March 3, Accra, Ghana

  On multiple occasions, Gordon had considered calling Josephine and then put it off. Cas was pressing him to do so, but Gordon had wrestled with how he would “look” to Josephine: stupid, a sucker, some kind of crazy white guy with a lust for African women so strong that he’d allowed himself to be hoodwinked by a bunch of kids?

  He had to swallow his pride, though. As Cas said, Gordon knew the wife of Ghana’s top cop, so how could Gordon not get in touch with her.

  His heart was in his mouth as he dialed her number. Josephine didn’t pick up the call, but she returned it minutes later.

  “Hello?” she said. “May I know who is this, please?”

  Gordon was using a local line, so she would not have recognized it or had him in her contacts.

  “Hi, Josephine,” he said brightly. “How are you? This is Gordon.”

  There was the slightest of pauses, and then she said, “My goodness, Gordon! You’re in Ghana?”

  “I am. In Accra.”

  “Akwaaba! How long have you been in town?”

  “Just a couple of weeks.”

  “Are you at a hotel?”

  “I was at Kempinski, but I moved to a bed and breakfast yesterday. More privacy here and it’s a lovely home.”

  “I’m glad. Oh, what a lovely surprise.”

  “It would be nice to see you,” Gordon said hopefully.

  “Same here,” she said. “We must definitely set something up. Listen, I’m in a hurry to an appointment, but can we meet later?”

  Josephine expected to be in Achimota, another mushrooming suburb of Accra, until about five, and then she would be free.

  “Meet me at the Achimota Mall around then,” she suggested. “There’s a coffee shop called ‘Second Cup’ that I like.”

  “Great,” he said. “I can’t wait to see you.”

  Second Cup really was a nice coffee place—popular and packed to capacity with Ghanaians and expatriates. The background buzz and the music gave it the right atmosphere. Gordon had arrived before Josephine did and had bagged a table. He waited only about ten minutes more before she came in looking around to see if he had arrived. He waved and she smiled and hurried to the table. In a formfitting turquoise-and-black dress, Josephine’s hourglass shape was a study in perfection. Gordon still had plenty reserves in his lust storage tank.

  “It’s so good to see you,” she said as they embraced lightly. “Welcome to Ghana.”

  “Nice to see you too,” Gordon said. “You look amazing.”

  “Thank you so much.” She was glowing as they sat down, a
nd Gordon noticed her brand- new short haircut with the hair tucked behind each ear to show off a single pearl.

  “We have some catching up to do,” he said. “But first, can I get you anything?”

  She wanted a mochaccino. Gordon stuck with a more ordinary café au lait. Once they had their drinks in front of them on the table, they began to talk.

  “So, I’m dying to know what brings you across the pond our way,” Josephine said eagerly. “What a surprise I got when you called this morning.”

  “I figured you would be,” Gordon said. “At the moment, I’m just enjoying a few weeks of vacation.”

  “All by yourself?” She was surprised.

  “I’m afraid so, yes.” Gordon’s mood was moving toward the negative column. He felt gloomy.

  “Did you suddenly get nostalgic about Ghana?” She smiled and winked at him. “Did I cause that?”

  They had a small laugh, but Gordon said, “In some ways, yes. I suppose I remembered how wonderful the company of a Ghanaian woman can be.”

  She inclined her head. “Aw, that’s so very sweet. Are you enjoying yourself? Where have you been so far?”

  “Just Accra, really.”

  “I see.” Concern came to her expression. “Is everything okay, though? You don’t seem as happy as I remember you.”

  “Josephine, I wanted badly to see you,” he said, “but at the same time, I’ve been dreading this meeting because of what I’m going to tell you.”

  “Oh,” she said, looking both curious and worried.

  “When I met you in DC, I had been talking online to a Ghanaian woman called Helena, located in Accra. She contacted me through a Facebook page for widows and widowers, and over the months between November last year and February this year, we talked a lot via Skype and so on. Helena, or the person I thought was her, looked absolutely beautiful and I fell in love.

  “There’s no other way to say it, and by February I really wanted to see her. She was going through a rather difficult patch, including her favorite sister having been very seriously injured in a highway crash. So, I was helping Helena and her family out with the finances associated with this catastrophe.”

  Josephine sipped her drink as she kept her eyes intently on him. Her expression was entirely nonjudgmental now, but Gordon wondered how much longer that would last.

  “I finally took the plunge and traveled to Ghana. I got into Kotoka International on Saturday the fifteenth of February. Helena was to meet me there. I probably don’t need to tell you that not only did she not show up at the airport, she never materialized at all.”

  Josephine was staring at him and slowly shaking her head. Gordon braced for the, “you mean to tell me you haven’t heard of these Internet scams?” But instead, she said, “It makes me furious that someone would take advantage of your kindness in this way. These damn sakawa boys! How much did they steal from you?”

  “Almost four thousand dollars.”

  She put her hand over his and squeezed. “I’m so very sorry, Gordon. I even feel like apologizing on behalf of the whole country for this.”

  He cracked a smile. “You shouldn’t feel that way. This is entirely my stupidity.”

  Josephine disagreed. “Don’t come down so hard on yourself. How were you to know the level of sophistication these Internet criminals have achieved? You’ve reported this to the police?”

  “Yes, but they don’t seem to be doing much. Or anything, for that matter.”

  “How long do you plan to be in Ghana?”

  Gordon sipped his coffee before continuing. “Until the middle of April, tentatively. It partly depends on how much headway I make.”

  “With the police?”

  “Well, yes and no. I’m not expecting great things from them.”

  Josephine shook her head. “We won’t accept that. I’ll talk to James about it. He can apply pressure to Commissioner Andoh at CID. I feel sorry that you didn’t get in touch earlier, but it’s okay. We’ll make up for the time.”

  “Thank you, Josephine.”

  “Call me ‘Jo.’ All my friends do.”

  “I’m happy you consider me a friend,” he said. “After . . . you-know-what.”

  She tossed her head. “Whatever happens in DC . . .”

  He laughed. “I got it. Don’t worry, I’m on my best behavior.”

  “Good.”

  “I had a question for you,” Gordon said, “and you don’t have to answer if you can’t or don’t want to.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Have you heard anything, or do you know anything about whether there’s any truth to the claim that some senior officials, including in the police force, may be in cahoots with these sakawa boys?”

  “Cahoots in what way?”

  “Well, they support the system and receive money from those lower down on the chain.”

  “Oh dear. I must confess I don’t know much about that kind of thing.” Josephine was still smiling. “I make it a point not to talk to James about work. He’s in such a sensitive position, being that close to President Bannerman. I don’t ever want to create a conflict of interest for my husband, so, as they say, don’t ask, don’t tell.”

  “Gotcha,” Gordon said.

  “I’m curious why you asked.”

  “I just wondered. I read some stuff online—”

  “Can’t believe everything you read,” she cut him off with surprising swiftness. “Especially online. And certainly not from that Sana Sana—if that’s who you’ve been reading.”

  “Full disclosure,” he said. “I have.”

  “He’s a sensationalist and a dishonest journalist,” Jo said, her tone sharpening. “What he calls investigation is pure entrapment of innocent people.”

  In Gordon’s mind, that wasn’t exactly accurate, but he had no desire to argue with her over this. “Okay,” he agreed. “Then I’ll take whatever I read from him with a grain of salt.”

  “I just want you to be careful, that’s all.”

  They smiled at each other but Gordon detected a change in Jo’s mood. He shifted the topic to talk about his granddaughter and show Jo pictures of Simone on his phone. But now, Gordon felt awkward. Jo wasn’t the same woman he had met in DC. Or maybe that wasn’t it. The woman was the same, the circumstances were radically different. Now Gordon was on Jo’s turf, where she belonged to a certain elevated class and was in complete control. Here, the world was hers and she was James’s wife. Her body language was clear. There was no romance. She would not be having any sort of sexual liaison with Gordon in Ghana. He knew that was appropriate, but a morsel of him felt somewhat hurt.

  He could tell that as far as Jo was concerned, Sana Sana was a piece of shit. Hence Gordon deliberately did not mention that next week Thursday, he would be meeting up with the man.

  Battle lines were being drawn. Looking at it from Cas’s point of view—and to an increasing extent, Gordon’s as well—this was going to make an excellent story.

  FIFTY-NINE

  May 28, Accra, Ghana

  Before Kojo’s mother, Abena, left for the Autism center to pick up her son at the end of the day, Auntie Rose called her. “An important visitor will be here when you arrive. We have some great plans to discuss with you.”

  “Is that so?” Abena couldn’t imagine what she could mean, but it sounded exciting.

  “We’ll see you when you come. Hurry!”

  When Abena arrived, Grace and two other staff members were outside in the yard holding an arts-and-craft session with the children.

  “Hi, Abena,” Grace said. “They are waiting for you in the playroom with Kojo.”

  “Ah, there you are,” Auntie Rose said, as Abena entered. “Come in.”

  Sitting with Kojo at her side was Josephine Akrofi in the most beautiful pale pink dress Abena had ever seen. She had met the
IGP’s wife now again during her visits to the center.

  “Good afternoon, madam,” Abena said.

  “Hello, Abena,” Mrs. Akrofi said with a welcoming smile. “It’s nice to see you again. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, please,” Abena said. “Thank you, madam.”

  Kojo was rubbing thumbs and fingers together, but was otherwise calm.

  “Have a seat, Abena,” Rose said, indicating one of the two empty chairs at the table.

  Abena noticed a Samsung tablet on the table. She wondered if Mrs. Akrofi had brought it just for Kojo.

  “Abena,” Rose began, “I invited Mrs. Akrofi here today and she has been very kind to join us to talk about your Kojo.”

  “Oh, okay,” Abena said. “Thank you, madam.”

  “He is a special boy,” Mrs. Akrofi said, her voice warm. “I know how amazed and happy you were when he drew the picture of Rose on the tablet. This kind of ability in an autistic child—well, any child, really—is not a small thing.”

  Abena glowed.

  “What we want to do from now on,” Mrs. Akrofi continued, “is collect as many of Kojo’s drawings and make videos of him while he’s doing it. I know so far he’s drawn only one, but I’m sure more will be forthcoming. We want to bring world attention to his talent. In turn, that will raise awareness about the Autism Center and attract funding. This is the most important thing right now—the survival of the Center.”

  Abena nodded. “Yes please. I think that will be a very good plan.”

  Rose was elated. “Yes, yes, it’s wonderful. So, Abena, we want to get your permission to make a documentary about Kojo. One day next week, some people will come to film the Center and what we do here, but they will be concentrating mostly on Kojo.”

  “Okay, madam. No problem.”

  “Also,” Mrs. Akrofi added, “we will have a section showing you and Kojo together and include a short interview with you and me. The interview with me might be done at my home, but I will let you know.”