by Kwei Quartey
“Yes please.”
Thomas walked on. “After that, you will come to this laboratory. This is Lab One. Lab Two is downstairs. It’s supposed to be the other way around, but they labeled it wrong.” He shrugged and pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket. “You will have a key to enter.”
Emma stepped in with him. The room was capacious and quite cold with the air conditioner on. Four long counters, two abreast with ample space between them, occupied most of the room, but several side tables projected from the outer edges of the room. At intervals along the counters were large pieces of equipment Emma had no idea about, but they looked complicated and expensive.
“You mop the floor, eh?” Thomas instructed. “Then you clean the counters very well. The mornings after your cleaning, I will come and inspect to make sure you have done a good job. If not, I sack you.”
“Yes please. It will be well, sir.”
Thomas smiled at her in an odd way. “We will see,” he said. “You wipe the instruments and machines only on the outside. We used to have a special kind of spray for them, but we don’t anymore. Don’t open any of these instruments, and don’t touch anything you’re not supposed to. Look at this one. You see this dial? You must be careful not to move it or change the settings, you understand me.”
“Yes please.”
Thomas showed her some more instruments without explaining their function. In any case, at this point, Emma wouldn’t understand much of what he said. She knew she must have appeared overwhelmed and intimidated because in fact, she was. She felt nervous, out of her depth, and underlying all that was a concern about Thomas. Why had he just hired her if he hadn’t originally been looking for cleaning services?
“When will I start please?” she asked him.
“Tomorrow at five-thirty in the evening,” he said. “By that time, most of the employees will be gone or leaving.”
Emma had an impulse to ask where the employees were now, but she suppressed it. Thomas might find it odd or impertinent.
“Mary, first, you sweep the car park before it gets dark,” Thomas continued, “and then you will come inside and clean everything like how I told you. You have to wear shoe covers, okay?”
“Yes please,” Emma said.
And he smiled inscrutably at her again.
TWENTY
Ten months after
For Jojo, getting a job at Trasacco Valley took more effort than Emma had had to exert at the FSL. Initially, Sowah and the team thought Jojo could try posing as a freelance security guard looking for work. But the risk was relatively high that there would be no position available, in which case Jojo would be turned away and all options shut.
It was Manu who had come up with an idea: “I was looking at the Trasacco website this morning. They’ve just begun a new phase of construction they’re going to call Trasacco Hills. Those construction sites always need a hand, even if it’s unskilled work. Jojo could offer to do odd jobs and so on.”
Jojo turned up at the job site the following morning. Trasacco Valley, which included Lady Araba’s home, was a completed property, and since there was no further construction there, Jojo would have to make do with working at the adjacent Trasacco Hills, which now looked much like the Valley must have ten years ago—solitary houses materializing on rough, unpaved, slate-gray soil among clumps of hardy shrubs.
As Jojo approached the building area, he paused as he realized the sheer size of Trasacco’s projects. The company owned vast stretches of land between here and the N1 Motorway, and yet in Jojo’s estimation, still less than ten percent was being built upon. But that would only be temporary as the leading edge of the homes moved forward steadily like an oncoming tide. One day in the future, Jojo imagined, every plot, every space on all this territory, would be taken up with homes.
For now, the buildings were in varying stages of construction, from the laying of a foundation to painting the exterior of a completed building and everything in between. Excavators and bulldozers moved back and forth, incessantly droning against the diesel engine blasts of the trucks hauling dirt away.
Workers were too busy inside and out of the homes to pay much attention to Jojo, and he wasn’t quite sure where to start. He picked out two men standing off to the side. One was dressed dapperly in a dark suit and tie. The other, a shorter man holding a tablet in front of him, was wearing a checkered shirt and khaki pants.
Jojo approached tentatively, hovering as the men talked so earnestly with each other that they failed to notice him. He waited for them to finish their conversation, which seemed to go on forever. Then the taller, suited gentleman said, “Okay, Edinam, we’ll talk, eh?”
They shook hands and the guy in the suit left. The other one, Edinam, was preoccupied with an image on his tablet.
“Please, good morning,” Jojo said. He was wearing a backward baseball cap, distressed jeans, a dark-blue T-shirt, and scuffed trainers.
“Yes?” Edinam said impatiently, with a look at Jojo that translated to, Who are you, and why are you bothering me?
“Please, my name is Jojo,” he said, removing his cap out of respect.
“Eh-heh? And what?”
“Please, I’m looking for a job.”
“What kind of job?”
“I can do anything.”
Edinam looked him over. “Are you strong?”
“Yes please,” Jojo said with a good-natured laugh. “I can help the workers lift and carry, I can collect the bola and scrap metal—anything at all.”
Edinam grunted, and then appeared to be lost in thought as he watched two workers at one house having an awkward time passing a large plank of wood up the scaffolding.
“Okay, maybe we can use you,” he said. “I will talk to someone. Give me your phone number and I’ll call you this evening. You say your name is Jojo?”
“Yes please.”
Jojo didn’t want to jinx his luck, but when he returned home in the evening, he was feeling confident that Edinam would take him on, and he was right. At 10:11 p.m., Edinam called to say, “You start at six tomorrow morning. Don’t be late. You work twelve hours, I pay twenty-five cedis a day. Good night.”
Jojo wasn’t late. He had bunked with a brother in Tema, much closer to Trasacco than where Jojo lived. That way, traffic was less of an unknown getting to work.
Jojo arrived so early at the construction site that no one else was around yet. He hung around, texting, ’gramming, and surfing on his phone. Closer to seven, a thick-bellied man arrived and looked at Jojo with an Are you lost? expression.
Jojo introduced himself. “Good morning, sir.”
The man stared at him for a moment, and then his puzzlement dissipated. “Ah, yes, you’re the one who will be helping us, eh?”
“Yes please.”
“I’m Solomon,” he said. “Okay, come with me. Let me show you what you’ll be doing.”
It was a collection of odd jobs, as Jojo had expected—helping to carry 2x4 planks and cement blocks, carting picks and shovels around, moving and supporting ladders, picking up scrap, trash, and empty paint cans and other biohazards, all at the command of practically everyone else: Jojo, come here, go there, bring that, take this, and so on.
The homes in Trasacco Valley, technically known as Trasacco Phase One, were all valued at upward of a million dollars, including the late Lady Araba’s mansion. Rows or clusters of those houses had names like Royal Gardens or Mahogany Row. That was where Jojo really needed to be. On the map, Trasacco Hills appeared somewhat close to the Valley, but in fact, there was no seamless way to go back and forth between the two. At the end of his first day at work, Jojo went home trying to think of a legitimate excuse to get from Trasacco Hills to the Valley.
The next day at work was hotter than the one before. By lunchtime, Jojo was pouring with sweat. He had drunk two full sachets of water to quench his thirst,
and now he was famished. Solomon told Jojo about a good chop bar on Valley Road, somewhere near the entrance to the Valley complex. Jojo had barely an hour for lunch, so he trotted down a path that eventually led to the road and made a left. He found the chop bar, ate a quick meal of red-red, and sauntered over to the entrance to the Valley, which was an off-white seven-meter arch with a double wrought-iron entry framed with fluffy palm trees and trimmed hedges. Two sentry posts were present on either end of the arch.
A uniformed, fifty-five-ish security man in dark slacks, a light blue top, and a reflective lime-green vest was sweeping a few leaves to the side to keep the driveway spotless. Jojo ambled over in his friendly manner (he couldn’t help it—that was the way he’d been born) and said hello. The other man replied with a smile. Jojo had that effect on people.
“Ete sen?” Jojo said.
“Nyame adom,” the other replied, putting the broom aside.
They introduced themselves. The security man’s name was Peter, evidently the one Mr. Sowah had described. He was the boss for the first twelve-hour shift today, but sometimes he did the second graveyard shift. They stuck to Twi for the conversation.
“I am working at the Hills,” Jojo told him. “Even, I just started yesterday.”
“Oh, fine. You are welcome to Trasacco.”
“Medaase. Your job, is it tough?”
Peter turned his bottom lip inside out contemplatively. “Not as such. Anyway, I like it. I’ve been doing it for a long time. This is the best post I’ve ever had.”
“Yeah, I like security jobs,” Jojo said. “For some time, I was a guard at the Barclays Bank on Ring Road.” That wasn’t true.
“Ah, okay.” Peter showed interest. “We don’t have any openings here right now, but maybe something will come.”
Peter was distracted momentarily by one of the other guards asking a brief question, then returned to Jojo.
“Okay, then please, Mr. Peter,” Jojo continued, “if you have any job for me, can you call me? Because I will love to work here.”
Peter seemed impressed and exchanged numbers with Jojo.
“Ei,” Jojo said, staring past the other man with admiration at the luxuriant complex beyond the entrance—palm trees at regular intervals, neat sidewalks flanked by low hedges and flowering shrubs, bougainvillea spilling over the walls of the residences. “I’m sure these houses will cost more than one hundred thousand dollars.”
Peter laughed hard at that and called out to his colleague what Jojo had just said, which set up another round of laughter.
“Or am I wrong?” Jojo said, smiling sheepishly.
“Jojo,” Peter said grinning, “these houses sell for over one million dollars.”
“One million!” Jojo appeared stunned—well, he was stunned in any case, but he made his disbelief even more dramatic. “But is it Ghanaians living here, or only white people?” he asked.
Peter shook his head. “There aren’t that many white people—Ghanaians, mostly. They have money, oo. Like some of these rap singers, musicians, football players, people like that.”
“Wow,” Jojo said in awe. “So, like if I live here and I want to sell my house, plenty of people will come to buy?”
Peter made a derisive noise with his lips. “They will come like a flowing river! They are rich and ready to spend money anytime, just like that.”
“So, no empty house right now?”
Peter hesitated. “There’s one, but because the lady who lived in the house died, no one wants to buy. They are afraid of ghosts.”
“Ah, okay,” Jojo said in his wide-eyed innocence. “Is it some old woman who died?”
Peter shook his head. “No, not some old woman! Do you know Lady Araba?”
Frowning, Jojo shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so. Who is she?”
Before Peter could respond, a car pulled up and he leaned in toward the driver’s window to ask the purpose of their visit. He nodded and waved them through before turning back to Jojo. “Yes, Lady Araba, she was, em, this thing, whad’you call it—fashion designer.” His expression clouded. “Somebody killed her in the house. Almost one year now.”
“What!” Jojo said. “Here in Trasacco?”
Peter nodded.
“And so, have they caught the one who killed her?” Jojo asked.
“The police say it was Lady Araba’s driver.”
“So, if they can’t sell the lady’s house,” Jojo said, “what will happen?”
Peter shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Like if I have the money,” Jojo said gleefully, “I will buy it. I’m not afraid of ghosts.”
“Okay,” Peter said with a snort. “We will lock you in that house one night and then we will see if you can really stay inside by yourself.”
The two men laughed, but Jojo thought the challenge, even made in jest, might prove useful. There was only one problem: he really was afraid of ghosts.
TWENTY-ONE
Ten months after
A little past 5 p.m., Emma began sweeping the FSL courtyard, car park, and driveway, gathering the trash in small mounds before combining it all in a large plastic sack, which she took out to large metal bins outside the compound for collection later in the week. That over, she went to the cupboard on the first floor to get the cleaning supplies. As she backed out, grappling with a long-handled broom, a mop, bucket, and industrial-strength detergent, she started as she bumped into someone behind her. She spun around to find Thomas in her space.
“Oh, it’s you, sir!” she exclaimed, touching her chest and releasing a sigh of relief.
“Sorry,” he said. “I scared you?”
“Oh, no,” Emma said, “it’s okay, sir.”
Thomas wasn’t moving, and Emma found herself partially wedged between him and the cupboard. “I’m now going to clean the verandah, please,” she said awkwardly.
“Follow me first.” He turned. “I have a meeting with someone in about thirty minutes. I want you to tidy up my office before he comes.”
“Yes please,” Emma said, following him down the hallway with the cleaning stuff. “I will do that.”
He unlocked his door and took a seat at his desk. “Carry on. I’m just doing some work here.”
“Yes please,” Emma said. “Please, I’m going to fetch water and come.”
She returned with the bucket half filled and began to mop the tiled floor, aware that Thomas’s eyes were on her. Emma was desperately uncomfortable.
“There’s a spot here that needs cleaning,” Thomas said, indicating the corner closest to his desk.
“Yes please.” She approached, expecting him to vacate his swivel chair and give her some space to get by.
Instead, he wheeled back only a few inches. “You can pass,” he said.
Facing him, she squeezed by, her jeans brushing against his pant legs. He was slouched in his chair with his legs apart. Emma’s face grew hot as she tried maneuvering in a space that was too close.
“Please, can I—”
“Can you what?”
“I want to clean it well, so if you can—”
“If I can move?” Thomas laughed and stood up. “Okay, if you say so, Madam Mary.”
He sounded mocking. He leaned against the wall and stared, and Emma wished to God he would stop.
“Are you schooling?” Thomas asked.
She squeezed out the mop. “Schooling?”
“Yes,” he said. “Are you taking some online courses or attending classes in the daytime? You seem very smart. I’m sure this isn’t all you can do.”
Emma had gone over this with the rest of the team. The consensus had been that “Mary” should appear vulnerable but motivated. “Please, I want to make some money before,” she said, “and then next year I will go for classes to enter college. I didn’t finish senior high.”
“I see,” Thomas said. “Why?”
Emma avoided his gaze. “Please, I got pregnant.”
“Ah,” he said knowingly. “How old is the child now?”
“She’s now five, please.”
“Oh, nice. And the father, where is he?”
Emma shook her head. No verbal answer was necessary.
“Okay,” Thomas said. “Then I wish you luck.”
“Yes please. Thank you.”
“I see that you work hard,” he commented.
She smiled. “Thanks.”
He looked at his watch. “Okay, finish up.”
Emma wiped the side tables down and tidied up the few old magazines lying around. Someone knocked on the door and opened it. He was bespectacled and short, very dark in color, with receding hair and a weak jaw. He carried a briefcase and was dressed in a polo shirt, light blue jacket, and dress slacks.
“Kingsley!” Thomas said. “Come in. How are you?”
“I am blessed, thanks be to God. And you?”
They shook hands and seated themselves next to each other as Emma was collecting her stuff. The visitor, Kingsley, paid little or no attention to her.
“You can go now, Mary,” Thomas said.
“Yes please. Thank you.”
Emma moved out, deliberately leaving a rag behind out of sight on the floor. She pulled the door behind her but didn’t shut it all the way. Her ear to the small gap between the door and the jamb, she eavesdropped.
“How was the trip from Cape Coast?” Thomas asked.
“It was fine, thanks. How far with your negotiations with the minister?”
“One moment. Let me shut the door well. Why didn’t the girl close it?”
Emma heard Thomas’s footsteps, jumped back, and moved away, bending over the bucket to appear busy in case her boss looked out into the hallway. He didn’t. Emma leaned the broom up against the wall and returned to the door. All she could hear was muffled sounds. She knocked lightly and opened.
“Yes? What is it?” Thomas said, irritated.