by Kwei Quartey
Julius thought it best to take Augustus to the Nyaho Medical Centre, where his medical record was already on file from the previous visit. Two nurses worked quickly to check Augustus over while Julius told them how much his son had been drinking. Then there was an hour’s wait for the physician. Meanwhile, Julius called Caroline at the clinic. She dropped everything and summoned her driver to take her to the hospital.
The next morning, after a long, torturous night in which Augustus had been injected with morphine for pain relief, he was awake but drowsy as one of the junior doctors came in to examine him, review his vital signs, and adjust his medications.
Julius and Caroline had been at Augustus’s bedside until late the night before, and they returned at seven in the morning. The senior doctor on duty arrived a little later. He had an air of both authority and weariness.
“You have had a severe episode of acute, alcohol-induced pancreatitis, sir,” he said to Augustus. “One of the worst I’ve seen in my career. You’re lucky to be alive.”
Augustus lowered his eyes, chastised. Julius stared at him with a mixture of alarm and pity. Caroline kept silent, but anyone could see she was anguished by the news.
“Please, Doctor,” Augustus said, barely audibly, “am I still in danger?”
“Yes, everything of yours is in danger, Mr. Seeza,” he responded crisply. “Your liver, pancreas, stomach, and your life. If you don’t stop drinking, you’ll kill yourself. We will observe you for a few more days. You’ll begin a clear liquid diet later today.”
When the doctor had left, Caroline turned to Augustus.
“I know what you’re about to say,” he whispered.
“This was a sign,” she said. “God has spared you this time, but the next occasion, you may not be so lucky. Do you understand what I’m saying, dear?”
“I don’t need a lecture,” he said.
“Oh, but you will get a lecture,” Julius barked, making Augustus snap to attention. “You speak to your mother with such disrespect after she and I have been here for hours watching over you? Do you even deserve that? Drinking yourself almost to death, ruining your career? What is wrong with you, boy? Did we bring you up to be a failure? Eh?”
Augustus closed his eyes wearily. “No, Papa. You didn’t.”
“Then straighten your life up. After you leave the hospital, you will not touch another drop of alcohol, do you understand?”
“Yes, Papa,” Augustus whispered.
An uncomfortable silence followed, and then Julius put on his reading glasses and opened the newspaper he had brought with him. He folded it back at the politics page—everything was politics, really.
Augustus cleared his throat. “I’m going to turn my life around, okay, Papa? I promise you.”
“I hope you mean it,” Julius said, “because your mother and I will not continue to rescue you.”
“Yes, sir.” After a moment, Augustus said, “please, can I get my phone? I left it at the house—I think it’s in my bedroom.”
Caroline looked to her husband for an answer. He lifted his eyes for a moment over the top of his glasses. “Send the driver to get it,” he said, returning to the paper. “When he returns, we’ll leave so Gus can get some rest. We’ll be back in the evening.”
•••
Early on the morning of Augustus’s fourth day of hospitalization, Julius received a call from the attending physician. It was a Sunday.
“Sorry to inform you, sir, that your son has taken a turn for the worse,” the doctor said. “We’ve had to admit him to the intensive care unit.”
Julius stiffened. “What’s the matter?” he asked, his voice shaking.
The doctor hesitated. “His blood pressure has dropped, and he’s developed a high fever. He appears to be septic—”
“What exactly does that mean?” Julius demanded.
“I would prefer not to discuss it over the phone, sir. Please, if you can come to the hospital as soon as possible?”
Julius ended the call and walked downstairs to his wife’s bedroom, tapping on the door. “Sweetie? Are you awake?”
He heard a muffled voice and opened the door. Caroline was still in bed. She lifted her head to squint at him. “What is it?”
Julius stood at her bedside. “The doctor called. Augustus is sick. We have to go.”
When they arrived at the ICU, a nurse led them to Augustus’s bedside. Caroline gasped. Augustus, attached to an oxygen mask and a confusing array of wires and tubes, was surrounded by digital instruments that flashed and beeped. His once-imposing frame was now so small and vulnerable. His eyes fluttered open, appeared to fix on his parents for a moment, then drifted closed again.
Caroline gently took her son’s hand—the one with no IV catheters inserted—and lovingly cradled it. Her eyes swam with tears. “Augustus? It’s Mummy. Can you hear me? I’m right here with you. You’ll be okay.”
His eyes didn’t open this time. Caroline looked up at Julius and choked. She didn’t cry, at least not out loud. Abruptly, she switched into her professional mode and began to examine the hanging IV fluids and the data on the instruments. To be honest, much of the modern technology and medications were beyond her scope, but no one needed to know that. She went to the nurses’ station at the center of the unit.
“I’m Dr. Caroline Seeza,” she announced with importance. “Where is my son’s physician? I need to see him immediately.”
“Yes please,” one of the nurses said. “I’ve already called him. He told me to do so as soon as you arrived.”
The doctor, an intensive-care specialist, went deep into conversation with Caroline just outside of the ward, and they both fell into medical terminology while Julius stood by quietly. After the doctor left them, Julius asked Caroline, “What does it mean that Augustus is ‘septic?’”
“It means the infection has spread throughout the body,” she said.
“And it’s dangerous?”
“Of course it is!” she responded with an unexpected flash of irritation. “He could die.”
“But why is it happening?” Julius said, clenching his fists.
“He’s an alcoholic, Julius! What else?”
“Yes, I know that, but—”
“He was already in a state of immune suppression, and along comes an inflammatory condition like pancreatitis, what do you expect to happen?”
“I’m not a doctor,” Julius protested, his voice shaking. “There’s no need to talk down to me.”
Caroline sighed and dropped her head. “I’m sorry.”
To her shock, Julius covered his face with his hands and began to weep. “Oh, Augustus,” he said. “Augustus.”
Caroline glanced furtively around, but no one was watching them. She pulled her husband closer and put her arms around him. “Shh, it’s okay,” she soothed him. “He’s going to pull through. We all will, okay?”
On his fourth day in the ICU, Augustus began to turn around. His vital signs were stable, and he was much more alert. His mother had been at his bedside as much as the hospital’s strict visiting hours would allow. Sometimes she read a book, interrupting herself to check her son’s monitors. At other times, she dabbed his face with a cool, moist washcloth. She questioned the nursing staff’s every move and made them check every day that Augustus wasn’t developing any bedsores. If there was one thing Caroline knew, the patients who received the best care were the ones with the most vigilant family members.
The per diem rate of a private ICU stay was staggering, one most ordinary people couldn’t afford. Furthermore, the patient and family members themselves were responsible for purchasing the medications, either at the pharmacy attached to the medical center or some other pharmacy in town, many of them surprisingly well stocked. For Caroline, things were much easier. She could get or order most of the supplies at a heavy discount from the pharmacy at
her own clinic.
On the sixth day, Augustus was ready to be transferred to a step-down unit, where he would begin physical therapy the following day. He had lost almost a third of his weight by then, his muscles devoured by illness and inflammation. His legs looked like matchsticks, and the roundness in his face was gone, leaving it gaunt. He had begun to eat, but what he took in was far below his urgent calorie requirements. His recovery would take months.
On the morning of the seventh day, his nurse, Mabel, came to his room with an injection. “Good morning, Mr. Seeza,” she said. “How are you feeling today?”
He looked at Mabel with raised eyebrows. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Good morning, how are you?’”
“I can’t hear you. Speak up, please.”
She raised her voice. “Good morning.”
He nodded, but looked confused.
Mabel frowned. “Can you hear me, sir?”
Seeza stared blankly at her. A shiver ran down her spine. Something wasn’t right. She hurried out of the room and found one of the senior nurses, who said, “What do you mean he can’t hear you?”
“Either he can’t hear me or something else is wrong,” Mabel said. “I don’t know.”
Looking skeptical, the senior nurse joined her back to Augustus’s room. He was sitting almost upright against his pillows gazing ahead in an unfocused way.
“Is everything okay, Mr. Seeza?” the senior nurse asked, lightly placing a hand on his shoulder.
He looked up at her.
“Mr. Seeza?”
“I can’t hear you.”
The senior nurse was baffled. She fiddled around in her pockets, found her cell phone, and switched on the flashlight to peer into Augustus’s ears. She saw nothing blocking the auditory canal. “Hello, sir!” she shouted into the left ear.
He looked at her, but not as if he were responding to her voice. He seemed perplexed.
The two nurses stood staring at him for a moment.
Panic grew in Augustus’s eyes. “What is wrong?” he shouted. “What’s happening?”
The senior nurse tried to sign that he should stay calm, but it was difficult to convey that message. She left the bedside and beckoned Mabel to follow her out of the room.
“What’s the matter with him?” Mabel said.
“I don’t know,” the senior nurse said, pulling out her phone again. “I’m calling the doctor. Mr. Seeza has either gone deaf or crazy.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Ten months after
Saturday was market day for Emma. She was shopping for cocoyam leaves, salted fish, eggs, and yam for tonight’s kontomire dinner with her boyfriend, Courage. They had been dating for a year; the relationship was up and down, but mostly good.
Having finished shopping for the essentials, Emma went to her favorite kiosk in the market, Abena Style. Abena, the owner, sold women’s clothing and fashion accessories. Emma’s visit wasn’t all pleasure this time, as she was getting ready for her undercover assignment at Trasacco Valley, which meant putting together an outfit in keeping with a sophisticated, well-to-do woman. Working backward, she started with a coral purse she immediately fell in love with. Purses were her Achilles heel.
After looking at dozens of styles, Emma decided on a denim top with a ruffled hem and puffed sleeves, plus a high-waisted blue and coral print skirt that picked up the color of the purse. But there weren’t any matching shoes that Emma liked, so Abena, the consummate businesswoman, called an associate in the same market and asked her to bring over some shoe samples to the shop. She had a coral pair that matched the purse, but it was the navy-blue pumps that eventually did the trick.
Emma expressed the almost obligatory consternation at the price of all the merchandise, and then the haggling battle began. The final victory went to Emma as she put the skirt back on the rack with the words, “Okay, maybe next time.” In the retail world, “next time” meant “no time.” Emma got her price and all was well.
Emma began preparing kontomire by mid-afternoon. The kitchen with its stove and mini fridge led directly into the sitting room. There was a matchbook bedroom and bath adjoining that, but as small as it all was, the place was a step up from where Emma had lived during her former life as a police officer. She would always be grateful to have joined the Sowah Agency.
Courage walked in at 8:05 p.m. “Hello, love.” He put his arms around Emma.
“You’re late,” she said, slipping out of his embrace.
“What, no kiss?” he asked.
Emma gave him a light one on the cheek and Courage laughed. “I know you’ll give me a nice long one later,” he said, flopping on the sofa and reaching for the TV remote. Courage, who was a tad overweight, was almost always in a good mood. His face was round and open, and he seldom frowned. In civilian clothes, he appeared friendly and approachable, but was much more serious in uniform. He was a member of the Panther Unit, the Ghana Police SWAT team.
When the food was done, Emma and Courage served themselves from the kitchen and sat at the dining table. The fluffy white yam contrasted with the dark greens bathed in golden-red palm oil. Courage attacked the kontomire like a starving man, which he certainly wasn’t.
“What are you working on right now with Prof Sowah?” Courage asked her, using his favorite honorific title for her boss. “By the way, how is he these days?”
“Very well,” Emma replied, thinking that the kontomire was especially delicious, if she did say so herself. “I think he’s relieved we finally have a new case after so many months without anything showing up. It’s an unsolved murder.”
Courage, eating the traditional way with his right hand and munching with gusto, said, “Wow, so you guys are taking on murder now? I thought you were all about catching cheating husbands and wives.”
“Sowah’s hand was forced, I think,” Emma said. “Our bank balance must have been dwindling.”
Courage nodded. “So, what’s the case?”
“You remember the murder of Lady Araba not quite a year ago?”
He frowned. “I’m not sure. Who was she?”
“The fashion designer. She had her own line of clothing.”
“Oh, yes. Now I do. She was found dead in her own home—in the bedroom?”
“Right.”
“They arrested her houseboy or something.”
“Her chauffeur, actually. But from what we know, no physical evidence ties him to the act.”
“When does the Ghana Police ever have physical evidence?” Courage said unkindly.
“Believe it or not, in this case they do,” Emma said. “Potential DNA and fingerprints.”
Courage raised his eyebrows. “Really? Who told you that?”
“I saw it myself. Where’s my phone?”
Emma found it in the kitchen and pulled up the pictures she had taken in Thomas’s office. “See? The evidence is in the custody of the FSL administrator, and it appears no one has tampered with it, but why hasn’t anyone tested it? And why did they get rid of DS Boateng, who collected this, before he could run the tests himself?”
Courage looked up at Emma. “How did you even get these photos?”
“Undercover,” she said cryptically.
Courage made a face and shook his head. “Emma, be careful.” He sighed. “You know, sometimes I feel uncomfortable about your work. You’re messing around with potentially dangerous people.”
“Isn’t your job dangerous as well?”
“We have guns, remember? You have no such defenses.”
“Hm,” Emma said neutrally.
Courage sucked up some stew with relish, his lips gleaming with palm oil. “I think someone has prevented the evidence from being processed any further.”
Emma had finished eating and went to wash her hands in the kitchen. “It’s very frustrating,” s
he called back. “Someone is getting away with murder.”
When she returned, Courage said, “And so, who is this exceptional police officer who recovered evidence from the crime scene?”
“DS Isaac Boateng. Familiar?”
Courage shook his head. “No.”
“They suddenly took him off the case and transferred him from Homicide to Domestic Violence.”
Courage grunted. “What did I just tell you? Suppression of evidence.”
He cleared the table and went to the kitchen to wash the dishes—that was their agreed-upon arrangement. Meanwhile, Emma found one of her favorite Nigerian soap operas to watch.
When Courage was done, he returned and settled on the couch with Emma lying against him as they watched TV. But her mind wasn’t entirely on the program. She sat up, turning down the volume with the remote. “Let me ask you something,” she said to Courage. “How many different ways could DS Boateng’s evidence at the FSL be interfered with?”
“Many,” Courage said. “First, Thomas, the administrator, for whatever reason, could claim that the evidence was too contaminated and therefore he can’t or won’t release the findings. Or he could say the evidence is blank.”
“What do you mean, ‘blank?’”
“I’ll give you an example. A couple of years back, this Lebanese guy was accused of raping his house girl. She reported it to the police, and the lab at the police hospital the girl was taken to recovered and documented sperm from her. When they took the specimen to the FSL, the FSL claimed there was zero sperm. So, either the evidence was preserved incorrectly so that the spermatozoa disintegrated in transit, or someone at FSL was lying.”
“Do you know anything about Thomas?” Emma asked. “Is he trustworthy?”
“I don’t know a lot about him,” Courage said, “but I hear he’s a yes-man—does exactly what his superiors tell him.”
“So, if, say, the CID director-general told Thomas not to analyze the evidence, he would obey, no questions asked.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s your impression of Madame Tawiah?”
“Nobody likes her,” Courage said bluntly. “She doesn’t deserve the post, and she’s too arrogant to admit or realize it.”