by Kwei Quartey
He didn’t look at Laryea, only at Madam Tawiah. “Are you ready?” he barked.
She laughed at him, then smiled at Laryea. “My brother. I must go now, because he has no patience.”
Laryea rose. “Of course, madam. Good evening, sir.”
“That’s DCOP Laryea,” Tawiah informed Kyei, as if he cared.
“Ah,” Kyei grunted. “Good evening.”
Laryea stood up. “Okay then, Madam Tawiah. I’m taking my leave. Thank you for seeing me.”
“You’re welcome. Take care.”
As Laryea shut the door behind him, he was assembling a theory in his mind. Seeza and his Metro TV owner Kyei had been close and still were, despite Seeza’s downfall. To protect the network and the Tough Talk show from bad press, Kyei may have asked his sister, Tawiah, to stop the crime scene evidence from going any further than administrator Thomas’s office. Laryea found himself weighing this hypothesis against the other, equally credible alternative that it was Judge Julius Seeza who had had a hand in stopping the march of justice in order to protect his son.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Eleven months after
Several days after speaking with the Tagoes, Walter Manu finally secured an interview with Augustus on the pretext of being a freelance journalist writing an in-depth feature on the famous TV anchorman. Gideon was to be Walter’s “photographer.”
Julius Seeza’s home was the venue of the interview. Unemployed, Augustus had sold his apartment and was living with his parents. The house was large, as could be expected for a well-off doctor and judge. With Gideon beside him, Walter knocked on the front door. A young man in a batakari opened it after a few seconds.
“Good morning,” Walter said. “I’m Busia, this is David, my assistant. Mr. Seeza should be expecting us.”
“Wh—which Mr. Seeza?” The man had a pronounced stutter.
“Augustus.” Walter said.
“Okay. Please c—come in.”
He asked Walter and Gideon to have a seat while he went to get Mr. Seeza.
After a brief while, it wasn’t Augustus who appeared. It was Julius, who didn’t seem wildly excited to see the two visitors. “Morning,” he said dully. “You’re the guys from the newspaper?”
Standing, Walter introduced Gideon and himself by their aliases. “I’m a freelance journalist, sir.”
“Have a seat, please,” Seeza said, taking a chair himself. “So, you don’t know yet where your article will appear?”
“That’s correct, sir, but several websites both here and abroad almost always publish my work.”
“We can conduct the interview in my study,” Julius said. “I’ll take you there in a moment, but before we proceed, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Due to his illness, Augustus has suffered severe sensorineural hearing loss, which has been devastating to all of us, but to him especially. We are in the process of raising funds for a cochlear implant, for which the doctors say Augustus is eligible, but which is an extremely costly procedure. I need you to make that very clear in the interview and where any donations should be sent.”
So, there’s something in it for them, too, Walter thought. “Of course, sir,” he said. “It will be my honor to do so. I’ve always been a great fan of Mr. Seeza’s.” That much was true.
“I appreciate that,” Julius said, a hint of a smile appearing like the sun peeping through the clouds. “Please come with me, gentlemen.”
They followed him down a dim hallway to a musty room with a formidable old wooden desk and bookshelves laden with large law volumes.
“Have a seat,” Julius said. “I’ll be just a few minutes.” At the door, he turned. “One other thing. I will not allow you to question Augustus about anything to do with Araba Tagoe.”
As soon as he left the room, Walter muttered, “Oh. That’s not good.”
He exchanged a glance with Gideon, who said, “What are you going to do, then?”
“Don’t worry. We’ll talk around it. He might even bring her up.”
They sat looking at the framed awards, qualifications, and photographs of Julius Seeza with prominent international figures present and past hanging on the walls.
“Wow,” Gideon whispered. “Impressive.”
Voices, one of which was a woman’s, emanated from down the hall. The two male Seezas appeared in the doorway first, and Caroline brought up the rear. Holding on to Julius’s arm, Augustus walked with a cane, his gait awkward and unstable. He swayed as if being buffeted by gusts of wind, almost certain to fall were it not for his cane on his right and his father on the left. With each step, Augustus looked down at his feet as if to make sure he was planting them correctly.
“Almost there,” Julius murmured encouragingly as he guided his son toward a large brown leather armchair. Augustus sat down with some effort and a short groan.
Walter felt a jolt of dismay. This man didn’t remotely resemble Augustus Seeza, host of the brilliant Tough Talk program Walter had watched for years. He was much leaner, and where he was once clean-shaven, he now had a patchy gray beard, appearing to have aged twenty years. Walter hoped he was successfully hiding his shock.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Caroline said. With her teal-colored stethoscope draped around her neck, she was dressed in a fetching yellow pants suit over a white silk blouse. She wore pearl earrings and a necklace to match.
Walter and Gideon rose in deference. “Morning, Doctor,” they said, almost simultaneously.
“Oh, please, sit,” Caroline said. “I’m leaving for the hospital now, so I won’t be able to stay. I just want to say that in welcoming you to our home for this interview, we expect a tone of respect and civility over this sensitive matter. My son is recovering from a serious illness, and so I would ask you to be as brief and to-the-point as possible, so as not to tire him out too much.”
“Yes, of course, Doctor,” Walter said. “We will see to that.”
Caroline nodded. “Very good.” She rested her hand on Augustus’s shoulder for a moment and smiled at him. “I’ll come back at lunchtime and we can eat together.”
Gideon found Caroline Seeza attractive. “Please, Doctor,” he said. “Do you mind if I take some pics of you and your son together? It will promote the cause.”
“Of course not,” she said sweetly. She kneeled down beside Augustus and flashed a brilliant smile as Gideon snapped a few.
“Thanks, Doctor.”
Once she had left, Julius grabbed a pen and legal pad from the desk and settled into a seat next to his son. “He can read lips a little,” Julius explained, “so, when asking a question, look directly at him and enunciate your words, but please do not shout in the expectation that he will hear you any better. I will help by writing down the questions he doesn’t understand, but he will respond verbally in the normal way. I know it’s tedious, but this is the only way it can be done.”
“Yes, sir,” Walter said. “No problem.” He looked at Augustus. “Thank you for allowing us to speak to you, sir.”
“You’re welcome.” His voice was raspy, like sandpaper—nothing like his booming, melodic baritone from before.
“Do you mind if my photographer takes a few photos while we’re talking?”
Augustus looked at his father, who pointed at Gideon and mimed using a camera.
“Yes, no problem,” Augustus answered.
“How have you been feeling, sir?” Walter asked.
Augustus cued his father to transcribe the new question, which he did quickly on the pad.
Augustus replied, “Well, we take it day by day. Physically, I’m broken, but emotionally, I’m recovering, and I thank God for rescuing me from the hell I was living in.”
“When you say ‘hell,’ sir, what do you mean?”
Augustus leaned toward Julius to see the s
cribbled question. “For years, I was in Satan’s grip—drinking heavily, even while I was working. Now I’m in recovery, alcohol-free for six months.”
“Congratulations, sir. I’m sure it wasn’t easy. How long had you suffered with this before you turned it around?”
“For twenty years, I have been a functioning alcoholic. About two years ago, it became much worse.”
“What do you believe triggered that?”
When Augustus saw the written question, he shrugged. “Many things. Mostly marital issues.”
Aware that Julius was watching closely, Walter asked, “Please, sir, can you expand on that a little bit?”
“I was stuck between two women, both of them wonderful in their own way. I was cruel to them both.”
“If I’m not mistaken, sir, you were married to Bertha Longdon?”
“That is correct.”
“And the other woman you’re referring to?”
Julius interrupted sharply. “This is an area I warned you to avoid, Mr. Busia.”
“But, sir, your son brought it up himself,” Walter pointed out.
Augustus was watching the back-and-forth closely and must have figured out what was going on. “Papa,” he said keenly. “I’m not a child, so please don’t try to censor the questions. If I don’t wish to answer something, I will make it known.”
Walter was glad to see a flash of the old Augustus Seeza. Julius scowled and went into a wounded, resentful silence.
Gideon was moving around them quietly taking pictures.
“I’m sure you’re aware that Lady Araba and I were in a relationship,” Augustus continued to Walter. “It was the stress of being caught between Bertha and Araba that pushed me toward the bottle.”
Not exactly taking full responsibility, Walter thought. On the other hand, women could be ruthless and nagging. The constant calls, the stalking, the unfounded jealousy—Walter understood all that. It had been a long time since anything of that nature had been part of his life, but before his marriage decades ago, he’d had his share of “women problems.”
“How were you able to stop drinking?” Walter asked.
Augustus studied Walter’s lips. “Come again?”
Walter repeated it more slowly.
“Only by the grace of God,” Augustus responded. “He pulled me from a destructive fire. Let me tell you something, Mr. Busia. After my hospitalization for acute pancreatitis, the Lord spoke to me. He said, ‘Augustus, if you don’t relinquish alcohol forever, you will die.’ And I listened to Him.”
“We thank God,” Walter said with approval. “Please, I know this is a sensitive topic, but if you don’t mind telling me when you stopped drinking in relation to the death of Lady Araba?”
“Why is that important?” Julius interjected, flipping up his palm.
Augustus saw the gesture and put a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Papa, relax. I’m not afraid of these questions. Please, I beg you—write what he asks.”
Julius did. Augustus read it and returned the notepad to Walter. “I’ll explain everything to you; I have nothing to lose and perhaps something to gain. A little less than a year after Bertha and I separated, I met Lady Araba at a party, and we began an affair.”
Augustus continued, “For several months, I felt relentless pressure from both Araba and Bertha—jealous attacks and bitter accusations. For relief, I took to drinking. One night at the station, I was drunk. It was obvious during my terrible interview with Chief Justice Angela Waters, following which I was suspended and then fired. Soon after, Lady Araba told me to stay away from her, but I knew it was at the behest of her family, particularly Fifi Tagoe, the so-called Reverend, one of the greatest hypocrites I have ever encountered. But I digress. The day I was hospitalized with alcoholic hepatitis, I called Araba out of pure desperation, and she came down to see me. I vowed to her I would never drink again. Both of us cried that day and decided to make things work.
“I was true to my word over the next six months. I grew strong again, gained some weight, and had one of the happiest times of my life with Araba. We went to church together every Sunday and prayed to the Lord to give us strength. And then, just like that, she was gone. Dead.”
Although instinct alone was no reliable indicator, Walter thought Augustus’s anguish seemed real. Was it also true that, during the months leading up to Araba’s death, the couple had been together in blissful harmony?
“After her death,” Augustus said, “I turned back to alcohol. The last time I ever drank, I barely escaped death. It was also during that hospital stay, which lasted weeks, that this deafness attacked me out of nowhere. They say they don’t understand how it happened, but I do. It was God’s punishment. How many times in church had I promised Him that I wouldn’t drink again? Lies. I didn’t hold up my end of the bargain. By His grace alone, God is giving me one last chance. The media have cast doubt as to whether I’ve truly found God, which I have, but I can’t force anyone to believe me. They also continue to insinuate that I murdered Lady Araba. I didn’t, but I’m certain of who did.”
“Who?”
“Father Fifi Tagoe.”
Walter’s eyebrows raised. “Her father? That’s a bold accusation to make.”
“And when I tell you why I say it, you’ll understand,” Augustus said. “Araba held a deep secret practically all her life. When she was a young girl, her father, the Most Reverend Tagoe, a so-called man of God, sexually abused her.”
Walter started. “Excuse me?”
“Araba’s father abused her for years, starting when she was six or seven and for years until she left home in her late teens.”
Walter, stunned, exchanged a glance with Gideon.
“Very few people know about the depression she suffered as a result of what that man did to her,” Augustus went on. “She described it to me in horrible detail—the way her father would come into her bedroom and violate her after Miriam had gone to bed.”
Walter was staggered. “When did she tell you?”
“Well into our relationship. Over a year.”
“Did anyone else know?”
“Her Auntie Dele might have,” Augustus said, “but it’s not something you share with many people, and holding something like that inside you for years can make you sick. Araba was often plunged into deep depression, even without obvious cause. It was the weight of that awful secret, and once she began to realize that, things improved. We never discussed if or when she would go public with this, but I knew she was moving in that direction. When one of the organizers of fashion week decided to make the theme “We Too,” Araba took it as a signal that it was time.
“Araba was scheduled to be interviewed live on a special Monday-night edition of Tough Talk for the start of fashion week, and that was when she intended to expose her father. She confronted him about this ahead of time, but he denied ever abusing her. He then tried to stop her from moving forward with her plan, but Araba’s mind was made up. Now, you tell me, Mr. Busia, as a priest, how would you feel if you had built your entire career, even your identity, on piety, and someone was on the verge of exposing your sin and wickedness to the world? Think of the shame.”
Walter agreed with what Augustus was implying. It was a strong motive for murder. But not proof.
“Now, Mr. Busia, are you finished?” Julius said. “My son is tired. That’s all the questions he can take for now.”
THIRTY-NINE
Eleven months after
To get ahold of Kweku-Sam at Nsawam Prison, Sowah posed as a university professor interviewing murder suspects. After visiting the prison administrator with a small “donation,” permission was granted. A semi-private area of the prison yard was the chosen venue for the interview. Not far away, a guard kept a languid eye on the prisoner and the “professor” sitting opposite each other.
Kweku-Sam was rail thin and di
dn’t look well.
“How are you?” Sowah asked just the same.
“I’m fine, thank you.” His voice was low and listless.
“I appreciate you meeting me here today.”
Kweku-Sam kept his gaze down. “Okay, sir.”
“My name is Professor Chinery. I am interviewing prisoners charged with murder and awaiting trial.”
“Yes please.” Kweku-Sam looked up, fresh hope creeping into his lifeless eyes. “Please, can you help my case?”
“I can’t promise you that, but let’s pray for the best. Okay?”
“Yes please.”
“How are you surviving here?”
Kweku-Sam shook his head. “If one of those guys doesn’t kill me, then the food will. I can’t even tell you how terrible everything is. Every day I wonder: Will I die here?”
Sowah felt sympathy for him.
“Has anyone told you why you’re here?” Sowah asked.
Kweku-Sam shrugged. “They say I killed her. That I went to steal her jewelry and I killed her.”
“Lady Araba, you mean?”
“Yes please.”
“And did you?”
“No please.”
Tears were suddenly streaming down Kweku-Sam’s face. He wiped them away before he spoke again. “Madam was a good woman. When my boy was sick and we took him to the hospital, she helped me and my wife because the cost was too much. I’m grateful to Lady Araba for everything. Why should I kill her?”
“When did the police arrest you?” Sowah asked. “And what did they say to you?”
“The last time I saw her was that Sunday, the night before they found her dead,” Kweku-Sam said. “Around seven that evening, I took her to a party and brought her back home at about nine. Her assistant, Samson, called her once while we were on our way out, and Mr. Seeza also called her twice. He asked if he could come see her, and she said no, she wouldn’t let him in. She was very annoyed.”