Sleep Well, My Lady

by Kwei Quartey

  “Sir, the allegation has already been leveled, and I was giving Mrs. Tagoe a chance to respond.”

  “Well, the answer to your ridiculous question is no. But beyond that, you’ve demonstrated how tactless and vicious you and the rest of the media are. We are still grieving the loss of our daughter, and you come here and bring up such a revolting idea? What is wrong with you?”

  “It wasn’t my intention to inflict pain, sir.”

  “Well, then perhaps you shouldn’t be conducting interviews at all. This is unacceptable. As of this moment, I am disallowing you to publish anything about my daughter. If you do, I will sue you. I hope I’m making myself clear.”

  “Yes, sir. You are.”

  “Do you think something like that would ever go on in this household, where the Lord makes his presence known to us every hour, minute, and second of the day?”

  Walter said, “Sir, I had to follow up on the accusation. You have the right to deny or refute it.”

  “Where did you hear this lie? Or rather, who is slandering my family? I demand that you tell me.”

  Wary of what Tagoe might do with the information, Walter decided not to oblige. “I’m sorry, sir. I won’t reveal my source.”

  He remained silent as the Reverend glared at him.

  “That’s all right,” Tagoe said finally. “I already have a very good idea of who is responsible. You’ve been speaking to Augustus Seeza and his father, isn’t that correct? They are dishonorable lowlifes, and you shouldn’t believe a word out of their mouths.”

  Walter wouldn’t allow himself to be thrown off track. “Father, if you please, let’s disregard the Seezas for a moment and concentrate on your family. We have a very moving account of a gifted young woman, your daughter, who suffered trauma as a child and, had she not been murdered, would have shared it with the public because she wanted to lift the scab off a deep wound no one dares touch, especially in this country: the sexual abuse of children, and moving beyond that, sexual assault within the fashion industry. We cannot address the problem if we don’t admit to it. I admire Araba for her courage. Now, you too, as a man of God, have the opportunity demonstrate some of that same bravery and inspiration in admitting your wrongs.”

  Tagoe leapt up and lunged at Walter, who tried to scramble out of his chair to avoid the assault. He didn’t quite make it, but nor did the Reverend’s blow hit its intended target. The wild swing of his arm threw him off balance and onto the floor.

  At that moment, Miriam appeared in the room and began screaming. “Stop! Stop fighting!”

  “What is going on here?”

  Walter turned at the voice. Oko, who had just entered the room, was gaping in astonishment.

  Tagoe scrambled to his feet, shouting, “Get him out!”

  Walter backed away hastily. “What have you done?” Oko asked. “Did you hit my father?”

  Walter squeezed past Oko. “No, he tried to hit me,” he said. “I think it’s best I take my leave.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  Twelve months after

  Emma found Samson Allotey’s office at the Marina Mall. Emblazoned at the entrance in a looping font was the name Lady Pizzazz.

  When he opened the door, Emma had to make an effort not to stare as she silently acknowledged that he was one of the best-looking men she had ever met. He wore a tapered, blue-black shirt with the top button open to reveal a fine gold chain, and his black-and-white striped pants were as snug as his top. He even smelled good.

  “I couldn’t hear you too clearly on the phone,” he said as he welcomed her in. “You said you’re at the Ghana Journalism School?”

  “Yes please.”

  “Have a seat—any chair is fine. And your name again, please.”

  “I’m Pamela Kumson.”

  “Pamela,” he repeated. “Beautiful name. Well, as you know, I’m Samson. Nice meeting you. Oh, would you like some water or coffee?”

  “No, sir. Thank you very much.”

  In contrast to her appearance as Melody Acquah, Emma was dressed quite casually in a pink-and-black track suit that shaved a couple years off her age. Samson sat down opposite her in a sleek chair with no arms. His physique matched his biblical name.

  All the desks in his office were thick, solid glass. There seemed to be no drawers or papers anywhere—just laptops, and a lot of them.

  “So,” Samson said, settling in, “how can I help you today?”

  “Thank you for seeing me today. My professor has assigned me a project in which I must take a real-life news story and write an in-depth investigative report as if I had been the original reporter on the case. I chose the murder of Lady Araba as my topic, and I know you were her trusted assistant.”

  “That’s correct,” Samson said gravely. “And if she were still alive, I would have remained so. It was a great loss to me, to everyone.”

  “My condolences.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How did it come about that you moved to work with Lady Pizzazz after Lady Araba’s death?” Emma asked.

  “Formerly, both Susan Hayford and I were managers for Araba. After her death, the family began fighting over her will—I don’t know the details, but the company became tied up in the litigation as well, and I was out of a job. Susan had a position available in her younger enterprise, so I made the logical move.”

  “Understood. May I ask you some questions? If you don’t know the correct answer or you are not sure, then you can just say so, please. Or if they are too personal, just let me know.”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “No problem. Fire away.”

  From her backpack, Emma took out a pen and a ringed notebook, which she opened on her lap. “When was the last time you saw Lady Araba?” she asked Samson.

  “It’s been almost a year now,” he said. “It was the Sunday evening before our big show during Accra Fashion Week, which was . . . just a second, the exact date is on my calendar.” He picked up his Galaxy phone, scrolling with one hand. “Yeah, the third to seventh of July. So, the second of July was the last time. We were at a party, welcoming a few of the dignitaries who had arrived for the events.”

  “What was Lady Araba’s mood like at that time?”

  “She was always tense before a show,” Samson said, “but this time, it seemed worse than usual. I asked her if something was wrong, but she just shook her head. It wasn’t even nine o’clock and the party was barely getting started when she said she wasn’t feeling well and left.”

  “And that was the last time you spoke to her, sir?”

  “In person, yes, but I called her while she was on her way back home to make sure she was okay and get last-minute instructions for the show.” Samson paused, shaking his head in regret. “I didn’t know that would be the last time I ever heard her voice.”

  “And please, what time did you leave the party yourself?”

  “Just before eleven. I went straight back home to sleep, because I had to be up at four in the morning to prepare.”

  “Okay, thank you, sir. And in the morning, what happened, please?”

  “I was expecting Araba in by about seven-thirty, so as it neared eight o’clock, I got worried and tried calling her. There was no response, so, next, I tried her brother, Oko. He said he hadn’t seen or heard from her, but he would try to get ahold of her. We had to go on with the show at ten without Araba, and just before it began was when I got the terrible text from Oko. It was hard holding it together through the entire show, but I didn’t want our models to realize anything was wrong until it was over. Though the news wasn’t public yet, I did my best to keep them off their phones, and we were down a model, so they were busy, in any case.”

  “I’m sure you miss her very much.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What was she like to work with?”

  Samson smiled. “She was s
o brilliant, it was hard to keep up with her sometimes. And hardworking, too. She had great plans.”

  “Do you think someone wanted to stop her from carrying out those plans?” Emma asked.

  “By way of killing her?”

  Emma nodded.

  “Well,” Samson said, turning up his palm with a shrug, “it’s possible. But if you’re thinking Susan had something to do with it, I’d like to disabuse you of that notion. The media tried to portray Susan’s separation from Araba as acrimonious, but it wasn’t. They parted on good terms.”

  “Still,” Emma said, “Susan became Lady Araba’s competitor, with a company name that seemed almost purposefully close to the original. Now her biggest rival is conveniently out of the way.”

  “Susan knew the implications of her move,” Samson said. “As a matter of fact, you can ask her right now, because here she is.”

  He got up to open the door for a woman laden with brand-name shopping bags, which she handed over to Samson. “You can put them in my office for now.”

  Susan was short and plump, with a kinky-curly wig, over-the-top eye makeup, and lashes. She looked at Emma. “Who is this? The new employee?”

  Emma jumped up. “Oh, no, madam. Good morning. I’m Pamela. I’m a student.”

  “The one I told you was coming,” Samson told Susan. “Remember?”

  “Not exactly,” Susan said. “Anyway, welcome, Pamela. Are you at the fashion school?”

  “Journalism school,” Samson called out from the inner office, where he was setting down the bags. He came back out. “She’s working on an assignment about Lady Araba.”

  Susan frowned. “Lady Araba again. Why won’t people let her rest in peace? What is it you want to know, Miss Pamela?”

  “Please, madam, we were just discussing her untimely death.”

  Samson returned to his chair. “Pamela has pointed out that it must be convenient for a competitor in the fashion business having Lady Araba gone so they could gain market share.”

  Susan grunted and made a face. “Someone like me?” She pulled over a chair, sat down, and kicked off her pumps, which had left a deep imprint in her puffy feet. “Look, I’m flattered that anyone would think I have the guts to literally kill for success, but I don’t. I’m not that cold-blooded.”

  “You wouldn’t have to do it yourself,” Samson pointed out with a one-sided smile. “You could always hire someone.”

  Susan laughed. “What for? Waste of time. I’d rather beat my competitors on the runway. I love competition. People think I had ill feelings against Araba—why? Because they have nothing better to do all day than sit around on their asses and spread false gossip. The truth is, Miss Pamela, it is always family, family, family. Love and hate. You want a real story? Go to her family members and talk to them. Dig deep, and you’ll find a lot of dirt underneath what seems to be a nice, clean surface.”

  FORTY-SIX

  Two weeks before

  It was almost 6 p.m. on a Sunday, and Father Tagoe’s post-service duties were finally over. He went through the side door off the chancel and took a left to pass behind the church to the sacristy, the repository for the vestments, chalices, missals, and all other accoutrements of the Anglican sacrament. It was quiet, everyone having gone home.

  Tagoe hung his cassock among the other vestments in the opened rickety closet, which badly needed repair or replacement. As he donned his civilian clothes, he heard a light tap on the exterior door. It opened a second later.

  “Araba!” he exclaimed. “To what do I owe such a wonderful surprise?”

  She was dressed in sleek white pants and a checkered red-and-white blouse. Without makeup, she had a fundamental, immutable beauty. Tagoe attempted to embrace her, but she seemed stiff and unwilling.

  “Come in, have a seat,” he said, sensing something was wrong.

  They sat in chairs near the vestments closet.

  “How are you?” he said, smiling. “Business is good?”

  “Good enough,” Araba said. She was staring at him in a way that made his blood run cold.

  “What’s wrong, my love?” he said. “You look . . . off.”

  “Daddy, it’s time we talked.”

  “I’m here.”

  “I need to heal,” Araba said. “I’ve been walking around wounded for too long.”

  “Yes. It’s never too late to turn to the Lord. He will always accept you.”

  “This has nothing to do with religion or God,” she said. “Best leave those out.”

  “Then what, Araba? I’m not following.”

  “We’ve both buried it,” she said. “We tried to erase the memory, but it’s like a dead body at the bottom of a river. Eventually, it will rise back to the surface. That’s what’s been happening over the past couple of years.”

  Tagoe’s heart began to thump.

  “You remember when I was a little girl?” Araba said.

  “Of course! The apple of my eye, then and now.”

  “When I think about growing up, I was six, and then all of a sudden, I was seventeen, eighteen. Didn’t you ever wonder how those years flew by so quickly?”

  “Yes, even now,” Tagoe said.

  “Well, for me, many of those years are lost because I’ve done everything I can to block them out.”

  “Araba.” His voice shook slightly. “What are you talking about?”

  “Have you done that too, Daddy? Do you ever feel guilt or shame? I felt shame, but not until later. First, I thought it was normal, because you told me that what you were doing to me was part of God’s love. Then I was confused by the pain it caused me. And finally, when I realized it was wrong, I thought it was my fault, that I should have done something to stop it. That’s when the shame set in.”

  Tagoe shook his head, seemingly mystified. “My love, I don’t know what you mean. What has happened to you?”

  “What’s happened, Daddy, is that you took away my rights to my own body. But now I’m taking them back. Almost every night when you came to tuck me in, you touched my breasts and my vagina. I was still a little girl. Do you remember that?”

  “You’re making this up,” Tagoe said, his voice rising. “None of this is true. I don’t know why you’re saying it.”

  Araba’s eyes narrowed. “So, even now, you’re denying it. Making me suffer the consequences of your actions. But I won’t accept that this time.”

  At an impasse, they stared at each other for minutes in dead silence.

  “You forced me to touch your private parts.”

  Tagoe’s face went hot. He moved to the edge of his seat with his teeth clenched. “How dare you use such disgusting language in this holy place.”

  “Then I should ask you how you preach in this holy space about the sins of the flesh—lust, fornication, pornography, self-defilement—when you defiled your own daughter in the worst way.”

  Tagoe rose and walked to the door, which he opened wide. “Leave,” he said, switching to Ga. “You are not the daughter I raised. You are a disgrace.”

  Araba got up in silence. As she passed her father in the doorway, she stopped and turned to him. “You should know something. The theme at this year’s Accra Fashion Week is ‘We Too,’ and in two weeks, I will be on a special edition of Tough Talk. It’s then that I will talk about the sexual abuse I suffered at your hands. The whole world will know.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  One week before

  Sunday morning, Araba paid an unexpected visit to the family home and found her mother chatting with Oko on the sitting room sofa.

  “Araba!” Miriam exclaimed, rising from her chair to give her daughter a hug. “How nice to see you, my dear!”

  “Hi, Sis,” Oko said, smiling. Araba pecked him on the cheek.

  “We just finished breakfast,” Miriam said. “Would you like some?”

>   “Oh, no, Mama, thanks,” Araba said, choosing a seat opposite the other two.

  “Are you planning to join Oko and me for the ten o’clock mass?” Miriam asked eagerly. “Your father will be administering the Holy Communion, and I know he would love to see you there.”

  “Not today,” Araba said.

  Oko scrutinized her. “Are you okay? You seem uneasy, or nervous.”

  Araba was. Now that the moment had arrived, she felt shaky. “I have something to say.”

  “Oh?” Miriam said. “What’s happening?”

  Araba’s eyes were down. “What’s happening is I’m finally moving forward.”

  Oko half frowned, half smiled. “Moving forward? How is that?”

  “For years, I’ve lived with depression. Sometimes it gets very bad.”

  “Well,” Oko said, “you’re moody sometimes, but I always thought it was a by-product of your genius.” He smiled, trying to make it a joke, but Araba didn’t play along.

  “I didn’t know what the cause was until about two years ago, when I began having strange dreams and waking up with memories that had been buried.”

  “Memories.” Miriam stared at her daughter, puzzled. “What sort of memories?”

  “Of a man’s hands touching my body without consent.”

  Miriam gaped at Araba.

  Oko pulled back his chin. “What?”

  Araba looked at her mother. “You knew, didn’t you? That he molested me for years, starting when I was six and continuing until I left home.”

  Oko looked from his mother to his sister and back. “What’s going on? Araba, what are you talking about?”

  “Mama always came to tuck me in at night, and later, once she had gone to bed, Daddy would come to say good night. But that wasn’t all. He used to touch me and masturbate in front of me. He raped me.”

  Miriam jumped up and hurled herself at Araba, who shielded her face from her mother’s blows.

  “Mom!” Oko cried, grabbing her and pulling her away. “What are you doing?”