Children of the Street

by Kwei Quartey

  “I know, but don’t go back to your old habits.”

  “No, not at all.”

  They said good-bye and Dawson pocketed his phone. He had an odd fondness for Daramani, yet the man and his marijuana were a compartment of Dawson’s life that he couldn’t share with the people in his work or home life. That was why he wanted to leave it behind and kick the habit. Five months. Still clean. Still vulnerable.

  The Ghana Customs, Excise and Preventive Service Building was a good meeting place. One couldn’t miss the red-roofed, sky blue structure against Jamestown’s mostly cream and brown. A few meters away on the same side of the street, the rusty Jamestown post office seemed like a sad, neglected child.

  Wisdom was late. Dawson let the cab go and sought shade on the covered veranda of the customs building until the reporter showed up. When Wisdom arrived he parked with two wheels of his Graphic car up on the sidewalk and hopped out.

  “Inspector, εte sεn?” he greeted in Twi as they shook hands.

  “Eyε. And you?”

  Wisdom had one of the largest heads Dawson had ever seen, with a wide gap between the eyes. All that brain taking up space, Dawson supposed.

  “So, you have something for me?” the newspaperman said.

  Dawson handed him an envelope. Wisdom peered into it as if something might jump out at him, and then he withdrew the autopsy photocopies.

  “Ei!” he exclaimed, wincing. “My God. This is serious.”

  “I hope your Yves can work on it soon.”

  “He will. Trust me, he’s a good man.”

  “Thank you for the help, Wisdom. I need to get to Agbogbloshie. Can you give me a lift?”

  “But of course, Inspector.”

  Walking alongside Christine in Agbogbloshie, Dawson could not help thinking that this was not such a good idea. It wasn’t just the mud, it was the sewage spread and garbage scattered everywhere after having been flooded out of rudimentary gutters.

  “You remember the way?” Christine asked him, going around a puddle.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad. Because I’d be lost by now.”

  Glancing at her with a smile, Dawson thought his wife looked like a bright jewel in a pigsty here in Sodom and Gomorrah. She had brought some papers to be filled out to start the process of getting Sly into a school.

  A few more twists and turns, and they arrived at Gamel and Sly’s hovel. Dawson knocked, praying they were still there.

  A young woman with heavy black eyeliner opened the door and peered out. “Yes?”

  “Is Gamel here?” Dawson asked.

  “You say what?”

  “Gamel. Is he here?”

  She was puzzled. “Please, no Gamel here.”

  Dawson’s heart sank.

  “What about a small boy called Sly?”

  She shook her head.

  A thirtyish man with massive shoulders was sitting on an upturned crate a few meters away. “They have gone,” he said, without much interest.

  Dawson turned to him. “Gone to where?”

  The man shrugged. “I dunno.”

  Dawson blew out his breath like a deflating balloon. He looked at Christine.

  “Sorry, Dark,” she said sympathetically.

  “I had a funny feeling they might not be here,” he said, resigned. “Oh, well. I tried.”

  “You did,” Christine said. “That’s what matters.”

  But as they walked away, Dawson made a mental note: what mattered even more was that he continue to try. He would keep looking for Sly. Something about the boy had struck a chord.

  8

  Over the next three days, there were no leads. Dr. Biney’s official report didn’t add anything to what Dawson already knew from attending the autopsy. It would take ages to get back the test results from Korle Bu Hospital’s new DNA center, which was of limited capacity. Many of its samples still had to be sent out for analysis in South African labs and at the University of Southern California—a costly and time-consuming exercise.

  Dawson, preoccupied over Hosiah, felt out of sorts, as if he might be heading into a blue mood. But it was Friday, and the prospect of the weekend brightened him somewhat.

  Saturday, Dawson, Christine, and Hosiah visited friends in Lartebiokorshie. They had a son of around Hosiah’s age, so he had someone to play with while the adults talked. As they chatted on the veranda of the house, Dawson’s phone rang.

  “Yes, Wisdom?”

  “Dawson, Yves just sent me his rendition of the boy. You wouldn’t believe how fine it is.”

  “Have you emailed it to me?”

  “Yes, I have. And my boss wants it in the paper as soon as possible, so you’ll see the article tomorrow.”

  “Okay, no problem.” Before he hung up, Dawson said, “Thank you, eh?”

  “Who was that?” Christine asked.

  “I’m afraid I have to leave,” Dawson said. “Something new on the case has come in.”

  “You really have to go right now?”

  “Yes, I apologize.”

  Christine didn’t look happy.

  The email was waiting for Dawson on his laptop at home. He had bought the slightly used computer in multiple payments for a total of GHC450, which was a good bargain.

  “Oh,” he said under his breath as he saw the images. “Outstanding.”

  Yves Kirezi had created two black-and-white images, one showing the lagoon boy with a serious expression, the other showing him smiling to reveal the right upper missing canine tooth. “LB” ’s eyes were deep and energetic. His face was open and generous, the kind that makes people want to approach and chat. How had Yves captured that?

  Dawson sent a reply to Wisdom thanking both him and Kirezi. He got on the phone to Chikata.

  “Meet me in Agbogbloshie in two hours.”

  Chikata almost choked. “What?”

  “We have the sketch. I want to start showing it around.”

  “Ah, Dawson. Sir. Today?”

  “We’ve lost a week already. No more time to waste.”

  “I know, but …”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “No.”

  “Good. So see you in two hours.”

  Dawson had a couple things to get done in those two hours. First he bought the cheapest possible ream of paper from a small store near Central Post Office. Next, laptop slung over his shoulder, he hotfooted it to Salaga Internet to print LB’s image and get a hundred copies made. At Salaga, bringing in his own paper dropped the price drastically, knowing the owner dropped it even more, which was a good thing, because Dawson was perilously low on cash. No one else in CID would spend his or her hard-earned wages on any part of an investigation in such a personal way. Dawson was either a saint or a fool. His colleagues would vote the latter.

  Have you ever seen anyone, or do you know anyone, who looks like this boy?

  That was the standard question Dawson and Chikata asked as they handed out the lagoon boy flyers. They split up, Chikata venturing into Agbogbloshie Market east of Abossey Okai Road to canvass the always-observant market women, while Dawson took Agbogbloshie west of the street.

  He came across a group of six teenage boys languishing by a defunct kiosk in front of a puddle of water. Dawson greeted them as they sized him up. The biggest one stood. Introducing himself, Dawson shook hands. The boy’s name was Abdel, a name typical of northern Ghana. Chances were his native tongue was Hausa.

  “Do you speak Twi?” he asked Abdel hopefully.

  “Yes.”

  Dawson handed him a flyer. “Do you know this boy?”

  His companions crowded round the picture, leaning against one another with the casual intimacy of pals. There was an avid discussion in Hausa. Dawson understood snatches of it.

  “We don’t know him,” Abdel said finally.

  “But Abdel, my friend,” Dawson said, “I heard some of you say you might have seen him before.”

  Abdel was surprised. “Do you hear our language?” he asked in
Hausa.

  “A little bit,” Dawson replied in kind.

  The boys all smiled at him instantly, appreciating his effort.

  “Why are you looking for him?” Abdel asked, returning to Twi for Dawson’s benefit.

  “I’m not. He’s dead. I’m trying to find out who he is.”

  Abdel translated again for his friends. They got shifty-eyed and uneasy, and one of them muttered “Police.” They were suspicious of Dawson, and even if one or more of them might have recognized the lagoon boy, their instincts were telling them that this was trouble.

  “Okay,” Dawson said lightly, giving them a few more flyers. “Please ask some of your other friends, or your families, if they know this boy. If you hear something about this, please try to call the number there.”

  He thanked them. “Nagode.”

  But as he walked away, Dawson felt it was a lost cause. There was no chance these kids would call him. He prayed Chikata was having better luck.

  9

  Chikata hadn’t done any better. People were either evasive or just not that interested. He and Dawson called it a day.

  Monday morning, Dawson was cautiously hopeful that things would begin to move in the right direction. LB’s image would be ready for the evening TV news broadcast. Dawson saw to it that the picture went up in all the waiting areas of the CID building, alongside the other Wanted and Missing Person posters.

  Last night, he had read Wisdom’s well-crafted Sunday Graphic feature entitled DEATH IN THE LAGOON: IS THIS WHAT IT WILL TAKE? Rather than just reporting LB’s death as a crime, Wisdom had made it a sociological study of Korle Lagoon and its surrounding areas.

  By Tuesday, Dawson was praying for some kind of lead—anything at all. By Wednesday he was telling himself to settle down to reality. Things never happen as quickly as one would like. It could be months before they got any leads. The case could go cold too. The piles of folders and papers on his desk were a reminder of that.

  After lunch on Wednesday, just as it was beginning to seem like another routine day, Constable Simon, who worked on the second floor, came up to Dawson’s desk.

  “Please, massa, can you come? We have a problem downstairs.”

  “What is it?” Dawson asked, getting up.

  “A certain girl came asking for you,” Simon said, “but there’s something wrong with her. While she was waiting, she just collapsed on the ground and started to cry.”

  Chikata stood up as well. He and Dawson followed Simon out the door and down the narrow stairs to reception on the second floor, a relatively open area at the intersection of the three wings of the sand-colored building. The two receptionists and a growing crowd of people were standing around a scrawny teenage girl, who was on the floor weeping.

  Crouched beside the girl was a stout young woman imploring her in Twi, “Akosua, please, get up. Don’t cry, Akosua, eh? Please.”

  She was trying to scoop Akosua into her arms, but the girl was unwieldy, as limp and floppy as a rag doll. In between sobs, she was saying something that Dawson could not make out at first.

  Simon looked at him and said, “Massa, it’s your name she’s calling.”

  “My name?” Dawson said, craning forward. “Are you sure?”

  Simon was right. In Twi, Akosua was moaning, “I want Mr. Darko, I want to talk to Mr. Darko.”

  He knelt down beside the woman. “Are you her friend?”

  “Yes, please. My name is Regina. You are Inspector Darko? The one they said in the newspaper we should call if we have information on the boy in Korle Lagoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please, yesterday Akosua and I saw the drawing of the boy. It looks like her boyfriend. She has been looking for him for more than one week. She won’t eat, and she can’t sleep. I have to force her to drink even just a little bit of water. As soon as she saw the picture, she said, ‘That is Musa,’ and she started to cry. She almost fainted when we were waiting for a tro-tro to bring us here.”

  Dawson looked quickly around. First order of business, get Akosua off this stage and away from this audience. Covering her face with her hands, she had quieted down now, only whimpering slightly, breathing quickly and deeply.

  Dawson touched her shoulder. “Akosua, I’m Darko. Can you stand up?”

  She nodded, still hiding her face, as though scared to face the world.

  “Come on, then. I’ll help you.”

  Dawson took her arm and supported her as she shakily got to her feet. To Constable Simon, he said, “Please get her some water.”

  To talk to her, he needed a relatively quiet and private place, which could be difficult to find at CID. One of the secretaries in the Public Relations Office was standing nearby. Dawson knew she worked in a small office with only one other woman.

  “Can we use your room for a moment?”

  She nodded. “No problem, sir. It’s free.”

  The audience began to disperse, the spectacle of the day over.

  Akosua, still unsteady on her feet, leaned against Regina as they followed Dawson down the corridor. Chikata accompanied them into the office, where there were two desks, one with a computer that was switched off. Dawson wondered if it worked. Many of CID’s computers were old, burned-out fixtures.

  Chikata moved the chairs from behind the desks, offering them to the young women. Akosua was trembling. Her eyes were bloodshot and as painfully swollen as those of a pummeled boxer. Now, Dawson could get a good look at her. While Regina was around twenty, twenty-one, Akosua couldn’t have been more than about seventeen. She was built very slightly, with a mousy, anxious face. She had a small tribal mark on her left cheek. Her hair was badly cut and straightened, but she had made an effort to gather it back and look sophisticated. Her dress, a Ghanaian print, was on the shabby side with oil stains. She wore cheap plastic slippers. Yet Dawson could see the care she had put into her appearance.

  Physically, she and Regina could not have been more unlike each other. Regina was richly made, her body forcing her blouse and tight jeans to conform to her curves. Akosua looked like she ate once every other day.

  Constable Simon came in with a bottle of Voltic water.

  “Thank you, Simon,” Dawson said.

  “No problem, massa. Please, do you need anything else?”

  “No, thank you. You can go.”

  Dawson snapped the seal on the top of the bottle and handed it to Akosua. “Have water. You need it. Take your time.”

  For the first time, Akosua looked up at him and met his gaze. “Thank you,” she whispered, taking the bottle.

  Regina, supportively holding her friend’s free hand, watched as she tilted her head back and drank thirstily, her glottis loudly registering each gulp.

  “Ei!” Regina exclaimed with a half laugh. “Take a breath, Akosua.”

  The girl did, stopping only briefly, and then finished up the bottle.

  Dawson took it from her. “Better?”

  Akosua nodded, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. “Please, yes. Thank you.”

  Dawson perched on the side of the desk, the one with the computer. “So. You wanted to talk to me. Here I am.”

  She might have felt intimidated by him or been shy, or both. She looked uncertainly at Regina, who took up the slack and said, “Please, Mr. Dawson, we came to look for you yesterday afternoon, but they said you weren’t here and we should come back today.”

  Dawson didn’t comment, but his not hearing about who had come looking for him was a common occurrence. More often than not, the receptionists did not take a message, verbal or written, nor did they pass it on. “Come back tomorrow” was an all-too-frequent response to the visitor in search of a CID officer.

  “I’m sorry I was so hard to find, Akosua,” Dawson said, addressing her rather than Regina, trying to coax her out. “You say the drawing of the boy resembles your boyfriend?”

  “Yes, please,” she said softly, her hands wringing in her lap.

  “What is his name?”

/>   “Please, his name is Musa Zakari. I haven’t seen him for ten days. As soon as I saw the picture in the newspaper, I knew it was him.”

  Regina pulled out a mobile from her jeans pocket. “Mr. Darko, I took some pictures of Akosua and Musa some weeks ago, if you want to have a look. Then you can see how he looks like.”

  Dawson and Chikata came around so they could see her phone screen. Akosua looked on as Regina went through each of four photographs, all containing Musa. One of them really got Dawson’s attention. Musa was standing behind Akosua with his arms around her, his smiling face nuzzling against her neck as she leaned against him. Comparing a drawing to a photo was often difficult, and the facial features were not a dead-on likeness to Kirezi’s sketch. But the smile. It was the smile with the same missing cuspid that did it. Somehow, Kirezi had captured it perfectly.

  “That’s a fine picture of you and Musa,” Dawson said to Akosua.

  She smiled tentatively, a smile marred by sadness.

  “How did he lose his tooth?” Dawson asked.

  Akosua cleared her throat. “Please, about three months ago, some thieves at Agbogbloshie Market beat him and stole his money. His mouth was bleeding and his tooth was loose, and it was paining him so he pulled it out and he was going to throw it away, but I said no, don’t throw it away—give it to me, and he said, Ah, but what will you do with it? And I said I would make a necklace with it, so when I wear it I know I have you with me even if you are not there.”

  Without warning, tears erupted, running down her cheeks, and a whimper escaped her.

  Regina gave her friend a handkerchief and then rubbed Akosua’s back soothingly. “You’re doing well,” she said.

  Dawson squeezed the girl’s hand encouragingly. “I know this is tough. Try for me, eh? I’m very glad you came to see me.”

  She pressed the handkerchief against her eyes. Dawson gave her a chance to recover. He asked her gently, “Did you make the necklace with the tooth?”

  Akosua nodded, taking a grimy piece of paper carefully out of her pocket. She unfolded it gingerly, revealing a thin strand of leather with a single strung item—a tooth. Dawson picked up the necklace and examined it. The tooth, one of the cuspids, was dazzling white and smooth as pearl. In a minute hole drilled through its base was a small metal loop, to which the leather string was attached. Dawson felt that surge of excitement that came with a significant break.