Children of the Street

by Kwei Quartey

  “But, please, I’m not telling lies.”

  “You were the last person to be seen with Musa, do you know that?”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “You were with him on Saturday night,” Chikata continued, “and the next morning he was found dead. Did you go with him to Korle Lagoon that night?”

  “Please, no.”

  “You were jealous of him and Akosua, and you wanted Akosua for yourself, not so?”

  “No. Jealous of him and Akosua, why? Musa is my countryman.”

  “Where did you kill him?” Chikata said. “We know you did it. Did you kill him near the lagoon? Where?”

  Daramani turned his palms up and lifted his shoulders. “I didn’t kill him! What do you want me to say?”

  “You did. Someone saw you.”

  “What? Who? It’s a lie.”

  Dawson rested his brow against the wall for a moment, eyes closed. This was horrible.

  “You liked that Akosua so much,” Chikata said, lowering his voice, “and when you saw Musa with her that Saturday at the Nima Market, you decided to kill him.”

  Daramani put his head between his hands.

  “So after you left your house,” Chikata continued, “you went with him to Agbogbloshie and late at night you killed him. We know that’s how it happened. If you confess, it will be better for you. You’re going to jail. Why not tell the truth now and we can help you?”

  “Please,” Daramani said wearily. “I am telling you the truth.”

  Chikata pushed his chair back abruptly and stood up. “Okay, we will see about that.”

  He and Lartey came out, shutting the door behind them and joining Dawson. The three of them went up the hallway a few meters to be out of Daramani’s hearing.

  “I believe he is our prime suspect,” Chikata said.

  “You didn’t give him a chance to establish an alibi,” Dawson pointed out. “You do that first and then you follow it up. If the alibi proves false, you come back to him and challenge him.”

  “His alibi is implied,” Lartey interjected quietly. “Daramani says Musa was with him in Nima for two hours and then Musa left. That means Daramani is claiming he was in Nima when Musa was killed.”

  Dawson looked away. He didn’t agree. And thank you for cutting me down in front of my junior officer. He wasn’t going to waste any more time arguing. What was the point? The chief supol would defend his nephew to the death no matter what Dawson or anyone else said.

  “Go and get the search warrant, Philip,” Lartey said.

  Chikata left the two men.

  “I think your detective sergeant does have a case, Dawson,” Lartey said, lifting his chin imperiously. “You are probably blinded by your bias toward your, em, friend. It’s a normal human tendency.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And one word of advice to you. Be very careful who you mix yourself up with—not just on duty but off duty too. The kind of company this Daramani keeps—truck pushers, Agbogbloshie people—is unsavory.” Lartey made a face, as if bile had just erupted into his mouth. “It isn’t fitting for you to associate with such base elements of society. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. That’s all for today. You may go.”

  14

  Dawson didn’t go home immediately. Instead, he took a walk. He would have liked to escape to some wilderness setting with fresh air and beautiful vistas, like Mount Afadjato or Wli Falls, but the streets of Accra would have to do for now. He turned away from noisy Ring Road, heading past the vehicle yard to the relatively quieter neighborhood roads behind CID Headquarters. Here, where a street called Myohaung formed a shady alcove, policemen and women parked official vehicles while stopping for a meal from the outdoor food vendors.

  Pulling out his shirttails, Dawson thrust his hands in his pockets as he walked along Myohaung Street. Curious about the name, Dawson had once researched it, finding out it referred to the part Ghanaian troops played in defeating the Japanese at Myohaung, Burma. Over 65,000 Ghanaians had fought abroad with the Allied forces during the Second World War. One of these days, Dawson would tell Hosiah about such historical details, which western textbooks often left out.

  And Dawson? What would his contribution to the world be? What would he leave behind when he was gone? Would his name be in a textbook or on a street sign somewhere? Did it matter? Conflicts with Chief Superintendent Lartey often brought on these existential crises for Dawson.

  Sometimes too, in these situations, Dawson thought about his mentor Daniel Armah, the detective who had first investigated the disappearance of Dawson’s mother when Dawson was a boy of twelve. What would he have become if he had never met Detective Armah? Now retired and living in Kumasi, Armah had been a sergeant back then. It wasn’t so much Armah’s abilities as a detective that had inspired Dawson to go into the same field. In fact, Armah never did find out what had happened to Dawson’s mother, and in that sense, some might have said that Armah failed. But no matter, it was the care Armah had shown to Darko the boy that had been so moving, care Darko never received from his own father.

  Was Chief Supol Lartey right that associating with “people like Daramani” was unfitting for Dawson? Did Dawson have some kind of moral failing? Defensively he thought, I could be a worse man. After all, he was a good father and husband, was he not? But if that was the case, he should completely drop the vice that he strenuously kept hidden from his family.

  As Dawson turned in to Rangoon Lane, he felt the existential crisis fading for now, but he knew it would be back sooner or later.

  Chikata and Issifu, another detective sergeant, were gloved up and searching Daramani’s small, messy dwelling. Chikata went first for the thin foam mattress on the floor. Issifu was looking through a box of clothing. There was a hot plate on the floor with some battered cookware.

  Turning to the clothes hanging from a nail in the wall, Chikata dug through all the shirt and pants pockets. He checked the two pairs of ragged tennis shoes on the floor. Nothing so far. There was a portmanteau in the corner packed with bottles of beer and plates. Chikata took the items out one by one. He found the odd fork and knife on the bottom as well as something flat wrapped in a newspaper. Chikata removed it. It was a hefty knife with a razor-sharp edge. The blade, about eight inches long, caught the meager light in the room and flashed it back. Chikata took the knife to the doorway to examine it in the late afternoon sunlight. The blade was clean except for some water spots, but along the bolster between handle and blade, there was a red stain that Chikata could have missed had he been careless. And indeed, the murderer could have missed the same spot as he washed the blood off the knife he had used to stab Musa Zakari in the back.

  15

  When Dawson returned home, Christine was getting dinner ready. Hosiah was watching TV in the living room. Dawson’s spirits lifted the instant he saw his son. He picked him up high in the air, suspending him there for a few seconds before bringing him down again.

  “How’s my boy?”

  “I’m fine, Daddy.”

  “Hungry?”

  “A little bit.”

  “Remember what we said about salt in your food makes your breathing harder?”

  “Yes, Daddy. I know I can’t have any salt now.”

  “Good boy. TV off in five minutes for dinner, all right?”

  Once Hosiah was in bed, stress and lack of sleep began to take their toll on Dawson and Christine. They washed the dishes and put them away with energy flagging fast.

  Christine sat down heavily at the table. “By the way, what was all that about, having to run off to CID today?”

  Dawson took the chair next to hers. “It had to do with the case I told you about—the boy in the lagoon. First we got a preliminary identification on him as a Musa Zakari, and then we found out that a friend called Daramani had been seen with the victim a day before he was found dead. They brought Daramani in for questioning, and it turns out he and I know ea
ch other.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A guy I arrested years ago for stealing. After he’d done time, I kept in touch with him.”

  “I don’t remember your talking about him. What was the interest in him about?”

  Dawson rested his palm in hers and fiddled with her fingers. He sighed.

  “What’s going on, Dark?”

  “We don’t talk about this, but I know you know I have a weakness for marijuana.”

  “I do.”

  “I used to get together with Daramani and smoke it.”

  “Used to?”

  “I’ve given it up. I haven’t smoked in five months now.”

  “Really?” She jumped to her feet and wrapped her arms around him. “Sweetheart, I’m so proud of you.”

  Dawson laughed. “Thank you.”

  “Has it been tough for you?”

  “Sometimes the desire pops up. Kind of like a quick jab. But I’m making it.”

  “Is it when things get tense at work? Is that what makes you want it?”

  “I don’t know, quite honestly.” He looked at her. “How do you feel about it? Why don’t you ever say anything?”

  She pursed her lips contemplatively, and that made Dawson suddenly want to kiss her. “Maybe I don’t say anything because I find it difficult to deal with and to sort out,” she said. “I mean, I don’t like the idea of your using wee, and something about it just doesn’t go with your personality. But I don’t see that it makes you any less a good person. On the other hand again, it is a drug, which makes you a drug user, and that sounds so ugly.”

  “I agree with you. Look, obviously I’m not proud of it, otherwise I would come home in the evening and announce to you and Hosiah that I’ve had a good smoke today. So that’s why I decided to stop.”

  She nodded. “I’m glad. I think sometimes I worried that …”

  “That what?”

  “That it was Hosiah and me making you so stressed you had to smoke for relief.”

  He chuckled, pulling her over to him and wrapping his arms around her. “You’re so silly.” He kissed her. “That’s not it at all. I couldn’t live without you and Hosiah. I love both of you more than anything or anyone in the world. You know that, right?”

  “News to me,” she said teasingly and then laughed. “Yes, of course I know that. We love you too.”

  He kissed her again.

  “Look, Dark,” she said, “I want you to kick the habit, and I want to support you. I don’t know if there’s anything in particular I can do, but if there is, will you please tell me?”

  “Thank you, Christine. I will.”

  “So anyway,” she said after a moment, “back to Daramani. What happened in the end?”

  “Lartey didn’t want me interrogating him because of conflict of interest and all that, so he had Chikata do it. He made a mess of it trying to make the case that Daramani killed Musa because he was jealous of him and his girlfriend.”

  “Did they release Daramani?”

  “You must be joking. He’s in jail right now, and Chikata went and got a search warrant for his place.”

  “Do you think they can get a conviction?”

  “I doubt it. He didn’t do the deed, that much I know.”

  “Are you going to try to intervene?”

  “I don’t think I’ll need to. This is not going anywhere. Let’s go to bed.”

  It was as they were about to turn in that Chikata called.

  “It’s him, Dawson,” he said, his voice flat with finality.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Daramani. We found a knife hidden in his room.”

  Dawson’s heart faltered a couple beats. “A knife. What kind of knife? Dinner knife, pocketknife, what?”

  “A big knife. Eight inches long, and it looks like there’s blood on it. We’ll send it for DNA testing, but I know it will match Musa’s. Daramani tried to get out of it with some crazy story that he killed a chicken a couple weeks ago to make a stew.” Chikata laughed. “He must think we’re stupid.”

  “Why is that so difficult to believe?” Dawson asked testily. “It’s still cheaper to buy a live chicken in Accra than a packaged one from a store. Daramani doesn’t buy his food at ShopRite, you know.”

  “I know that,” Chikata said dismissively, “but come on, what a story. Chicken blood.”

  “Wait for the DNA, that’s what I’d advise you.”

  “Dawson, you always brag about your instincts, but when it’s my instinct, you don’t give me any credit.”

  Dawson wanted to say “Because you don’t have any instinct” but changed his mind.

  “Wait for the DNA, Chikata,” he said. “That’s all I can say. Good night.”

  They’ve delivered the scrap metal to the man in Nima, and now they’re heading back toward Daramani’s place. At night, Nima is full of shadows and dark places. Daramani takes Musa through an alley as a shortcut. When they emerge on the other side, Daramani is the only one pushing the cart. The cargo on the cart is wrapped in a tarpaulin. It’s Musa, dead with a knife in his back. No one pays the slightest attention to Daramani as he pushes his cart down the street in the direction of Korle Lagoon.

  Dawson sat up in a cold sweat. He looked around in the darkness. Those first few seconds after his nightmares, the brief transition from the dreamworld to the real, were the scariest.

  He got up, changed his wet pajama shirt, and sat on the side of the bed. Christine stirred and turned but didn’t wake up.

  Dawson thought about the dream, visualizing Daramani pushing a cart with the dead Musa on it. In the middle of the night, it seemed plausible. In the morning it would not. He cupped his chin in his palm. Why was perception always so different at night?

  His mind bounced around. Chikata had wrestled the case away from him. Just like that. Dawson felt impotent. What good was an inspector who gave the case away to his sergeant? Maybe he wasn’t really cut out for this work. He sighed. That tiresome existential crisis was back.

  16

  Saturday morning, Christine and Hosiah went shopping with Granny Gifty, leaving Dawson to do a few things around the house. About noon, he headed to Nima, picking up a Daily Graphic on the way. All Saturdays had a certain quality about them, a feeling of release from the chains of the workweek, the freedom to relax and browse. In neighborhoods like Nima, there was an increase in crowds moving back and forth and an upswing in buying and selling: fabrics, food, clothes, shoes, pots, pans, building materials, tools, cosmetics, and electronics.

  Dawson made his way to Daramani’s place. He tried the door, hoping in vain that Chikata had carelessly left it unlocked after his search. Two doors down, a woman was washing clothes in a wide metal bowl with a pot of stew bubbling beside her on a charcoal grill. Dawson greeted her.

  “Do you know Daramani who lives there?” Dawson asked her, pointing to his door.

  She flicked perspiration from her forehead. “Yes, I know him.”

  She was probably in her forties. Her voice was raspy, like sandpaper. Her name was Sheila.

  “I’m from CID,” Dawson said. “I’m trying to find out a little bit about him. Can you help me?”

  She might cooperate, she might not. It was luck of the draw.

  “If I can help you, I will,” she said.

  “Thank you. Were you here the night of Saturday before last?”

  She shrugged. “I’m always here at night.”

  “Do you remember seeing Daramani with another man around ten o’clock?”

  She shook her head. “By that time, I’m inside. But maybe my son saw something. As for that boy, he stays up too late playing cards with his friends.”

  “Is your son here?”

  “Yes, but he’s sleeping.” She got up. “Please, let me wake him up for you. Lazy boy.”

  The ratty door, which didn’t fit in its frame, slammed behind Sheila as she went inside yelling, “William! William!”

  Glancing through the dirt
y, unraveling mosquito netting in the top half of the door, Dawson made out one larger and one smaller room, but they were both small.

  Sheila returned in a huff. “He sleeps until late, then he gets up and listens to that crazy music, and then he goes out with his friends.” She shook her head. “Oh, Ewurade.”

  William came to the door and propped it open as he leaned against the jamb. Chunky, around twenty, he was wearing a red T-shirt with I ♥ AMSTERDAM written across it in blue and white.

  “Good afternoon, William.”

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “The gentleman wants to know about Daramani,” Sheila said to her son. “Two weeks ago on Saturday night, weren’t you playing cards with your friends?”

  William nodded. “Yah. Every Saturday.”

  “Where do you play?” Dawson asked him.

  “We take a small table over there.” He pointed to a small alcove on the farther side of Daramani’s door, where there was a little shop selling snacks and cold drinks.

  “How many of you altogether?”

  “Three. Me and Alex and Houdine.”

  “And you played from what time to what time?”

  William chewed thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. “From about ten to after midnight.”

  “Did you see Daramani during that time?”

  William’s focus suddenly shifted as a buzz came from his pocket. He pulled out his phone and read the text message with a salacious grin.

  “The gentleman is talking to you, William!” Sheila cried, appalled. “Don’t disrespect! Can’t you leave that thing alone for even one second?”

  “Sorry,” William said, sheepishly pocketing the phone. “Please, what did you say, sir?”

  “Between ten and midnight, did you see Daramani?”

  “Wait. Let me think. There was one night he came with another guy … I think it was that same Saturday night. Yah, I remember they had a cart, and we asked them what they were doing and they told us they had taken something to some man in Maamobi.”