by Adwoa Badoe
There was a brown envelope that held papers, but there was another envelope that held wads and wads of money. Much of it was in hundred-dollar notes, but there were some pounds sterling and cedi notes, too.
I wondered how much money I had in my possession. How could they trust me with so much?
Then I wondered what I had gotten myself into. I should have said no. But now it was too late.
‹•›
Mary came charging into the room. “Turn the radio on. Turn it on!” she shouted.
Radio 2 broke the news that the half-burnt bodies of the kidnapped judges and the army officer had been discovered in a bush fifty kilometers from Accra. Rainfall on the night of the capture had doused the petrol fire set by the murderers.
The site of discovery, near a military range, pointed dramatically to the military as the perpetrators of the crime. The news was still fragmentary, but nothing could mask the chilling brazenness of the act. Everyone agreed that it could only have been authorized in high places.
I listened at the top of each hour for new details, making notes for our next meeting.
I remembered a conversation I had overheard between my father and one of my uncles who was a lecturer at the University of Ghana. It was after the 1979 coup which had seen the Ghanaian brain drain at its worst, as senior lecturers, civil servants, lawyers, judges and businessmen fled from persecution. That fear had dissipated as the AFRC handed power back to the civilians after three and a half months. Now the unspoken fear was that Rawlings and his comrades had used the intervening time to perfect a more gory vision.
I remembered my uncle had made reference to the horrendous violence of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. Now, one could no longer discount those fears as baseless.
‹•›
The Ghana Bar Association staged a protest march in Accra. They demanded a broad investigation and punishment for everyone connected with the murders. Fingers were still pointed at people associated with the government. Rawlings was implicated as the vehicle used to arrest the judges was traced to his house.
Banahene was angry that Ghanaians were not causing enough of a disturbance about the kidnapping and murder of the judges.
“People should have been protesting day and night. If it has happened to somebody, it could happen to anybody. Someone has to stand up to this government. I cannot stand the many complaints our parents make in their bedrooms, only to come out and live life as usual,” he said.
“But they don’t have any power against a state that might just show up and kidnap them from their homes in the middle of the night,” I said.
“And if we don’t speak up, they may take us one by one until there is nobody left to protest,” he insisted.
It was only then that I told Banahene about the man in the Pajero. How he had almost run me down on my way back from the library and later threatened me.
Banahene was shocked. “Why didn’t you tell me? Everyone knows that Pajeros are the most popular unmarked military cars.”
“We were all so indignant about the judges that I just forgot,” I said.
Then I told him about Mr. Samuel Duah and the package he had deposited in my keep.
This was too much for Banahene.
“I don’t get it, Charlotte. Why would you take such risks for Asare, especially at this time? I just don’t get it,” he muttered over and over.
I tried to reassure him. “It’s only because he was a good friend. I know he is in need, so I can’t abandon him.”
I watched Banahene struggle, and I wondered if our relationship would stand up to these stresses. I began to feel desperate as I failed to convince him of my motive. I didn’t want our relationship to end. I couldn’t let that happen.
“Banahene, you know I love you. You also know I have given up Asare. It’s just that these times are so crazy, and Asare really needs my help,” I pleaded.
“I don’t like it, Charlotte. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if he’d come back and pursued you. And I wonder why you haven’t told me all this while that you’re in touch with Asare and members of his family,” said Banahene.
“I guess I didn’t want to scare you off,” I admitted.
“Well, I’m scared for you now,” he said, staring steadily at me. “I don’t know what to make of all this, Charlotte. Who was in the Pajero? And why did they feel the need to scare you? Why not me, or Jordan? Is it because you are associated with Asare?”
“I don’t think the Pajero has anything to do with Asare. They are probably hoping that I will scare easily because I am a woman,” I said.
“What about that student who asked you about your sugar daddy on manifesto night? There was something deliberate about him, and I haven’t seen him since.”
“I thought you said he was just a student playing dirty,” I said.
“Still, he was very calculating. Everybody knows about Mary’s Mr. Opoku, but I was surprised that a stranger would know about you and Asare. What else do they know about you?”
“That hurts, Banahene.”
He looked away from me as I touched his shoulder, pleading.
“I really am sorry, Charlotte. I’m concerned that someone may be setting you up for a fall. You must get rid of Asare’s items. You can’t trust anybody these days.”
“The money is a lot, perhaps twenty thousand dollars. I can’t just throw it away. I can’t ask Mr. Opoku to keep it, because everyone knows he’s Asare’s friend. I could ask Juaben, but then, Sylvia is her roommate,” I said.
“Sylvia could be part of your problem. She knows you well enough but is affiliated with the other side. You must be careful about her,” said Banahene.
“Do you think Sylvia would give information about me to others?”
“She was your friend and not mine,” he replied.
Although Banahene walked me down the path, he said little. The truth had come at a cost, and the chill between us made me wonder what else was in store for me.
17
When Mr. Opoku came to visit, he confirmed that soldiers had ransacked Asare’s house in Kumasi. They seized his BMW and took away his papers. They trampled his garden and broke the gate. They made a mess of everything.
“Ah! These people! Why can’t they leave the man alone?” Mr. Opoku exclaimed. He was still shaken and had come to Mary for comfort.
“Nobody’s safe these days,” said Mary.
I thought of Asare’s beautiful house and garden. I remembered riding in the olive-green Witch, which purred like a satisfied cat. It was so sad that Asare could be so poorly treated even in his absence. I wondered who he would turn to for comfort.
“What is it about Asare that bothers the revolution?” I asked. In the previous AFRC government, many wealthy businessmen were charged with corruption and jailed. Others had their bank accounts frozen and their assets seized.
“If they could pin anything on him, they would have done so already. Ɛyɛ anibere ne abrɔ — envy and malice!” said Mary.
“Asare is sometimes too direct when he is telling people off. Some years ago he angered one of the key people in the new government. I think that man has a grudge. Soldiers have been to his offices several times to harass his workers. This time they went to his house, too,” said Mr. Opoku.
“He can’t come back now — not after the killing of the judges,” said Mary.
“Do you know Mr. Samuel Duah?” I asked Mr. Opoku.
“Yes, he’s a good guy — Asare’s cousin. How do you know him?”
“He brought me something from Asare.”
“A letter?”
“Yes.”
“Have you replied?” he asked.
I hesitated. For some reason, I didn’t want to talk about the money and the papers.
“It’s like that, eh? Out of sight, out of mind? Women!” said Mr. Opoku.
“That’s not fair,” said Mary.
“I know. I’m just sorry about everything that’s happened. The coup, Asare’s business, his home, even his girl — all gone. Life can be hard. Boys abrɛ paa!”
Mr. Opoku seemed to wilt in the armchair, his lower lip caught between his teeth. We sat quietly for a while. I think we were all grieving for Asare, and that first carefree term that I had spent at Tech. How quickly things had changed.
‹•›
Days passed, and Mary wanted to know where Banahene was. I told her that course work was keeping him away from Africa Hall. We had spent so much time campaigning that we now had to focus on our studies. It was a convenient excuse and Mary was convinced, but Juaben had a question in her eyes.
I was spending more time with Juaben because Sylvia was hardly ever in the hall. She was always busy with Mensah, but I sometimes bumped into her at our English lectures. Although we were friendlier with each other since the SRC elections, I understood that we would never go back to former times.
I thought about Asare’s package every day when I felt for it among my clothes. There was no way I could take that kind of money home when term ended. I would have to ask Mary to hide it for me.
‹•›
On Thursday, I came back from lectures and found that Banahene had left a note in my pigeon hole.
“Urgent meeting 7 p.m. tomorrow, Friday, at the SRC office.”
I was glad for any communication from him, even if it was just about business. My heart did that wobble thing. How I missed him!
Friday evening was cool because it had rained earlier in the day. Once upon a time I would have been dressing for a party or a night out, but things had changed. I dressed up nicely for the meeting, even using eye makeup and a touch of lipstick.
Jordan and Banahene were in the office when I got there. I took my seat next to Jordan on the other side of the desk. The lone bulb shone bleakly in the room.
“I’m only going to record what is safe to record,” I said.
Banahene nodded. He opened an envelope and read an invitation from the NUGS secretariat to meet with our counterparts in the other universities. We were going to discuss strategies to pressure the government to return the country to a democratic process.
“It goes without saying that we will soon be going on aluta,” said Jordan.
Banahene agreed. Peaceful but noisy public demonstrations were the tried and true process for students, ever since our universities had been in existence. But governments hated aluta.
I thought about our vice chancellor. I would have to send him a memo informing him of any student action that we would plan to take.
‹•›
The NUGS executive released a statement to the press. It was a brief note condemning the kidnapping and killing of the judges. NUGS also made a plea for justice, and then they called on the PNDC to hand over power to a democratic government.
As leaders of our local SRC, our part was to present the NUGS position to the students. Next we would oversee a motion to protest against the government. We went into organization mode, and I typed out the memos calling for an emergency general meeting.
The Great Hall was as full as it had been on manifesto night. I watched from the stage as students streamed in to find their seats. It was hard to settle them. We hadn’t had such a turnout for a long while.
We did start at last, and Banahene did a good job of explaining the agenda for the meeting. Every mention of the judges brought loud expressions of student anger and shouts of “Down with the PNDC.”
I unfolded the details of the case so far. Everything hinged on the car that was used to pick up the judges. It was a Fiat Campagnola — a not-very-common military-style off-road vehicle. The distraught husband of the female judge had seen it and noted its number. In an unusually bold move a reporter had linked the car to one of those often parked at Rawlings’ house.
It didn’t take much more to get a student to table a motion asking for justice and a return to democracy. Another vote passed overwhelmingly in favor of a demonstration. Somebody started singing, “We shall overcome.” Everyone joined in. My excitement was mixed with fear.
“Don’t worry, Charlotte. Right now the government is embarrassed about the killing of the judges, and I think they won’t want to be seen as violent,” Jordan said.
I hoped he was right. But if the killing of the judges was just the beginning of bloodshed, then our acts of defiance could trigger a deluge of violence. Our students agreed that silence was a poor option. Together we would put an end to evil before it gained strength.
‹•›
It had been a moody day. It wasn’t hot but it was humid, and the sun had struggled all day with the clouds. If I was superstitious, I would have said that there was a quarrel going on among the gods.
At 4 p.m. students converged on Paa Joe Stadium from every direction. We were not there to witness an exciting game of varsity hockey. We were gathering to pray. A call had gone out from the executive of the Inter-Hall Christian Fellowship to all its members in every residence.
From the floodlit field, the praise leader and his band led us in song. The voices around me grew louder, and there were spontaneous outbursts of talking in tongues. I focused my mind on God and prayed for one thing only — safety.
Jordan had invited Banahene and me to the prayer meeting. Juaben met us there and we stood side by side with hundreds of students in the stands. Mary was there, too, and I was glad for the presence of my friends.
Two masterful preachers read from the Bible, and many voices broke into a tumult of prayer. As I stood with hands raised, my faith rose to believe in the words of affirmation. The president of the fellowship was persuaded that we had been called into student leadership for such a time.
We all prayed for safety. We prayed for our civil rights to be upheld and for all negative and evil plans of the government to fail. We prayed against the advance of godless socialism and military rule. And we prayed against the manifestation of violence during our upcoming protest.
I joined in with all the other voices to shout Amen!
‹•›
Early the next morning students gathered on the road just behind Africa Hall. They came dressed in T-shirts and sweatpants or jeans. The loudest students were holding placards. Others had their messages scrawled in ink on their shirts. DEMOCRACY NOW! WE WANT THE TRUTH! GO AWAY MURDERERS! GHANA SHALL BE FREE! PEACE FOR GHANA! JUSTICE FOR THE JUDGES!
I watched as perhaps a thousand of us lined up in ranks. I wondered why people were so cheerful on a day like this.
Then, megaphone in hand, Banahene addressed the crowd. This was his aluta as president of the SRC.
“Students of UST, thank you for coming out to make a stand for this country. This is a peaceful protest. We will march until we get to the Circle at Kejetia. We will stay in our ranks and sing our songs. We will not be distracted or get caught up in fights. We will not harm people or wreck any property, including cars. Even if people insult us or throw things at us, we shall keep our calm. We shall hand our letter over to the regional secretary and then we shall make our speeches and return home. Please stay with the group, everyone. Be safe!”
One of the cheer leaders raised the traditional militant Asafo chant, “Osee yee.” And we sang it with one voice. I couldn’t help thinking this is what it would have sounded like in centuries past when Ashanti went to war.
Then a thousand pairs of feet began to move.
“Come on, Charlotte,” said Jordan. He took my hand. The powerful tread of feet moving in one direction was terrifying. I could almost believe that we would change the world.
We sang and my heart pounded with adrenaline. But still the questions came to mind. What would happen if someone fell and got trampled to death beneath our feet? What if soldiers suddenly appeared and shot at us? The ensu
ing panic would no doubt end in a stampede. I was doubly glad we had spent the time praying, even though you wouldn’t know it from the chants of defiance that we sang to keep us going. This time I didn’t mind the profanity of the substituted lyrics.
We awakened the town of Kumasi from suburb to suburb until we arrived at Kejetia market, pumped, sweaty and proud. All along the sides of the road, the townsfolk gathered to gawk or cheer. A few shouted insults at us.
It had taken two hours to get to the center of town. Banahene delivered his speech again by megaphone. He spoke about the kidnapping and murder of the judges and the government’s complicity. He addressed the students but he spoke for the benefit of the townspeople. We sang several songs and crowned our efforts with a mighty osee yee, fit for the King of Ashanti. It was Jordan who led the chant. For a skinny man, he had the voice of a giant. And after the rousing war chant had died down, he passed the megaphone to me.
I don’t know what seized me but I threw all caution to the wind. I found myself yelling defiance at the government. I broke into a rendition of “We Shall Overcome,” screaming into the megaphone. The crowd seemed larger than before. A man pushed his way through to those who surrounded me. He identified himself as a reporter with the Spectator and asked for an interview. And the crowd tightened around us when he produced his tape recorder.
“Can you state your name clearly and tell me what the students are doing here today,” he said.
I was by then exuberantly beyond care and couldn’t wait to announce our position.
“The students of UST are here today on behalf of Mother Ghana. We will not stop demonstrating until the government is returned to the people. We are demonstrating against the poor state of human rights in this great country, the murders of three judges and an army officer, and against the restrictive budget of this government. We want a return to democracy. Power to the people! A luta continua!” I shouted.
18
Some people hailed taxis for the return journey to campus. I might have done the same if I could have gotten away with it, but as good leaders we had to walk the entire journey back. So we sang, cheered on by wayside admirers. Those who had brought money bought oranges, bananas and groundnuts. They shared freely with others. We must have boosted the wayside trade by at least a hundred percent.