Wife of the Gods

by Kwei Quartey

  There were times when an older, wiser family member must step in. This was the strength of the Ghanaian family—that everyone took care of the children and that the elders advised the young parents. Sometimes it meant taking charge. Gifty felt it was her responsibility, her bounden duty, to help Hosiah. Yes, in the short term it might offend or annoy his mother and father, particularly his father, but in the end it would be for the best. She was convinced she was right on this one. There had been times in her life when she had been uncertain of herself. This was not one of those occasions.

  Gifty had considered a couple of alternatives. She could take Hosiah to an herbalist like Augustus Ayitey or she could take him to a “fetish” priest or priestess. Both were types of traditional healers. A fetish priest was a powerful intermediary between mortals and the gods, but Gifty thought Mr. Ayitey, with his wondrous array of healing potions, was a better choice still, and today was a perfect time to see him. She had Hosiah for the entire day, and Dawson and his over-controlling personality were away in the Volta Region. It was now, or never.

  “Hosiah?”

  Preoccupied with pushing his bulldozer across the floor, he answered without looking up. “Yes, Granny?”

  “We are going out to see a nice man.”

  “Who is he, Granny?”

  “His name is Mr. Ayitey. You know how there’s something wrong with your heart?” She had his full attention now. “Mr. Ayitey can help your heart get well and you’ll feel much better. Would you like that?”

  “But Daddy and Mama aren’t here.”

  “Hm?”

  “Daddy and Mama said they’d be there when the doctor fixes my heart.”

  “Oh, that doctor. I see what you mean. But Mr. Ayitey is another kind of doctor who can fix your heart better, and he won’t even have to do an operation on you.”

  Hosiah stared at her, trying to figure things out. Then he returned to his toys without further comment.

  “We have to go now, or else Mr. Ayitey won’t be there.” She stood up and held out her hand. “Come along.”

  “Okay. No, wait, I have to take some toys, Granny.”

  “Choose two, sweetie.”

  She waited while he made the difficult selection, and then she took his hand and led him outside. There was no need to lock up behind her since her houseboy was there.

  Gifty didn’t drive, so she had a taxi waiting for them.

  “To Madina,” she told the driver.

  Hosiah sat on Gifty’s lap in the rear seat and watched the scenery go by for a while, then he got bored and entertained himself with the intricacies of his action figures. Gifty loved the feeling of his little round head in the hollow of her neck.

  They took the pristine, six-lane Kwame Nkrumah Highway out of Accra, past glinting glass office blocks and luminescent hotels that had sprouted like well-watered plants. Yet more new buildings were going up, shadowed by the graceless skeletons of cranes. Accra’s skyline was changing radically by the day.

  Madina was twelve kilometers out of Accra, a little beyond the University of Ghana. It was a dense town—tens of thousands of people packed into the place like tinned mackerel. Gifty’s trusty taxi driver already knew their destination. He pumped the horn every few seconds to nudge pedestrians aside as they crossed the street without any regard to vehicular traffic. The pavement was dusty, the markets were teeming, and the sun was scorching.

  Small businesses lined the roadside so densely they were on top of one another, sometimes literally: dozens of Internet cafés, the Heavens Motor Driving Academy, Mobile Max’s Phones and Accessories, and the Gowin Natural Health and Computer Clinic, offering instant computer diagnoses and cures for chronic diseases. Gifty’s favorite, the All Shall Pass Beauty Salon, specialized in manicures, hair weaves, and wigs. She had bought quite a few fine wigs there.

  They turned off into an unpaved lane and bounced along a few meters, stopping outside a dull green house with AUGUSTUS AYITEY’S HERBAL INSTITUTE AND CLINIC emblazoned on the front in red lettering.

  “We’re here, Hosiah,” Gifty said cheerily. “Come along.”

  The taxi would wait for as long as it took. Gifty took Hosiah’s hand. “Granny, where are we going?”

  “This is where the doctor is,” she explained. “He’s going to make your heart better.”

  SAMUEL BOATENG HAD CLAIMED Isaac Kutu had seen him talking to Gladys the last evening she was alive and had shooed him away. That story had to be checked, and after that Dawson planned to approach Togbe Adzima.

  As he and Inspector Fiti left for Isaac’s place, Dawson tried Christine’s mobile. She answered on the second ring.

  “I must be standing right underneath the satellite,” he said.

  She laughed. “How are you?”

  “Fine. Where’re you?”

  “In between classes. We have a staff meeting tonight—what joy.”

  Dawson smiled. “Hosiah at Granny’s?”

  “Yes. He’s doing fine. How are things going up there?”

  “Still feeling my way, tell you more later. I’m off to question a couple people.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I will. Kiss Hosiah for me.”

  His next call was to Chikata. Incredibly it went through smoothly to his desk phone, and even more amazingly, Chikata picked it up.

  “Chikata. I need a favor from you. The medical student who was murdered here, name’s Gladys Mensah, she had a room in the women’s hall on the University of Ghana campus. I need it searched. We’re looking in particular for a diary the family says belonged to her.”

  “Any description?”

  “I was told fifteen by ten centimeters, black or dark blue cover.”

  “Okay, I’ll look into it. You owe me one case of Club beer for this, D.I. Dawson.”

  “You’re dreaming.”

  “If I can’t do the search today, is tomorrow okay?”

  “That’ll be all right, but no later than. Clear?”

  As they walked to Isaac Kutu’s compound, Dawson felt the awkwardness between him and Fiti, and searched his mind for a neutral topic to help break the ice. He noticed plumes of black smoke rising from the forest in the distance and gratefully latched onto that.

  “Do people start many fires here?” he asked. “I see some smoke over there.”

  Fiti followed the direction of his gaze.

  “They burn the bush so they can get room to farm, or sometimes just before the rain to make the soil rich. It’s against the law, but they still do it.”

  Isaac’s compound came into sight. Comparing it with the memory he had, Dawson could see it had been modernized. For one thing, the wall enclosing the compound had been rebuilt with good-quality brick. Outside, a woman with bare shoulders was lifting a bound stack of firewood off her head and transferring it to a pile on the ground. She saw Fiti and Dawson approaching and waited for them, greeting them as they came close. Fiti introduced her to Dawson. She was Tomefa, Isaac’s wife. Dawson recalled Elizabeth mentioning how Isaac had blown up on discovering Tomefa giving Gladys information about his herbal remedies.

  “Is Mr. Kutu in?” Fiti asked her in Ewe.

  “No, he’s not here right now.”

  She was exceptionally tall, her face dripping with sweat and her glistening arms lean and muscular from physical labor. She looked to be in her early thirties. Dawson sensed a quiet strength and dignity of character in her.

  “When will he return?” Fiti asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe soon.”

  “Thank you.”

  She nodded and smiled and then went into the compound.

  “We can come back,” Fiti said to Dawson.

  “To Bedome now, then? I’d like to talk to Togbe Adzima and the trokosi who found Gladys, what was her name?”

  “Efia. Okay, we can go now.”

  They had walked no more than a few meters when Dawson spotted a man coming out of the forest toward them. His belly tightened. Isaac Kutu. Twenty-five years sinc
e Dawson had first laid eyes on him, and yet it could just as well have been yesterday. The walk, the carriage, the solid build, and the powerful forearms were all still there.

  Fiti too had caught sight of Isaac and waved at him. The healer raised his hand in reply but kept his pace the same as he approached—long, confident, and measured.

  “Good afternoon, Kutu,” Fiti said.

  “Afternoon, Inspector! How are you?”

  Dawson wondered what was inside the canvas bag Isaac was holding. He was possibly even handsomer than Dawson remembered him, as if the older face had taken on a richness that had not graced the younger. The eyes were still those dark, unfathomable pools, but there was more buoyancy to them now.

  No sign yet that he recognized Dawson.

  “I’ve brought someone to see you,” Fiti said as they shook hands.

  Isaac looked at Dawson with mild interest. “Is that so?”

  “Do you know him?” Fiti asked.

  Isaac studied Dawson for a moment. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly.

  “Twenty-five years ago,” Dawson said.

  He saw the exact instant when the realization hit Isaac because the questioning look suddenly cleared and was replaced with a smile.

  “Darko,” he said. “How are you?”

  “I’m well, Mr. Kutu.”

  They shook hands.

  “I never thought you would grow so tall,” Isaac said.

  “Nor I.”

  They laughed.

  “What are you doing here in Ketanu?”

  “I’m here to help investigate Gladys Mensah’s death. I work for CID in Accra.”

  “Ah, I see. So you’re a policeman now. A detective?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I see. Very good,” he said, but he seemed neutral. “How are your brother and your father?”

  “Doing fine, thanks,” Dawson said. “We just met your wife, Tomefa. She’s very nice.”

  “Thank you. Are you married?”

  “Yes,” Dawson said. “I have one boy—he’s six.”

  “Aha. I have five children.”

  Dawson smiled. “I have a long way to go, then.”

  Isaac laughed but then grew serious. “I heard about your mother. I am so sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I went to get some herbs from the bush.” Isaac indicated the bag he was holding. “Where were you two going?”

  “To Bedome,” Fiti said, “but we wanted to ask you some questions.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. About Gladys Mensah. The last time you saw her.”

  “She was right around here,” he said.

  “By herself?”

  Isaac shook his head. “That boy Samuel Boateng was talking to her. I saw them from my compound. And so did the farmers who were working over there at that time.”

  Isaac gestured in the direction of the farm plots near the edge of the forest—the same ones Charles Mensah had described to Dawson. At the moment, two workers were bent over busily tending to the soil.

  “What did you do when you saw Samuel and Gladys together?” Dawson asked.

  “I went to them and told the boy to leave her alone.”

  “Why did you do that, Mr. Kutu?”

  “He was troubling her.”

  “She said so?”

  “No, but I know Samuel. He’s no good.”

  “So you told him to go away, and did he?” Dawson asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And left you alone with Gladys.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened next?”

  “Nothing. We talked small-small, and then she went on her way.”

  “Back to Ketanu?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you follow her?”

  “Follow her? No, I went back to my compound.”

  “And you didn’t see Samuel return to Gladys at any time?”

  Isaac clicked his tongue. “No. I scared him too much.”

  “How did you like Gladys?” Dawson asked.

  “She was a good woman.”

  “I understand she was interested in your herbal medicines.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Let me ask you something. Was she trying to steal them from you?”

  “I don’t think so. Who told you that?”

  “Would it have angered you if she was?”

  “Of course. But she wasn’t trying to steal anything. Look, if you want to find who killed her, don’t waste your time with people like me. You must look for a witch.”

  “Why?”

  “Because a witch kills the way Gladys was killed. Without making any mark on the body.”

  “How do you know there was no mark?” Dawson asked sharply.

  “I saw the body, and I know she was not touched.”

  “I see. You’re wrong, but anyway, who do you suspect is the witch who killed Gladys?”

  “Her aunt. Elizabeth.”

  “Why do you think it’s her?”

  “There are certain things healers know. Hard to explain.”

  “Just because she makes money and she’s a widow?”

  Isaac looked at Dawson in some surprise. “So you know something about it.”

  “Not really. I heard it said.”

  “Do you believe in witchcraft?”

  “I’ve never experienced it, so it’s hard for me to believe in it.”

  “You think you’ve never experienced it.”

  “How do you mean?” Dawson said.

  “Your son,” Isaac said, “or your wife. Is everything fine with them?”

  “Not everything, no.”

  “It’s your boy, not so?”

  Dawson swallowed. “He has a heart problem, yes.”

  Isaac nodded. “Do you know for sure that it’s not the work of a witch?”

  Dawson laughed. “Please, Mr. Kutu.”

  “Have you ever woken up with a headache or pains in your neck or back?”

  “Yes.”

  “That could be because a witch has been kicking your head around like a football, or banging on your neck with a hammer while you were sleeping.”

  “What are you talking about? I would wake up even before she could get close to my bed to kick me in the head.”

  “You don’t understand because you think things happen only in the physical world,” Isaac said. “At night your astral body leaves the physical body and enters the astral plane.”

  Dawson looked at Fiti. “You understand what he’s saying?”

  Fiti smiled. “Just open your mind and listen.”

  “Do you ever dream you are flying?” Isaac asked Dawson.

  “On occasion.”

  “That’s when your astral body is either leaving you or coming back to the physical body. The astral body of a witch also leaves her at night, but while you cannot function in the astral world, she can. That is how she carries out her malice. In the astral world, we have ethereal forms that are exact copies of the physical, only more delicate. If the witch kills your ethereal body in the astral plane, your physical body will die in the physical world. You understand?”

  “Yes, but why do you need such complicated explanations when there is something much simpler? Someone in the physical world comes and kills someone else in the physical world. Finished. The deed is done and no one needed to travel to any kind of astral plane anywhere.”

  “Of course it can happen that way too,” Isaac said, “but you aren’t listening. What I’m saying is that the ethereal form is so delicate and filmy, the witch can easily kill it without deforming it. That way, in the physical world you will see very little sign of how it happened, or none at all. That is the case with both Gladys and Elizabeth’s husband. What is the single connection between those two deaths? Elizabeth.”

  Isaac’s reasoning made a bizarre kind of sense to Dawson.

  “So, Darko,” Isaac said, “what do you think now?”

  “I accept your explanation of
witchcraft, but I don’t think Elizabeth is guilty of anything.”

  “Ah,” Isaac said with a knowing smile. “That’s because she has charmed you. That too is something witches do very well.”

  ABOUT A DOZEN PEOPLE WERE standing around outside the entrance of Augustus Ayitey’s house. Gifty was not going to be dealing with the long wait that 99 percent of these clients would have to endure. She was a VIP customer who got preferential treatment, especially since she gave Mr. Ayitey and his assistants a nice dash every year at Christmastime.

  Gifty confidently walked up to the front screen door and knocked. A few moments later the head of the assistant poked out, and as soon as she saw who it was, she invited Gifty and Hosiah in.

  Mr. Ayitey practiced in his rear courtyard, where there was a collection of makeshift enclosures and overhead canvas coverings. People were standing or sitting around being treated or waiting to be. There was a strong smell of herbs and animal flesh. Gifty and Hosiah were shepherded into one of enclosures and asked to sit on the wooden stools.

  Gifty hugged Hosiah. “See? Isn’t this interesting?”

  He looked around, eyes wide. There was a mat on the ground and a pot boiling on a stove in the corner. “What’s that, Granny?”

  “That’s where they make some of the medicines.”

  “Oh.” He wrinkled his nose. “It stinks.”

  “That’s because the medicine is very strong.”

  It was another thirty minutes before Mr. Ayitey came in. He was a big, bald man with a wide, vertical scar on his left cheek. Gifty felt Hosiah flinch and press back into her.

  Ayitey smiled broadly. He had a large gap between his upper front teeth.

  “Madame Gifty! How are you on this fine day?” He spoke Ga, and his voice came out of him like a slingshot.

  “Very well, Mr. Ayitey, thank you.” She laughed pleasantly.

  Ayitey sat on the stool opposite them.

  “Every time I see you, you look better and better,” he said to her. “Are you getting younger?”

  “Oh, stop,” Gifty said, enjoying his playfulness.

  “So this is the boy you told me about,” Ayitey said.

  “Yes, this is Hosiah, my grandson.”