Wife of the Gods

by Kwei Quartey

  “No, thank you, Mr. Boateng.” I don’t deserve water.

  Dawson sat with them in silence for a long time until Samuel’s father asked him if he would tell them the whole story.

  He left them late that night. By then he knew for certain Samuel had not murdered Gladys Mensah. He had been a troubled boy, vulnerable even while trying to make a show of toughness. The time he had stolen a packet of chewing gum at the market, it had been on a dare from his friends. That was when he had been hanging around with the wrong crowd, but that had become history. Samuel had shunned them and expressed his intention to go back to school. He had had a strong love for animals, particularly dogs, often sacrificing his meals to feed a stray.

  Dawson didn’t sleep. He sat outside the house and smoked until he was higher than a soaring eagle. The smoke from the marijuana kept the mosquitoes away. He became quite numb to pain, although not completely dead to it. At some point he thought he felt tears running down his face, but he couldn’t be sure. He kept seeing Samuel hanging from the jail window, and he cringed and cried out each time the image hit him like the strike of a puff adder.

  He had no idea what time it was until the cocks began to crow back and forth like echoes as light came quickly to the dark sky.

  In the distance Dawson saw smoke rising from the forest. More illegal fires. But it was a little different from the time he had asked Inspector Fiti about it. This smoke was white rather than black or gray, and there appeared to be a pattern to the puffs as they went up. It took him a little while to get it. One puff, two puffs, two puffs, one. Dawson laughed a marijuana giggle. It seemed unreasonably comical that smoke should rise this way. Look, there it was again. One puff, two puffs, two puffs, one.

  Now it seemed stupid and not at all amusing. Dawson went back inside the house floating on air. He wanted to ring Christine, and then he didn’t, and then he did again. He debated. Normally he would have turned to her in this kind of situation, but he couldn’t call her in his marijuana-suffused condition. She would immediately detect he was high, and that would quench any sympathy she might have for him. Christine loved her husband, but she did not like him on drugs.

  Call Armah. That’s what he should do. Armah could help him through this.

  Dawson looked around for his mobile, forgetting where he had put it. After a few minutes, he found it in his pocket.

  His call went through.

  “Hello?” It was a woman’s voice—Armah’s wife, Maude.

  “Hello,” Dawson stammered. “Is this … is Armah there, please? May I speak to him?”

  He was shocked at the sound of his own voice. He might as well have been talking through a mouthful of cotton balls.

  “Who is calling?” Maude asked after a second’s hesitation.

  Dawson was about to say his name, but he lost his nerve. It would be embarrassing and insulting to Armah, a man Dawson revered, to talk to him from out of this mind-altered miasma. Dawson was about as lucid right now as Ketanu mud.

  He ended the call and flung the phone across the room, cursing fluently in Ewe. He needed a shower.

  He suddenly remembered Elizabeth and wondered if she was okay. He would have to visit her later on, he thought.

  He fell asleep upright in the straight-backed chair. It had always mystified Christine how he could do that. He started awake at the sound of a car pulling up. He looked out the window. Chikata was alighting from a Corolla, and directly behind him Chief Superintendent Lartey was getting out of a shiny black BMW marked CRIMINAL INVESTIGATIONS DEPARTMENT.

  My God. Lartey was here? This was serious. Dawson’s heart sank like a lead nugget. There couldn’t be a worse time. He opened the door wide before they could knock. It was past eight in the morning, and the day was already buzzing with people shopping and running errands.

  “Dawson,” Lartey said.

  “At your service, sir. Come in. Hello, D.S. Chikata.”

  Lartey looked quickly around and then back at Dawson. “Is something wrong with you? Are you drunk?”

  “No, sir, I’m not.”

  Lartey sniffed. “Is that marijuana I smell?”

  “No, sir, just some strong cigarettes.”

  “Since when do you smoke?”

  “I do sometimes.”

  Lartey grunted. “You look horrible.”

  He took a seat. Chikata remained standing, scrutinizing Dawson but trying not to be too obvious about it.

  “What are you staring at?” Dawson said to him sullenly.

  “Sit down, Dawson,” Lartey said sharply.

  He did.

  “What’s going on with you in this place?”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “I’ve received more complaints about you in the past few days than I have had about any other detective in several years. Is it true you insulted Inspector Fiti by calling him a bush policeman?”

  “He was having a prisoner beaten up, sir. That prisoner is now dead.”

  “As a result of the alleged beating?”

  “Indirectly, yes, I would say so. And it’s not alleged, sir. It did happen. I witnessed it.”

  “Have you filed a report?”

  “I was about to, sir.”

  “At the same time it appears you’ve been doing your own share of beating up, doesn’t it? You assaulted Augustus Ayitey, a respected herbalist, and put him in jail for supposedly hurting your boy when he went for treatment. Which is a conflict of interest. The correct procedure would be to file a report as a citizen and let someone else in the department handle it. Seems to me you were just looking for an excuse to take revenge on Mr. Ayitey, isn’t that right?”

  Dawson didn’t answer. Quite frankly, he was too tired and too high to care that much.

  “You also managed to falsely accuse a Ghana Health Service official of murder and throw him into jail.”

  “I made a mistake—”

  “Wait, I’m not finished.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “You also beat up the fetish priest at Bedome. So my question is, What is wrong with you? Why are you so out of control?”

  Dawson dropped his face into his palms. His head was throbbing.

  “I don’t know, sir,” he said finally.

  “Is it drugs?”

  “No, sir.”

  Lartey grunted. “You’re only sabotaging your own progress, Dawson. It’s folly, and it is giving my department a very, very bad name. That’s what I detest most. I hate it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir, I believe so.”

  “The reason I’ve brought D.S. Chikata here is to have him take over the case. I’m suspending you. Three weeks’ suspension without pay, and then you face the Disciplinary Board.”

  “Sir, wait, please. Please, I have to solve this. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior—”

  “Pack up your things and get out, Dawson. Chikata is moving in.”

  ISAAC KUTU HAD BEEN preparing a potion for a woman who had come to see him for her weak blood. It was still warm as he poured it into the bottle she had brought with her.

  “Wait for it to get cool,” he instructed her, “and drink half of the bottle today. Tomorrow you drink the rest.”

  She thanked him profusely and went away happy. For payment, she had left him two live chickens.

  Isaac joined Tomefa in the courtyard, where she was cooking goat stew on the firewood stove. He sat on the stool and watched her quietly. She was a very good wife, he often reminded himself—faithful, hardworking, and fertile. She had borne seven children, and lost two, so now there were five and that was just fine. It was funny that he didn’t love Tomefa. He liked her well enough. In fact he could go as far as to say he was fond of her, but it wasn’t love. His father, Boniface, had arranged Isaac’s marriage to her, yes, but couldn’t love sometimes grow like a planted seed? He assumed it could, but with Tomefa, it hadn’t. Take Osewa by contrast. Even after all these years, whenever he saw her, he felt something in his chest, like a surge of joy, warm
and wet. Why was it so? It was such a marvelous thing. And he would never give Osewa any kind of command the way he would Tomefa. There was no need for that. He and Osewa flowed together like two streams converging to form a single river.

  Isaac got up and went to stand at the entrance of the compound, leaning against the side contemplatively. Some ten minutes later, he saw puffs of white smoke rising over the forest. One, two, two, one. He didn’t know why he even bothered to count. He knew when he was being signaled.

  “Tomefa,” he called back, “I’ll be back soon.”

  She nodded obediently.

  He walked quickly. Off the footpath to Ketanu, he made his way into the bush and found Osewa harvesting plantain. The quenched fire was off to the side.

  “Aren’t you afraid?” he said, half jokingly.

  “Afraid of what?” she asked, pulling over a nice bunch of the plantains she had just cut down with her cutlass.

  “This is where Gladys Mensah was killed.”

  Osewa stopped. “Here? I thought it was the other plantain grove where they found her.”

  “No. Right here.”

  She shrugged. “There’s no reason her spirit would be angry with me. Anyway, my juju protects me just in case.”

  “Yes,” he said, desiring her. “Come here.”

  He took her hand and led her deep into the forest to where he had built another of their love shelters. Intimacy in the forest was all right with the gods provided it took place under a roof of some kind.

  He sought her thighs hungrily, marveling at how tight and moist she still was after all these years. Her walls milked him quickly to climax.

  They rested for a while, and then she said, “I have to get back soon.”

  He nodded drowsily. “Me too.”

  “Did you hear Samuel Mensah killed himself?” she asked.

  Isaac sat up frowning. “Yes. That’s a terrible thing.”

  “Maybe he couldn’t live any more knowing that he killed Gladys. Confessing couldn’t take away his shame.”

  “But Inspector Fiti beat him,” Isaac said. “If someone beats you enough, you might confess to anything.”

  “I still believe he did it.”

  “I wish Darko Dawson saw it the same way. He’s still hunting me.”

  “He thinks you are the one?”

  “He searched all my rooms yesterday.”

  “Ei! This boy.” She sighed. “I love him, but I’m sorry, this police business does not suit him. Is he worrying you a lot? I can talk to him, if you like.”

  “No, he’ll wonder why you’re defending me like that, and he might get suspicious.”

  “All right.”

  He pulled her to him.

  “I love you,” she said.

  On the road to Kumasi, Dawson counted four serious accidents, the crushed carcasses of vehicles lying on their sides or overturned completely. He drove with both care and assertion, staying clear of speeding drivers, tro-tros packed with people, and trucks top-heavy with merchandise.

  He made it to Kumasi in something over three hours. Alongside Kejetia, Ghana’s claim to the largest open-air market in West Africa, traffic crawled, rendering cars prey to kid traders hawking fruits, cold drinks, ice cream, and worthless trinkets.

  Dawson finally escaped the congestion and got to a quieter part of town, where he managed to find a parking spot between two rusting minivans.

  Taking his tote bag with him, he walked through a maze of small houses, getting progressively farther from the street until he came to a cul-de-sac occupied by a neat yellow house. Daniel Armah had built it from scratch, and second only to his wife, children, and grandchildren, it was the pride of his life.

  The door was open, and Dawson called out to announce he had arrived. Having got through to Armah by phone earlier in the day, he was expected, and Armah knew what the topic of conversation was to be. Before all the developments of the past day, Dawson had planned only to ask Armah’s advice over the phone on how to “negotiate” the rural environment, but things had so radically and abruptly changed that Dawson now had to see him in person.

  He heard quick footsteps as Armah approached, and when Dawson saw him, he felt even more elated than he had expected. Armah was still trim and compact, and though his hair had gone gray, there was still plenty of it.

  “Darko, you made it!” he said, broad face alive with delight.

  Dawson laughed as they embraced.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Armah said. “I’m so glad to see you, so very glad. Come in, come in. Here, let me take your bag.”

  Despite the heat outside, there was a nice cool breeze blowing through the house. The sitting room was spacious and relaxing.

  “How was your trip?” Armah asked. “You must be exhausted.”

  “Well, you know how the roads are.”

  “Yes, yes. Maude went with the grandkids up to Mampong to stay with her sister for the weekend, and I insisted my driver take them because he’s the only one I completely trust. Would you like something to drink, or would you prefer to freshen up a bit before you have your Malta Guinness?”

  They burst out laughing at the reference.

  “Aha, you thought I would forget?” Armah said, winking at him. “I have a whole refrigerator full of the stuff just for you.”

  “Thanks, Armah. I think I’d like to take a shower first.”

  “But of course. Come along, your room is all ready.”

  Dawson was a full-grown man in his own right, but Armah was still such a paternal figure to him that he caught himself making sure he didn’t move anything out of place in the bedroom or bathroom, just like a “good little boy.”

  He showered gratefully; running water had never felt so good. With a change of clothes, he was revived as he rejoined Armah in the sitting room. Two bottles of ice-cold Malta were ready with a tall glass.

  Armah served himself Star beer, and they drank and talked for a while about families and friends and the old days, but then it was time to get to business.

  “So I gather you’ve had a rather rough time of it in Ketanu,” Armah said.

  “Yes, I have.”

  “I want to hear all about it. Maybe I can be of some help.”

  Dawson started at the very beginning and left nothing out. As he came to Samuel’s suicide, Armah’s face showed regret.

  When Dawson was finished with his account, Armah leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling.

  “So,” he said. “You’ve got all these things happening, all ingredients in a mixed-up soup. There’s no solution to the murder yet, we think Adzima is connected to the silver bracelet but it’s unconfirmed, this poor boy Samuel has killed himself, Queen Elizabeth is badly hurt, and you’ve been thrown off the case.”

  “That about summarizes it, yes,” Dawson said with a bitter laugh.

  “Something struck me,” Armah said, “and I wanted to get it out of the way. About Samuel. Do we know for sure there wasn’t foul play? This brute of a constable, Bubo—was that his name? Yes, him. Couldn’t he have strung Samuel up out of vengeance and made it look like suicide?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him, but Constable Gyamfi’s account of the sequence of events makes that very unlikely. He took a meal down to Samuel, and at that time he was alive. Between then and when I found him, Bubo never went down to the jail cell.”

  “And you trust Gyamfi?”

  “Completely. He wouldn’t try to protect Bubo.”

  “All right, good. That’s a relief.” Armah reflected for a moment. “You feel very bad about Samuel?”

  “I can’t even tell you how terrible I feel.”

  “Good.”

  “Why good?”

  “Darko, even though I don’t think you’re to blame, if you had come here defensively telling me it wasn’t your fault the boy died, I would have been disappointed because it wouldn’t be the Darko Dawson I know. It would say to me that you had lost a piece of your humanity You see what I mean?”

 
“Yes.”

  “I remember when I was about your age, I arrested this boy—he may have been eighteen or nineteen. I say ‘boy’ because he was so small in stature, a tiny thing. Anyway, it was a petty crime, something utterly stupid. He begged me not to put him in a cell with other prisoners, but I ignored him. One of them beat him up that same night. He didn’t die, but he was very badly maimed. Do you know I’ve never forgiven myself for that? I probably never will, but I’m glad of that, because if a day ever comes that I’m able to think back on that incident without any pain or guilt, then I might as well curl up in a hole and die.”

  “You may feel glad I haven’t lost my humanity,” Dawson said, “but I personally feel worthless.”

  “Because you’re in the thick of it. I have the luxury of not being you.”

  Dawson laughed and began to feel a little better.

  “What do you think I should do now?” he asked Armah.

  “Who cares what I think? What do you want to do?”

  “Solve the case, of course. I’m officially off it, but with three weeks of suspension to spare, I might as well use the time fruitfully.” Dawson reflected somberly for a moment. “I owe it not only to Gladys, but to Samuel as well.”

  “There you are then. You think Chikata will cause problems if he sees you back in Ketanu? Run to Lartey and tell on you?”

  “I don’t doubt he will.”

  “I’ll put a call in to Chikata’s father, pull some strings, and make sure his boy keeps his trap shut.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew his father.”

  “I know a lot of people.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So what do we have so far on the case?” Armah said. “For practical purposes we’ve ruled Sowah out. We are not even considering Samuel, but we still wonder about Isaac Kutu and Togbe Adzima. I’m just worried we’ve overlooked someone. What about family? You always look at family.”

  “Their alibis all fit. There’s nothing there, motive or otherwise. I need to pin down Adzima and Kutu.”

  “Something doesn’t feel right about Adzima though,” Armah said. “As both the murderer and the bracelet thief, I mean.”