by A. Sparrow
Pocketing his phone, he rushed back towards the hotel, ashamed for being so much the opposite of bold. It clashed with his self-image. Before all this happened, he considered himself an inveterate traveler, ready for any contingency. In truth, he was an amateur and a scaredy-cat.
With great relief he retreated to the refuge of his room, already gone stuffy with the air conditioning off only an hour. He turned it back on and collapsed onto crumpled sheets. It was well after midnight on the East Coast, but he needed human contact. By default, he called Melissa. He worried his call might be traced, but SIM cards were cheap and ubiquitous in Accra.
Surprisingly, she answered right after the first ring.
“Sorry to bother you so late, but—”
“Archie? Archie Parsons?” she said, with shock in her voice.
“Well … yeah … duh. How many Archies do you know?”
There was a long pause.
“How many cats do you have?” Her tone was suspicious and accusatory.
“Melissa? What the hell—?”
“What are their names?”
“Felix … and Tony. Come on, Melissa. You’re wasting my minutes.”
“Your … your brother called.” There was a hitch and a catch in her voice, as if she had been sobbing. “He said they found you dead in some men’s room. He gave them permission to cremate. He said it was cheaper to ship your ashes.”
Chapter 9: Melissa
Archie would remember what his brother had done when it came time to dispose of Karl’s earthly remains. That is, in the unlikely event that he outlived his younger sibling.
“The bastard,” said Archie. “Can’t say I’m surprised he would tell them to cremate me.”
“Not … surprised? Archie, everybody thinks you’re dead. What the hell is going on?”
Archie sighed. “It’s … complicated.”
“Where are you? Still in Liberia?”
“No. I’m in Accra.”
“So when are you coming home?”
“I’m not. I can’t.”
“Because of the passport?”
“No, I found the passport.”
“Then what’s stopping you? You’d better get home quick and straighten this out. Your brother’s already making plans to sell your condo.”
“Is he? Jesus! But … I can’t travel if I’m dead. Right? I mean, any scan of my passport will show me as officially deceased.”
“But you’re not. I mean … you’re alive. Obviously, it was all a mistake.”
“But Melissa. A man did die. This guy, he attacked me with a knife. But then he slipped and conked his head on a sink. Turned out … he had my passport. They’re probably gonna cremate him under my name. Because I … I didn’t stick around.”
“Holy shit! Archie!”
“I’m thinking … these people were planning to use me … my identity. For whatever reason. God only knows. But I doubt it’s anything good. I have no choice. I’ve got to lay low.”
“Jeez Archie. You need to get this straightened out. Go to the embassy. You’re in Ghana, now. Things should be fine, there.”
“Yeah, but … I’m not sure I can trust them, either. The guy who died, he was headed this way. I flew on his ticket. I checked into his hotel. They had a reservation, under my name.”
“Whoa! So they were gonna use you, but now they think you’re him … pretending to be you.”
“Sure looks that way. He might have had my wallet, my other IDs. He even kind looked like me a little bit. Maybe the locals wouldn’t have noticed the difference. You know, all us white guys look alike. I was probably the one they expected to find dead. And this guy … he was some kind of … professional.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. But you should have seen his room. The Labadi’s one of the fanciest hotels in Accra. And the closet was stocked with all these expensive clothes.”
She didn’t respond immediately, but when she spoke, her voice took on a harder, more serious edge that he hadn’t heard before. It seemed out of character from the happy-go-lucky slacker that he thought he knew. “You need to get out of there. Right now. Once they realize their mistake, there might be trouble.”
“Oh, I’m already gone,” said Archie. “I didn’t stick around.”
“Good. And do not tell me where you are, in case … in case someone’s listening.”
“You think they bugged my line? What the fuck? Why me? I’m a nobody.”
“Archie. There are some things you don’t know about me. Things … I didn’t tell you when you hired me. Now is not the time to talk about them, but … this is some serious shit. So far, you’re doing all the right things, but you’re gonna need some help dealing with this.”
“You don’t seriously think I should contact the embassy?”
“No,” she said, her tone remaining grave. “I wouldn’t. Not at this point.”
“Exactly. I don’t trust them. Frankly, I don’t know who to trust.”
“You trust me … apparently.”
“I’m sorry. I never should have burdened you with this.”
“I don’t mind,” she said. “It’s good that you did.”
Archie remembered the reason he called. “Did you find anything out about Xtraktiv?”
“Not much. Their web site says they do geological consulting. Oil and mineral exploration. Stuff like that. But that doesn’t mean anything. It’s just their public face.”
“Geology? With fifty caliber machine guns? I think my taxi driver was right. I think they’re probably mercenaries.”
“Oh jeez, Archie. I had no idea. What kind of heavy shit did you get into?”
“Deep. I guarantee you that.”
“Book a flight home. European carrier. See what happens.”
“I don’t dare.”
“I’ll do it for you.”
“No. I’m not going anywhere near a commercial flight right now. They might not be looking for me like now, but they will be, once they get wise to what really happened.”
“But don’t you see? This is your window of opportunity? You need to move while they’re still in the dark.”
“I … can’t. I’m scared. I just want to hunker down. Lay low.”
Motes of digital dust hissed softly in the silence between them.
“Tell you what. I’m coming out there. Maybe I can help you.”
“What? That’s ridiculous.”
“I mean it.”
“How are you supposed to help me? You’re my freaking … cat sitter.”
“Archie.” Her voice went all husky again. “I’m more than that.”
“That came out wrong. I … I didn’t mean it that way. I know you went to Georgetown.”
“Not just that,” she said. “There’s stuff you don’t know about me. Places I’ve worked. Things I’ve done. Things I can do. I can help you, Archie. I really can.”
“What are you saying? Are you … one of them?”
“Don’t get all paranoid on me, mister. I’m on your side and don’t you forget it. Besides, I’ve always wanted to go to Ghana. My sister had one of those blood tests done, the genetic profiling. And you know what? We’re Twee. That’s a tribe from Ghana.”
“You want to go … sight-seeing?”
“I’m just saying. I can help you, but it’s also a place I’ve always wanted to go. Do you know how it feels to know your ancestors come from a place and never get to go there? And the guy whose cats I feed and whose litter boxes I clean goes there like six times a year?”
“Sorry. I never realized….”
“So, I’m coming out. My mom can take care of your cats until your brother comes. I got money saved. I was planning go to Club Med in Jamaica, but this is way more important… and way more cool.”
“Melissa, no. It’s way too dangerous … and way too expensive.”
“Give me a couple days to get there. I’ll call you when I’m there.”
“Please Melissa. Do
n’t do this!”
But she had already hung up.
Chapter 10: Club
The last thing Archie needed was for Melissa to come here. Having her in Accra would only complicate things and put another life at risk. He called her right back to dissuade her, but she didn’t pick up. He left a message for her to return his call.
He couldn’t imagine she would go through with her promise. The cost of the flight had to be prohibitive. She could barely make her rent every month. It was just her inner Good Samaritan talking.
Melissa was a do-gooder, a genuinely helpful soul. She brought Archie chicken soup when he had the flu, and had even shoveled out his parking space when he had torn his rotator cuff. Though, it wasn’t that she gave him special attention. She was an angel to everyone she encountered. She regularly picked up prescriptions for the old ladies who lived in their building. Bought groceries for the homeless couple living in the abandoned factory next door. That was probably how she stayed so poor.
She was an odd duck, that girl, a soufflé of contradictions. She was African-American but had white bread sensibilities. She insisted she was Republican and had voted against Obama. She played rugby, sewed needlepoint. Listened to Taylor Swift and Nickel Creek. Spent hours watching old Firefly and Battlestar Galactica epidodes. Read Sartre and Camus with the same fascination she held for Rowling and Sparks.
She was also the nosiest neighbor he had ever known. Practically a roommate. Even when she wasn’t watching his cats she would come by to whine about politics and cajole him to tell her all about his travels, even though his stories seemed totally mundane, maybe because his mind’s eye had become jaded with the cataracts of repetition. Too bad she was almost two decades younger, because she was quite the charmer.
He kept his phone charged and by his side, hoping to hear back from Melissa, but his phone never rang. The drone of the air conditioner lulled him to sleep.
***
Light seeping between the drapes told him it was morning. His TV remained on and he froze beneath a thin sheet. He reached up and flipped off the wall switch that controlled the air conditioner.
He retrieved his phone from under a pillow and dialed his apartment. A canned message told him that the number was no longer in service. His brother Karl was a fast operator. Either that or something more sinister was at play. He feared for Melissa’s safety.
He called the front desk and ordered room service. About an hour later there was a knock on his door. He opened it with trepidation, but as he should have expected it was only a man from the kitchen staff with a platter holding some limp slices of French toast and a bowl of cut fruit that he could barely bring himself to eat.
A maid came by around ten. Archie tried to send her away but she refused to leave without making up his room. He sat in a wicker chair while the nervous woman cleaned his bathroom and made his bed. He then spent the rest of the day holed up in his room like a vampire, skipping lunch, emerging only after nightfall for dinner, showing his face to as few people as possible.
Back in his room, while Al Jazeera news covered the latest drone attacks in Pakistan, he couldn’t stop thinking about that suite at the Labadi and all those papers he had left arrayed on the desk. They were the key to explaining what this was all about. If only he had the presence of mind to grab them.
But going back now would be insane. Surely, these people were onto him, lying in wait, ready to spring their trap. Sitting tight was the only sensible course of action. He imagined squads of armed men wandering the neighborhoods and expat watering holes of Accra, searching for him. But things would eventually settle down. They would relax their vigilance and then he could make his way north or east. Slip across the border to Burkina Faso or Togo. Make his way to Nigeria. He had friend named Charles in Abuja who could provide him indefinite refuge, no questions asked. Charles owed him for all the times Archie had hidden him from the Muslim militants after his hide in Kano.
Archie felt so much less braver now than during his early years when he had ventured some of the most dangerous and unstable places on the continent. What passed for courage then was probably more blissful ignorance. Over the years he had witnessed too many of the bad things that happen where the rule of law is too weak or too strong—disappearances, retributions, detentions, tortures, even beheadings. These things happened not only in failed states like Congo and Somalia. In the back provinces of relatively stable nations like Ethiopia and Kenya, anything goes.
And now here he was, twenty years later cowering in his room like a frightened tourist. He had never felt so useless and feeble. Even the girl who watched his cats took pity on him. Could it get any more pathetic?
***
The next morning, Archie again summoned the courage to leave the grounds of the hotel. He went up to the gate and peered down the pot-holed access road that led through the out-buildings and warehouses of some of the lesser ministries. Finding nothing untoward, we wandered down the block to the cross street leading to the dump, turned around and came back. That no one jumped out of the woodwork to ambush him, he took as an extremely encouraging sign.
These were baby steps, but they emboldened him. Less than two days had passed since his arrival in Ghana, but an insatiable itch was already growing to get out of the Afia and get on with his escape, prudence be damned. He hated feeling so cooped. It was against his nature to be stuck in one place.
He passed his time scheming potential escape routes. A taxi would provide the most discrete mode of travel. He had plenty of cash to convince a driver to take him as far as Kumasi. From there he could take a succession of STC buses and tro-tros to the northern border. Burkina Faso would probably be the last place anyone expected him to flee. And the border there was porous, he wouldn’t have to risk showing his passport. He could make his way to Ouagadougou and eventually, work his way from town to town to Nigeria and eventual refuge with Charles. Once there, he could worry about the next steps.
To have a plan again was empowering to his soul, but he was still not quite ready to make his move. Impatience here could be dangerous. Haste could get him killed. He needed to wait for his trail to go cold, for things to settle down and his imagined pursuers to look elsewhere or give up their chase. Then and only then would it would be safe to make a run for it.
Back at the hotel, he gorged at the breakfast buffet, making up for the spoiled appetite that had plagued his last twenty-four hours. And then it was back to his room for another day of crushing boredom, watching Nigerian soap operas and an endless cricket match.
He had a late lunch of red-red and plantains, along with the first of what was to become too many large bottles of Club beer. Drinking was not usually a problem for him. He could go weeks without a glass of wine. Buying a six pack at the grocery store was usually an afterthought. But there were times when his cravings, fueled by nerves, spun out of control and he binged. This happened to be one of those times.
Three beers and a passel of inhibitions lifted, he found himself wobbling down the beach with the sun at his back, headed in the direction of the Labadi Beach Hotel. He patted his shirt pocket to make sure he still had the key card. Sloshed as he was, he retained enough presence of mind to wonder whether he was setting down a path of no return.
Chapter 11: Labadi
Archie walked the sands as far as Independence Square before cutting in towards the road. The beach in front of Osu Castle was off limits to pedestrians and heavily guarded by military. The former slave castle was now used by the president as the seat of government.
He passed through dense and bustling neighborhoods. Kids in school uniforms kicked half-deflated footballs as their mothers cooked dinner over charcoal. A sturdy breeze came off the water, sweeping the smoke of their cook fires inland.
The notion penetrated his alcohol-addled brain that what he was doing might be suicidal. The thing was, that might actually be a-okay with him. Maybe it was the beer thinking, but he couldn’t deny that things would be so much simpl
er if his life just ended.
He stopped to pee against a wall of a petrol station, and bought another beer from the stand next door. Waves roared against the bluffs as the sun dipped below the horizon.
None of the streetlights along this stretch of road were working. Embers glowed beneath smoking piles of trash. He passed people in the darkness, visible only as deeper swaths of shadow. Passing headlights illuminated them briefly before they were swallowed up again by the night.
He passed the La-Palm and turned onto the grounds of the Labadi, breathless and exhilarated. He downed his last swig of beer and dropped the bottle into an empty receptacle, raising a racket as it clanked against the bottom.
He paused by the back door and took a deep breath. The exercise had cleared his head enough to allow some trepidation to come trickling back. He exhaled forcefully and pulled the door open. The chill air struck his face like a glass of ice water.
He crossed the lobby, a bit wobbly, veering only slightly out of line. A course correction brought him directly in front of a bank of elevators. As he waited, he surveyed the mostly European clientele scattered about the lobby.
A burly man with a graying crew-cut looked up from a newspaper and smirked. He put the paper down and rose from an armchair. He strode over, a faint smile on his face, his eyes fixed on Archie’s. Archie reached deep into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around his blackjack.
“Uncanny, really. You look just like that that bloke,” said the man. His accent was South African. He handed Archie a sealed envelope. Archie nodded to him and grunted. He didn’t dare open his mouth. The man walked away and exited out the main doors.
The elevator pinged and made Archie jump. He waddled in, staring at the envelope, which bore no markings. When he reached the top floor, Archie stepped out. A young Ghanaian woman napped in a chair among a semicircle of chairs in a pocket lounge.
Archie went and peered around the corner. The hall was vacant. He wiped at the sweat trickling into his eyes and hustled down to the door of the suite. He slipped the key card from his shirt pocket and swiped it.