The Missing American

by Kwei Quartey

  Gordon grunted. “As if I would even want to. Have you spoken to Cas?”

  “Last night. Just wanted to know if he’d heard any news.”

  “I’ll call him. I know he’s been trying to reach me.”

  “Yeah,” Derek said. “He’s been worried. He cares about you.”

  “I know. But me . . . well, I’m an asshole.”

  “If you don’t stop beating yourself up about this,” Derek said, “Imma beat the crap out of you.”

  To their mutual relief, that flash of humor worked, and they had a laugh. “Okay, son,” Gordon said. “I guess I’ll hang up now. I’ll text you tomorrow.”

  “Sure. Love you, Dad.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  After getting off the line with Derek, Gordon sat listless and depressed at the edge of the bed in his hotel room. He thought he might go downstairs to the bar for something to drink, and then eat dinner at the Papillon Restaurant, but he wasn’t that hungry. Maybe later, after he got in touch with Cas. Gordon tried his number but got only voicemail. He got up and sat at the desk where his laptop was open. Rather than talk on the phone, Gordon would pour out his woes into an email to Cas. Sometimes writing was more therapeutic than talking.

  Hey, Cas, how are you, buddy? I know you’ve been trying to get hold of me and I’m sorry I’ve been MIA. Spoke with Derek earlier on and told him what’s happened here in Ghana. Bottom line is he was right. There’s no Helena. Her number has dropped off the face of the earth. I’ve been duped big time. I fell for the kind of thing that in the past I would have said was an obvious ruse that only an uneducated dumbass would fall for. Funny when it happens to you. I believed what I wanted to believe, and so here I am. My feelings are all mixed up—anger, shame, embarrassment, depression, emptiness, the whole shebang. It’s surreal, like I’m not in my body.

  I’d set my trip for 2 months, but as I told Derek, I’ll get the earliest possible flight back when the Delta office opens after the long weekend. It’s a holiday here on Monday. Derek just wants me back asap. This is a classic case of “I told you so,” even though he didn’t say that out loud, but he did warn me this might happen.

  Hope you’re well. Talk soon.

  He went down to the Gallery Bar where a bunch of Brits and a couple of Ghanaians were drinking beer and watching a soccer match on the wide-screen TV above the bar. Gordon had a scotch on the rocks and sat quietly in a booth by himself. After that he went to Cedar Garden and had kofta kebab. When he returned to his room, an email from Cas was waiting for him.

  Gordon—listen, sorry to hear about this, but I have a different take on it than what Derek probably has. So, you got duped, so what? Big fucking deal. Look, shit happens, right? Chalk it up to one of those regrettable experiences that’s not going to ruin your life and, in the end, won’t make the slightest damn difference. In a few years it will all be a distant memory. Why hurry back? is my question. I know there’s probably a lot that’s changed in Ghana since you were last there, so cut your losses and just have a damn good vacation! Go sightseeing somewhere, look up some resorts or whatever. Don’t they have some animal parks or something? What’s happened isn’t the worst thing that could happen to a guy! Okay, so you’re out a few thousand dollars, but you could lose that just as well in Vegas for God’s sake. Hell, you could even embrace the whole experience and blog about it, I don’t know. Call me if you like, and we’ll talk, but I say sleep on it. In the morning things might seem quite different.

  Gordon couldn’t help smiling. That’s Cas, all right. Always had a different and refreshing perspective, like seeing an object as a cube from one angle and realizing it looked like a pyramid from another.

  Before Gordon went to bed, he sent another email to Cas in reply.

  Interesting perspective. Let me think about it.

  In the morning, Gordon had a reply from Cas, who would be fast asleep by now, DC time.

  I gotta proposal for you. Call me early afternoon Ghanian time.

  Gordon noticed tangentially that Cas had left out the second of the three a’s in “Ghanaian,” a common mistake. But more to the point, what “proposal” was Cas talking about? Gordon waited until around two that afternoon and then called.

  “How you feeling today?” Cas asked.

  “A little better, actually.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Cas said. “What’s the temperature over there?”

  “Must be in the nineties—it’s the humidity that kills you. I saw on CNN we’re having our first blizzard for the season in DC?”

  “Pretty dramatic. I haven’t been out in two days.”

  “Well, stay safe. Don’t want you slipping on an icy sidewalk.” Gordon cut to the chase. “What’s this ‘proposal’ you referenced in your email?”

  “So, it’s going to sound pretty outlandish at the beginning, but hear me out.”

  “Okay.”

  “At first my feeling was, fine, so you got duped, now let’s move on. But I’ve been reading tons of articles online about these scam setups and thinking, well, let’s hold our horses a second. Our impression of a bunch of teenagers and young men working out of shitty Internet cafés doesn’t do justice to the whole picture. A few of these individuals do get picked up and thrown into jail, but the rule rather than the exception is that there are very few prosecutions, never mind convictions. And the reason why that’s so is not because the scammers are so slick or that the authorities are powerless to stop them, it’s that the police authorities are in on the game themselves.”

  “I imagine that could be true,” Gordon agreed. “Corrupt police isn’t news, really.”

  “Sure, but there’s another, maybe even larger factor influencing why so few of these cases are prosecuted,” Cas went on. “Something not immediately obvious is that Americans, Europeans, or whoever has been a victim of one of these scams, rarely turn up in Ghana to take action and try to prosecute. Why? Well, it’s mostly fear of traveling to a country they know nothing about or of getting tangled up in a police system that’s likely to be corrupt and possibly violent.”

  “Yes, that makes sense,” Gordon agreed. “I suppose I’d never thought of it that way.”

  “Right, right,” Cas said, his crackly voice taking on some eagerness. “So then, the police see nothing’s going to happen and they reach some kind of agreement with the scammers to release them in return for some money. Even if the case goes to court, if the complainant repeatedly doesn’t show up, the court eventually dismisses the case.”

  “Okay,” Gordon said, still waiting for the punchline, “so . . . so what? You’re saying that my case is different because I’m here in Ghana.”

  “Bingo,” Cas said with satisfaction. “This is one hell of a golden opportunity to nail this shit.”

  “Hold on a second. Yesterday it was, ‘fuck it all, live and let live.’ Today I’m the new sheriff in town here to fix all the evils?”

  “I’m saying you’re in a unique position to make a difference, is all I’m saying,” Cas responded. “You can alter the paradigm. It’s like a big block of stone everyone’s been walking past and ignoring for years until one day a sculptor comes along and shapes it into a statue.”

  “Nice metaphor,” Gordon said, “but what if one day the damn statue falls over and crushes the sculptor? In other words, what if I go after this thing and end up getting hurt?”

  “I don’t think it has to be that way,” Cas said. “You won’t be inventing the wheel. First, there’s a guy called Sana Sana in Ghana—”

  “Who?”

  “Sana Sana. I know, weird name, but anyway he’s a Ghanaian investigative reporter who does exposés on prominent people—mostly corrupt politicians. He’s done some TED talks in the States and he’s working on a documentary on these scams right now. He’s got a bunch of resources at his command. If you could get a hold of him and work with him, he might even
be able to track down the people who duped you. I’ll text you the YouTube link.

  “Second, for what it’s worth, I think you should go to the police about this. Just making a report is an important first step because they’re going to say, ‘okay, this guy is here right in front of us, and he’s serious.’

  “Third, what about that woman you told me you met at the Ghanaian ambassador’s? Didn’t you say she’s the wife of the attorney general or whatever?”

  “Josephine. Wife of the inspector general of police.”

  “Yes, that. Jesus, Gordon. You have a contact intimately connected with the top law enforcement guy there and you’re not going to use that opportunity? How many people do you think have ever been in such a strategic position?”

  Gordon chewed on the inside of his cheek. To be honest, he had ruled out meeting up with Josephine, not to mention her husband. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t tell you this, but I had sex with Josephine.” Silence from the other end. Gordon continued. “So, I fucked her, and now I’m here in Ghana looking for another woman who, by the way, doesn’t exist? How awkward are the optics on that?”

  “Okay, well,” Cas said, recovering, “that’s still no reason not to get in touch with her. You’re both grown-ups. Whatever happened, happened. This is another matter altogether.”

  Undecided and mixed up, Gordon heaved a sigh.

  “The thing is you’re embarrassed about this,” Cas persevered, “and I don’t blame you. But this is what scammers rely on—your shame and embarrassment. They’re master manipulators. You’re not the culprit here, you’re the victim. And it’s time to turn it around and become a survivor, goddammit.”

  Gordon was half persuaded.

  “I don’t think we can let this go,” Cas added. “And whatever the outcome, when you get back to the States, we’re going to document the whole thing.”

  “That’s what this is about, Cas? So you can get a piece in the Post?”

  “The way I see it is a coauthorship. You’ve got the raw material and I’m going to shape it to produce a riveting piece. Preferably in two parts.”

  “I’ll give it some thought. Derek’s going to have an issue with it, though. He’s not going to see why I should turn into Kurt Wallander.”

  “All you’re going to tell him is that you’ve decided to make the best of it and take a vacation in Ghana. Nothing wrong with that. And I’m certainly not going to tell him about my idea. I’d like to stay on his good side.”

  Gordon smiled. “As you should.”

  After they ended the conversation, Cas sent him the link he had mentioned. Gordon found one YouTube video after another featuring Sana Sana, whose exposés were sponsored by BBC News. From there, Gordon spent almost two hours reading horror stories from people all over the world who had been scammed of their money through various ruses out of Ghana. The more Gordon saw, the angrier he became. Like all those other chumps, he’d been well and truly hoodwinked. He sat back and thought about Cas’s declaration that Gordon had one hell of a golden opportunity to nail this shit. He was beginning to see Cas’s point of view.

  In the morning, Gordon realized he had slept peacefully through the night for the first time since arriving in Ghana. He knew why, too. Before going to bed, he had decided to go along with Cas’s idea. Whereas before he had been demoralized, now he felt empowered, and that had put his mind unexpectedly at ease. Slipping into one of Kempinski’s complimentary dressing gowns, Gordon sat at the desk and sent a short message to Cas: Okay, it’s on. I’ll take the “vacation.”

  But to Derek, Gordon had to write something diplomatic and much more explanatory.

  Hi, Derek—this will no doubt come as something of a surprise, but thinking over my situation, I’ve decided to make lemonade out of lemons, as it were. Yes, I was conned, but it’s water under the bridge at this point. I’m here now, and there’s no real reason why I shouldn’t at least try to enjoy myself and stay out the rest of the time I’d previously scheduled. Especially since I’ll likely forfeit the return portion on my ticket if I change the date—I’ll basically be buying a new one-way ticket—and why should I have to do that? Of course I’m mad with whoever did this to me, but it doesn’t mean I have to hate the whole country of Ghana and everyone in it. Hope you understand, son. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.

  Thanks.

  PART TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  April 3, Atimpoku, Ghana

  They had told Kafui it would be brutal. Mama, Auntie Mary, Cousin Gladys—all of them had warned Kafui the first three months would be hell with Yao, the new baby. “He’ll cry all night,” they said.

  Trouble was, Yao had passed that time marker and still had not slept a single night straight through.

  “Shh.” Kafui tried to soothe him, rocking the baby gently in the dark. “What’s wrong, Yao? Is it your stomach?”

  Fiercely, he pushed away the breast Kafui offered. He wasn’t hungry and seemed frustrated his mother couldn’t figure out his problem.

  Leonard, Kafui’s husband, was trying to get some sleep on the floor in the opposite corner of the pocked floor of the hut. He lifted his head and looked at the silhouette of his wife cuddling their firstborn. “Please, Kafui. Take him outside, eh? Let me sleep!” He worked two jobs, so he was exasperated and tired. The heat of the night was insufferable and he would have to be up again in barely two hours.

  Kafui, too, had work to do later—a cleaning job at one of the nice houses near the Volta River, where oburonis liked to stay. But Yao knew nothing about that, nor the detriment sleepless nights caused his parents. Kafui gathered him in her arms and went out to the compound, which was barely cooler than inside the house. Four other households shared the space for cooking and washing. Everyone was asleep except Kafui and her boy, whose all-out crying had quieted now to whimpering, as if he were gradually accepting the comfort of his mother.

  She supported Yao in the crook of her right elbow, jiggling him in rhythm to her gait. She walked to the edge of the roundabout off which roads north, south, and east radiated like sunrays. The Adome Hotel stood strategically at the circle with its name scrawled in fading black paint on a background of splotchy green. Yellow streetlights cast a ghostly hue on the roads. Traffic was rare at this time of the night, but in a few hours the Atimpoku lorry park would spring to life as travelers stopped for refreshments and bus transfers.

  “You need to sleep, boy,” Kafui said, rocking Yao like a slow pendulum. As of midnight, he was four months old to the day—born on the third of December. She watched his eyes drift closed and his tiny, perfectly formed lashes come together like the leaves of a touch-me-not plant. At last, Kafui thought. But she would linger awhile to ensure Yao slept on. He had been known to wake up the moment he was laid down on his sleeping pad. She brushed his soft, silky forehead lightly with her fingertips and smiled down at him, her chest swelling with love. Before Yao, Kafui had miscarried, so she took him as a gift from God.

  She looked up as a black SUV approached from a northerly direction and took a sharp left turn east toward the Adome Bridge spanning the width of the river. Upstream from Atimpoku and the bridge, the hydroelectric dam at Akosombo hummed with power as it held back the largest man-made lake in the world.

  The bridge lamps, some of them extinguished and unreplaced, illuminated the SUV as it receded into the distance. Kafui saw the brake lights come on as the vehicle stopped. She could just make out two people alighting, one each from the driver’s and passenger side. They went to the rear, opened the trunk, and dragged out a long, heavy-looking sack of about two meters in length. One man at each end, they carried it to the side of the bridge and struggled to lift it up to the railing. Sagging in the middle, the sack seemed to move around somewhat and Kafui had an eerie notion that a human body was inside it. The men heaved the load over the railing and Kafui heard the faint splash seconds later. She shuddered, aware of
the urban legends detailing human sacrifices to the river god.

  Kafui turned away and hurried back home. Whatever had taken place on that bridge, she wanted nothing to do with it.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  April 6

  Out of Africa

  The lucrative African underworld of Internet scammers that brings pain and ruin to well-meaning Westerners

  By Casper Guttenberg

  Part One

  Modern online romance scams are premeditated crimes that steal millions—potentially billions—of dollars from vulnerable people all over the US, Canada, and Europe. Rarely caught or prosecuted, the scammers sit safely at computers in countries like Ghana and Nigeria while hunting for prey on social networks. Their victims are often left financially and psychologically damaged, and are sometimes so embarrassed that they are disinclined to come forward even when they realize they’ve been duped.

  Contrary to a prevailing impression, people who fall prey to scams are not poor decision makers or even uneducated or stupid. They may have successful business or professional careers, but, as a University of Exeter study showed, they tend to be unduly open to persuasion by others, whether due to upbringing or life experiences.

  G.T., a longtime resident of Washington, DC, (his name is withheld here for security reasons) built an online relationship with someone in Ghana who appeared on a Facebook page as a beautiful Ghanaian woman, “Helena.” Later, “she” would become his confidante and “lover.” The emotional bond established, G.T. did not find requests for money from this person outlandish, suspicious, or unreasonable. Some six weeks ago, G.T. set off for Ghana to meet the new love of his life. When he arrived, he discovered the bitter, cruel truth: this Helena did/does not exist. At last count, he had sent “her” around $4,000 to help her with what emerged to be concocted medical expenses. The elaborate story was that Helena’s “sister” had been involved in a catastrophic vehicle crash that had landed her in a steeply priced Intensive Care Unit. In a country where cash is still king, those costs must be borne fully by the patient and the family. That part was certainly true.