The Missing American

by Kwei Quartey

  “I’ll come with you,” Derek said at once.

  “I will not allow that, please,” Sowah said firmly. “Part of my job is to protect our clients. If the path your father took put him in danger, we can’t let that happen to you as well.”

  “Okay,” Derek said, but he was clearly disappointed. He brooded for a while and then muttered to no one in particular, “Why, Dad, why? Why didn’t you listen?”

  Sowah looked at Emma, and then back at Derek in sympathy. “Very sorry about all this, Derek. We’ll work on it until we have a resolution. I promise you that.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Sowah.”

  “You’re welcome. May I make a suggestion?”

  Derek looked up. “What’s that?”

  “That you go back to the hotel, relax—perhaps have a drink by the pool, and then a nice dinner. Something to take your mind off things. Let us do the worrying for you, okay?”

  “That’s not a bad idea.” Derek rose, smiling and looking marginally better.

  The two men shook hands and Emma walked Derek to the front door. Outside, he faced her. “Listen, I appreciate all your efforts, I really do.”

  “You’re most welcome, sir.”

  “Now let me go get that drink,” Derek said, heading down the steps. He looked back at her with a playful smile. “You should join me!”

  Emma laughed. “Have a good evening, sir.”

  “No, no,” he said. “Call me Derek.”

  Emma watched him walk away before she went back in. As she returned to the detectives’ room, she remembered she needed to call her mother, Akosua. Emma expected the usual harassment about why it had been such a long time since she had phoned, and she got it.

  “Ei!” Akosua exclaimed. “My one and only daughter! What a miracle to hear from you. It’s been so long.”

  “Less than a week, Mama.”

  “It seems like longer. But anyway, how are you?”

  “I’m good, and you?”

  “By God’s grace, you know. We are managing. How is work?”

  Sitting at her desk and speaking in Twi, Emma conversed with her mother for a while about the usual stuff: money problems (despite the stipend Emma sent her mother via mobile money every couple of weeks), the transgressions of this or that family member, and so on. When Emma wrapped up the conversation, fifteen minutes had passed, and it was about time to go home. As she packed up, a call came in from someone she had quite forgotten about: Courage, the SWAT guy.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  May 20

  Emma had requested Wednesday morning off to attend the Autism Center’s event honoring its most important patron, Mrs. Josephine Akrofi. Emma arrived at 5 a.m. to help clean and decorate. There was sweeping, dusting, and scrubbing to be done. Auntie Rose, unsurprisingly, had arrived before everyone else. With some trial and error, Emma, Rose, and the other staff managed to suspend the welcome banner across the courtyard, but professionals took care of setting up the guest seating and the dais. Then it was time to dress the children up with the best combinations of donated clothing and whatever their parents could provide.

  Kojo was restless this morning and rocking incessantly. He didn’t want to wear a new outfit. He wanted only his regular Mickey Mouse T-shirt, which was badly soiled. Just as Emma was about to give up, Kojo agreed to don his red-and-white checkered button-down shirt and black pants.

  “You look so smart, young man,” Emma said, kissing Kojo on his forehead, then laughing as the boy wiped her kiss away. Shows of affection were not his style, but he was difficult to resist. People only wished they could engage the gaze of his soft, big brown eyes, but Kojo avoided any visual contact whatsoever.

  Families of the center’s children, their friends, and supporters were in attendance. Most were seated by the time Josephine Akrofi arrived just before eleven with an entourage of assistants and two officers—one male, the other female. A handful of media people materialized as well. Auntie Rose met them all at the front gate, shook hands all around and brought them in, where Emma and the other volunteers waited in a neat row beside one another. In person, Mrs. Akrofi seemed larger than life. Tall and well-built, she carried herself with such flare in a scarlet outfit by Woodin.

  Emma, who hadn’t been present at the last visit, was meeting the Akrofis for the first time. Introducing her to the dignitaries, Auntie Rose described Emma as “amazing with the kids.”

  “God bless you, young woman,” Mrs. Akrofi said with feeling, her eyes locking with Emma’s. “Dedicated and gifted youth like you are exactly what we need. People who are not afraid of these beautiful kids who badly need our care. Thank you very much, eh? Thank you.”

  Emma felt gratified and somewhat overawed. She would never have anticipated that kind of praise.

  Auntie Rose gave the guests a tour of the entire center, in and out, showing the Akrofis what had improved since the last visit and what still needed to be done. The police officers stayed unobtrusively in sight as Mrs. Akrofi interacted with each of the children, giving each one her attention. But she made the most fuss of Kojo, who, after all, had been one of the very first at the Center.

  “He’s growing up so fast, isn’t he?” Mrs. Akrofi asked.

  “He is,” Rose agreed.

  “How about school? Have you been able to mainstream him at all?”

  “For about two hours a day,” Rose answered.

  “That’s really great,” Mrs. Akrofi said, lightly bringing up his chin so he could look at her, but he didn’t. “Such a beautiful boy too.”

  Emma glanced at the female police officer, vaguely recalling her from CID. She was short and squat—almost as wide as tall, it seemed. Once the speeches and ceremony were underway, Emma had a chance to hang back where the officer was. “Good afternoon, madam.”

  The officer smiled back, but only a little. “Good afternoon. Haven’t I seen you before at CID Headquarters?”

  “Yes, madam. I used to work there. My name is Emma Djan.”

  “Ah, okay. I’m DI Doris Damptey. Why did you leave?”

  “It’s a long story,” Emma said, smiling with discomfort. She pressed on hurriedly. “So, you are doing special duty this weekend, madam?”

  “This is outside work,” Damptey explained. “Not directly connected with CID. You know, some of us moonlight here and there to make ends meet. It’s not easy.”

  Emma murmured her agreement, pausing to watch a poised Mrs. Akrofi deliver her address from the dais. “Because of fear and ignorance in our society,” she was saying, looking around at her audience, “autism has been attributed to the devil, or curses, or punishment from God or the lesser gods. But we know that each and every one of these children belong to God just as any other child in this world. It is our duty to educate those who do not understand and those who fear.”

  At the end of Josephine’s speech, she presented the four new Samsung tablets to the center to enthusiastic applause and the sound of camera shutters in concert. Auntie Rose then took to the microphone to express her gratitude.

  “So where are you working now?” Damptey asked her a little above the volume of the speech.

  “Sowah Private Investigators.”

  Damptey nodded. “Yes, I know it well. How is Mr. Sowah?”

  “Oh, he’s healthier than I am, even,” Emma said, making them both laugh. She thought of something but hesitated to verbalize it. Was this the appropriate place? Maybe not, but she was going to try anyway. “Please, do you remember a gentleman called—”

  Her final two words got lost under the applause. Damptey signaled they should retreat outside the Center’s gates. Saturday morning traffic was going to and fro, taxi drivers leaning on their horns.

  “You were saying?” Damptey asked.

  “Do you remember a man by the name of Derek Tilson?” Emma asked. “I think you might have talked to him at headquarters
.”

  “What is your interest in him?” the DI asked, her face neutral.

  “He came to us to report his father missing.”

  “Why?” Damptey demanded testily.

  “Why what?”

  The DI was clearly annoyed. “Why should he come to report that to you when we are already on the case?”

  Emma knew she had to handle this carefully, like a piece of hot charcoal. “Madam Doris, I think it’s only because he understands the limitation of resources at CID. Just looking for some extra help.”

  “Maybe,” Damptey said, relenting a little but not fully mollified.

  “Madam, please, did you find out anything at all about the gentleman? I mean Gordon Tilson—the father. We understand he went to Akosombo last twenty-seventh March, so we were wondering if you were able to follow up there—”

  “I have nothing to tell you,” Damptey interrupted, turning as cold as a Fan Milk popsicle. She glanced around, came closer to Emma, and lowered her voice. “Listen, from one female investigator to another, don’t get involved with this case. I respect Mr. Sowah, but please tell him from me, this is best left for the police, and if he won’t do that, then I advise you to request that he take you off the case.”

  “Please, may I know why?”

  “You don’t need to know why,” Damptey said, shaking her head. “You only need to know not to get involved. I must go back inside. I think the Akrofis will be leaving soon.” She walked away, but slowed down briefly to turn and say, “Don’t play with fire, eh? Or you will get burned.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  That same morning in Shukura, far across town from the Autism Center, Bruno waited at the edge of Ponsu’s courtyard. His jaw tensed rhythmically and his right thumb dug into his left palm. Sweat streamed off him and soaked his muscle shirt.

  “If I kill the crocodile,” he had told Sana Sana last week, “I will get closer to meeting Godfather.”

  Sana had reacted strongly. “Kill a crocodile? No, I can’t have you doing anything that dangerous. That thing will eat you alive.”

  “Mr. Ponsu will help me,” Bruno said. “We’ll do it together.”

  “No.”

  “Please, Sana,” Bruno said. “You yourself told me this was never going to be easy. Now Mr. Ponsu is providing a way to get to Godfather. I told him I can fight the crocodile. He’s testing me. If I back out now, Ponsu will take me as a coward and then it will be all over. Please, I can do it. I have to.”

  Concise and clear-eyed in his pitch to Sana, Bruno had convinced him that this was a chance they could not let go. But now the time had arrived and he was staring down the barrel of the actual task, Bruno was as terrified as an aquaphobe in the deep sea. He had made himself out to be a fearless young man who could combat a reptilian beast, and now it was going to take place.

  Kweku Ponsu had erected a metal-slatted barrier along the open side of the courtyard, and quite a crowd—mostly boys and young men—had grown behind it to watch the spectacle. A rhythmic scraping sound was one of Kweku’s men sharpening the machete for Bruno.

  Ponsu beckoned Bruno to follow him to Frankie the croc’s still-covered bathtub, where two assistants were getting ready to move it closer to the edge of the courtyard. Bruno and Ponsu joined in the effort and on the count of three they heaved the heavy bathtub over a few meters. Frankie didn’t seem to object.

  Kweku took up his position at the croc’s tail end and directed Bruno to stand well to the right of the tub. The machete-sharpening guy, a wizened old man, came up to Bruno and handed him his weapon. “Good luck,” he said, without much feeling. Bruno nodded dumbly. His legs were shaking uncontrollably and a chilly wave of fear swept through him.

  Kweku told two of his men to slide the tub cover forward enough for him to reach in, grasp Frankie’s hefty tail and straighten it out. The creature hissed but didn’t resist. One of the guys, Issufu, stood at the front ready with a loop of rope tied with a slip knot.

  “Bruno, get ready,” Kweku instructed. “As soon as we move the top off, it will try to get out. Issufu will have to get the rope around the mouth. The crocodile will start to turn over and over. When the stomach is up, you have to cut the neck fast. That is the soft part. One time, sharp sharp! You get it?”

  “Yes please.”

  “Are you ready?”

  Bruno nodded. His mouth was parched.

  “Open the top,” Kweku ordered calmly.

  Two of his men pulled the grate off the tub. Frankie raised his head to the sudden blast of sunlight and opened his mouth wide. Issufu dropped the loop down over the reptile’s top jaw as Kweku pulled on the tail.

  “Come back, come back!” Kweku said to Issufu. “Pull, pull!”

  The croc flipped out of the tub and landed on the ground with an earthshaking thud. The crowd yelled in one voice. Bruno was horrified at how massive the creature was out of its cramped quarters—and it looked furious. It roared and jackknifed its muscular, armored body around in a U toward Issufu and Kweku. Issufu yelled and jumped out of the way. Somehow the rope came off Frankie’s snout, leaving him free. Kweku cursed and yelled, “Get the rope on! Get it!” He held the tail fast and moved a quarter turn counterclockwise the same way as the croc. Two men from the courtyard rushed in to help hold the tail as Frankie whipped it to one side, throwing Kweku off balance.

  “Get the mouth!” Kweku shouted at Issufu, but it wasn’t safe and Issufu couldn’t do it. Frankie’s tail came out of the men’s grasp and it made a dash for the metal barrier. The crowd disassembled in seconds. Frankie hit the metal hard, rolled over and darted for a tight corner beside the cows’ enclosure where it stopped, its head under a rusty piece of corrugated tin roofing. Issufu started after it but Kweku stopped him.

  “Wait, wait!” he snapped. “You’ve messed the whole thing up. Give me the rope, you fool. You told me you knew how to do it, and now look!”

  Issufu, squat and strong, suddenly looked small and crushed. Bruno, machete in hand, hadn’t had even a second’s chance to strike the crocodile. Now what? His heart was pounding and his entire body quivered.

  “This is what we’ll do,” Kweku said. “I’ll get on the wall from the other side to get the rope around the mouth. It can’t move backward easily, but everybody watch out in case it does.”

  Sitting astride the wall, Kweku inched the rectangular sheet of corrugated metal off Frankie’s head. Its baleful eye seemed to be watching to see what would happen next. Little by little, at a painfully slow pace, Kweku had Frankie’s snout in the clear. He lowered the noose slowly and, barely touching the croc’s skin, he got the rope over the snout and both jaws. Kweku inched back along the wall for more leverage, then pulled.

  Frankie abandoned any trace of docility and reared up against the wall as if to climb it. Kweku yelled and pulled his foot out of the way. The croc fell on its back with a bang, this time with its head toward the courtyard. It flipped over, hissed and charged. Kweku went flying off the wall behind the croc, but he held on to the rope.

  “It’s coming!” he shouted. “Move away!”

  As Frankie emerged into the courtyard again, it began the death spiral—flipping itself over and over to free itself. Instead it only tightened the rope around its jaws with each revolution. Kweku kept the tension on the rope. He couldn’t see where Bruno had got to and he screamed out for him.

  Out of nowhere, Bruno appeared brandishing the machete and moving almost in rhythm to Frankie’s gyrations. As the reptile’s sallow white underside appeared, Bruno struck, and the pale pink flesh of Frankie’s gullet opened wide.

  THIRTY-NINE

  May 21, Akosombo, Ghana

  Emma and Sowah arrived at Kweku Ponsu’s compound to discover they had missed him by a few hours. He had left for Atimpoku early that morning. When would he return? None of the numerous, miscellaneous people hanging around knew.

 
“What next, sir?” Emma asked her boss as they stood at the roadside to hail a cab. Sowah often left his vehicle behind to avoid the headaches of finding a parking space in a city of chaotic traffic.

  “Little choice but to go after him in Atimpoku,” he said, flagging down a rickety taxi. “We don’t know when he’ll be back in Accra. We might as well go back to the office, pick up my car and drive directly there.”

  They headed north to Atimpoku, eight miles southeast of the Akosombo Dam. At the last minute Sowah had also arranged to meet Mr. Labram, the owner of the nearby Riverview Cottage where Mr. Tilson had stayed before his disappearance.

  En route, Emma said, “Sir, I should tell you about what DI Damptey said to me yesterday at the Autism Center ceremony.”

  “Ah, yes?”

  “She seemed upset that we are looking into Tilson’s disappearance and she said I should please respectfully ask you to leave the case alone.”

  Sowah tossed his head back and laughed. “And if I don’t, what will happen to me?”

  “Please, she didn’t tell me that part.”

  Sowah sucked his teeth. “Don’t mind her. She’s full of hot air.”

  Well, Emma thought. If the boss is not worried about her, neither am I.

  They arrived in Atimpoku a little after eleven Monday morning. The transport hub was alive with tro-tros, buses, taxis, and merchants swarming every incoming vehicle to offer bread, water, cold drinks, abolo, and the ubiquitous one-man-thousand, silvery anchovies from the Volta River deep fried till crisp and crunchy.

  Hungry, Emma and Sowah bought a packet of biscuits and some Alvaro soda to wash them down. They continued about a mile farther to the Riverview Cottage, which was down an incline in a picturesque and shady area not far from the Volta River’s right bank. The lake itself, formed by the Akosombo Dam, was north of here. Emma noted how emerald green the environment was. Living in Accra in traffic and billboard purgatory made one forget what the natural world had to offer. She noticed the chirping of birds, a sound invariably drowned out in the urban environment.