The Missing American

by Kwei Quartey

  “Oh, thank you, sir,” Emma said.

  “It’s situations like this where a woman’s finesse can be so helpful,” Sowah said. Emma had never felt so pleased.

  Ponsu’s home was indeed at the top of the hill. It wasn’t shrouded behind a high wall and electric fence as Emma had imagined. With easy access to the sprawling area, Ponsu’s three separate buildings were in plain view. Two of them were long, single-story structures painted cream and brick red. The third was two stories and under construction. The land in front of the buildings was rough and unpaved. Ghanaians love big houses but don’t care if it’s a potholed road that takes you there.

  A small crowd buzzed around five parked SUVs and a sedan as a two-person camera crew filmed and interviewed Ponsu showing off his vehicles. He was dressed in turquoise embroidered robes and layers of jewelry. Now he was demonstrating the beauty of the silver Escalade.

  “Dis one,” he said, waving his horsetail whisk, “I get it straight from America, you understand me. Very powerful! Look at the engine.” He directed one of his minions to pop the hood and open it up. “You see? V-8; four hundred and twenty horsepower. What! No joke!”

  “Massa, no joke!” one of his groupies echoed, laughing. “Dis no be for small boys.”

  “Where do you get all your money?” the interviewer asked.

  “My money?” Ponsu said, hitting his chest. “My money? I earn it! People come to me for salvation, for healing, for blessings. You understand me. They pay me because it is worth it.”

  “But is it true that sometimes you order ritual killings?”

  The priest turned down the corners of his lips and shook his head. “Never! Those who say that are just trying to destroy me because of their jealousy.”

  “What about your enemies and rivals? Do you order them killed?”

  Ponsu was offended. “My friend, do you know the one who you are talking to right now? Right now, do you know who you are talking to, is what I’m saying. I am a healer and a man of God.”

  “But you also believe in magical powers, don’t you?”

  “I believe in the powers given to me as divine gifts,” Ponsu declared, moving on to the black F-250.

  Emma snorted with derision. “What a buffoon,” she said under her breath.

  Sowah looked at her with grim amusement. “Indeed,” he said, checking his watch. “I wonder how long this will go on.”

  “Might as well be entertained,” Labram said.

  In fact, whether by chance or design, Ponsu could be quite funny. Even so, thirty minutes of his antics were about all Emma and her companions could take, and just as they began to wonder whether to leave and return later, the TV journalists wrapped up the interview and began packing up to leave.

  “Let’s get to him before he launches into something else,” Sowah said.

  They made themselves more conspicuous and a young man who looked like he could lift a building approached them to ask what they wanted.

  “We need about ten minutes of Mr. Ponsu’s time,” Sowah told him.

  “Wait here, please.” He went over to Ponsu and whispered in his ear. The priest glanced at the three waiting guests and nodded. The young man returned to them. “Wait ten minutes,” he said. “Then he can see you.”

  “Thank you,” Sowah said. “Your name, please.”

  The man gave him a surly look. “Clifford.”

  There was a moment of confusion as a man, the exact double of Clifford, came out of the center building. Emma’s head whipped back and forth between the two men to be sure she wasn’t seeing things. Clifford’s twin, equally massive, walked up to them.

  “That’s Clement,” Clifford said. “My brother.”

  Evidently, Emma thought.

  Clement said nothing, regarding the trio with little visible interest.

  In the end, it was more like twenty minutes before Clifford and Clement led Emma, Sowah, and Labram to a kind of assembly room with some fifty chairs and a peculiar throne-like setup at the front. Ponsu had arranged himself and his robes apparently to appear as majestic as possible. Clifford and his twin stepped to the side and stood guard with identical stances.

  “You are welcome,” Ponsu addressed them after shaking hands with them all. “Please, have a seat.”

  Clifford had pulled up three chairs. After sitting, Sowah introduced himself and his colleagues.

  Ponsu nodded. “Eh-heh, so what can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Ponsu,” Sowah began, “Detective Djan and I are investigating the disappearance of an American man by the name of Tilson, Gordon Tilson. He has been missing since the third of April and we have reason to believe that he might have visited you here in the four or five days prior to that date.”

  “Before I even answer that,” Ponsu said, picking up his fly whisk, “let me first ask you a question. Who gave you that information? That is what I want to know.”

  “Well, the source is not that important, sir,” Sowah said. “We—”

  “Excuse me, please,” Ponsu interrupted, holding up a finger. “Excuse me to say, but the source of the information is very important. Do you know why, please?” Sowah didn’t answer, so Ponsu proceeded. “The source is important because the information is not true. You understand what I’m trying to say. In other words, this person is telling you lies. Therefore, you must go back to that person, you understand me, and put him straight.”

  Sowah waited a few seconds to be sure he wouldn’t be interrupted again. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough,” he said. “What I said was that we have reason to believe Mr. Tilson might have visited you, sir.”

  Ponsu gave a long, slow blink that appeared to mean, you think you’re so smart, don’t you. “And so, what if I say the oburoni was here?” he asked. “Then what will you do?”

  “We are trying every avenue to locate him, Mr. Ponsu,” Sowah said. “We talk to anyone he has been in contact with in order to gain some clues as to his movements and possible whereabouts.”

  “I see,” Ponsu said, pressing his lips together. “Well, let me tell you now that no such man of such description has ever been here.”

  “Is it possible you might have met him or spoken to him, but you now cannot recall?”

  The priest shook his head. “I don’t forget anything, and if he came here and I wasn’t in, then Cliff and Clem would have told me.” Ponsu nodded at the twins.

  “Okay,” Sowah said. “Mr. Ponsu, sir, have you heard anything at all about this missing American—Mr. Gordon Tilson?”

  Ponsu regarded him deadpan. “Nothing.”

  “He was the victim of a romance scam,” Sowah went on. “He came to Ghana looking for the woman he believed he had fallen in love with, only to find, of course, that it wasn’t the case.”

  “Ah, what a pity,” Ponsu said, with a creditable show of empathy. “And why are you looking for him? What is your interest?”

  “We have been contracted to locate him and find out what happened to him.”

  “I see,” Ponsu said. “Who is the one hiring you?”

  “I’m not at liberty to comment on that,” Sowah said.

  Ponsu lifted his palm and let it drop. “Ah, well. So be it, then.”

  “We are also looking into who was responsible for scamming Mr. Tilson,” Sowah said, “and so I would like to ask if you have connections with any sakawa boys, sir?”

  Ponsu adjusted his robes. “If I have a connection with sakawa boys,” he repeated with a laugh. “Why are you asking me that?”

  “All part of the investigation. You may decline to answer, if you wish. No one is forcing you.”

  “You know, Mr. Sowah,” Ponsu said, acquiescing, “the boys come to me to ask for powers—powers to perform their work successfully.”

  “And you help them even though they are involved in illegal activity?”


  “Oh, yes!” Ponsu said, grinning. “I don’t pass judgment, you understand me. We all have our work to do, not so? If you are bringing the correct sacrificial animals and some money to me, then yes, I will help you.”

  “And none of these boys has ever mentioned the name Gordon Tilson to you?” Sowah persisted from a different angle. “Or maybe brought you a picture of the man?”

  The priest shook his head. “Never.”

  An awkward silence followed. Sowah cleared his throat. “Thank you for your help, sir. May I keep in touch with you?”

  “But of course,” Ponsu said, and recited his number.

  “Thank you,” Sowah said. “I also will flash you our contact info. In case you remember anything that could be relevant to the case, please call us.”

  “And you too,” Ponsu said, “if any of you have any spiritual or physical needs, feel free to get in touch. You can also go to my website, PonsuPower.com.”

  Over my dead body will I use your services, Emma thought, but still, it was useful to have his phone number. With another round of handshaking, they thanked the priest again and left.

  Emma waited until they were well out of earshot before saying anything. “Do you believe him, sir?”

  “No, I do not,” Sowah said without hesitation. “All that braggadocio talk is just a front.”

  “Ponsu is famous for that kind of language, though,” Labram pointed out. “Watch his YouTube videos and you’ll see that’s his MO. I don’t mean I necessarily believe him, just that his style of language might not point to his lying.”

  Despite conceding Labram could be right, Sowah remained doubtful.

  “So then, what next, sir?” Emma asked.

  “We’re not letting Ponsu off the hook, but what we need is another approach. We must find some kind of leverage to use against him. As it is, he’ll just continue to deny, deny, deny. So that means we must dig up information on him. What is one possible link to him? The sakawa boys, of course. I know some of them, and I know people who know some as well. That’s what we need to work on in the next few days.”

  Now I’ll have to tell him about Bruno, Emma thought. She didn’t want to bring her family into the investigation, but here, she had no choice. Since her stepbrother was hanging around sakawa boys, Emma had a potential connection to them. She would tell Sowah, but she wanted to wait until she was alone with him.

  She noticed he was limping. “Sir, what’s wrong? Did you hurt your foot?”

  Sowah looked resigned. “No, it’s my old friend the gout. He visits me every two months or so.”

  Emma didn’t know much about the disease—except that it hurt badly. “Oh, so sorry, sir. Do you have any medicine to take for it?”

  “Yes, back home. I need to hurry back to Accra once we’re done here. After we talk to the Volta fishermen.”

  “Sir,” Emma said, “why not go home and take care of your foot, please? I will stay here overnight and go to the fishermen early tomorrow. In any case, most fishermen will be out on the river by this time. They return with their catch in the morning. And besides, rain is about to start.”

  “You have a point,” Sowah said, looking torn. “You’ll be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine, sir.” Emma appreciated his concern but felt a little put off. She was a novice yes, but she wasn’t completely helpless.

  “I can take you to a couple of the fishing villages along the river,” Labram said to Emma.

  “Thank you, sir,” Sowah said. “We appreciate that. Where can she stay around here?”

  “There are a couple of hotels we can check with and you take your pick.”

  In the end, Emma decided on Benkum Hotel, the same place Mr. Tilson’s driver had stayed. It wasn’t the cheapest available, but it was the best value for the money. The Adome Hotel was frankly awful.

  Emma said goodbye to Sowah and wished him luck slaying the gout monster. Early the next morning, Mr. Labram would come around to pick her up and they would set off. As much as Emma admired and adored Sowah, she felt it was time to do some detective work without his being present. In the privacy of her rudimentary motel room, she looked forward to the next day.

  Before she went to bed, however, she had two calls to make: one to Derek, but before that, Bruno.

  “Sis!” he exclaimed. “Where are you?”

  “Atimpoku.”

  “Really? What are you doing there?”

  “Just investigating something. I have a question for you. Has Nii Kwei or any other sakawa boy ever talked about an American man called Gordon Tilson?”

  “No, why?” Bruno said, but Emma detected the slightest of hesitations.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  Emma ignored the question. “But you’ve heard the name, ‘Gordon Tilson,’ right?”

  “Well, something like that,” Bruno said vaguely.

  “Tell me more.”

  “Agh, Sis. You’re killing me.”

  “Bruno, come on. I’ve always had your back.”

  Her stepbrother groaned.

  “Who stood up for you against my father?” Emma pressed ruthlessly.

  “You did,” Bruno said wearily.

  “Exactly. So, help your sister out. What do you know about Tilson?”

  “I can’t say directly, but I can tell you who to ask. On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Okay. I accept. Who’s the person we should talk to?”

  FORTY-FOUR

  May 21, Washington, DC

  Cas was sipping black coffee in his apartment with his feet up. The liquor relaxed him, but he was still worried, riddled with anxiety like a corpse full of buckshot. Several weeks now, and still no word from Gordon. For some time, Cas had thought there could be a logical and simple explanation for his friend’s silence, but the situation was now ominous.

  On his laptop, Cas looked back at his May 10th article in the Washington Observer.

  Out of Africa

  An American delves into the lucrative African underworld of Internet scammers

  By Casper Guttenberg

  Part Two

  Modern online romance scams, which often originate from countries like Ghana and Nigeria, 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 while hunting for prey on social networks.

  It is rare that American, Canadian, or European victims (some prefer the term “survivors”) of these scams travel to these countries to confront the conmen in person. G.T., whom we met in Part One, decided to do just that. Traveling to Accra, Ghana’s capital, G.T. embarked on a mission to find out who, using the fabricated name “Helena,” had duped him of some $4,000.

  But G.T. found little help from the Ghanaian police authorities, themselves often mired in corruption, and he was compelled to seek other paths. Working with a local Ghanaian investigative reporter, Sana Sana, G.T. discovered that Internet scamming (commonly called sakawa in local parlance) has infiltrated multiple strata in Ghanaian life, up to and including the high echelons. Along the way, G.T. has met a diverse, if not always pleasant, cast of characters including a voodoo priest and the wife of a top police official.

  He startled as his phone buzzed on the side table. It was Derek calling from Ghana, and Cas hoped and prayed he had good news.

  “Hi, Derek. How are you doing?”

  “Not that well.”

  Cas’s heart sank. “What’s going on?”

  “The detectives are telling me that on the night Dad disappeared, an eyewitness reported what looked like a body being dumped over a bridge into the Volta River.”

  Cas’s immedia
te reaction was to push back. “Yeah, but that could have been anything. We don’t even know the reliability of this person. Eyewitness accounts are notoriously untrustworthy.”

  “Seven weeks, Cas—seven weeks since my father was last seen.”

  “I don’t deny that it’s troubling,” Cas agreed.

  “I read the second part of your Observer piece, by the way,” Derek said. “You know, now that I’m in Ghana, I’m seeing the articles differently than I did back home when I read the first part. I think I owe you an apology about the way I spoke to you about it back then.”

  “No, that’s all right, Derek. You were justifiably concerned. I just wish there was something more I could do.”

  “Thanks. There’s very little either of us can do but see what the investigators turn up.”

  “Keep me posted. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”

  When the call ended, Cas sat still and stared into the fireplace without seeing, somewhere between numb and terrified.

  FORTY-FIVE

  May 22, Atimpoku, Ghana

  It had rained hard overnight, leaving the ground sodden. Fortunately, Emma had on her jeans and trainers. This was no time for a skirt. Besides the rain, something else came down heavily last night: her period, and she was cramping. She didn’t ever want to be a man, but every month around this time she had transitory fantasies of a menstrual-free life. She’d have to wait a few decades for that.

  Having washed up with the few toiletries she had bought from a convenience store, Emma was ready at a little past six when Mr. Labram arrived in his four-wheel drive Toyota Prado, which he parked on the street.

  “From here, we can walk down to the shore to speak with some of the fishermen,” he explained to Emma.

  They crossed the road and descended toward the river, coming to a cluster of four thatched huts and a brick building a few meters from the water’s edge. Three traditional canoes and a modern dinghy with an outboard motor were pulled up on shore.

  A kilometer or so northward, the graceful arc of the Adome Bridge spanned the Volta. Looking across to the other side, Emma marveled at the breadth of the river. It was at once magnificent and daunting. How in the world could they ever recover a body from these vast waters—if it was there at all? It could be anywhere along the river’s course.