The Missing American

by Kwei Quartey

  A shirtless young man of about eighteen was leaning against one of the canoes as he repaired a fishing net.

  “Good morning,” Labram greeted him in Ewe.

  “Morning,” he replied.

  Labram continued in Ewe, introducing himself and Emma and explaining their mission. The man, whose name was Solomon, looked puzzled.

  “Please, wait one moment. I will call my father.”

  Emma recognized Solomon’s speech was unusual—the pronunciation rather childlike, and she understood at once that Solomon might have a mild mental deficit. He went inside the brick house and returned a few minutes later with his father, Zacharia, a fortyish version of his son.

  With the customary pleasantries, Labram told Zacharia what he did in the area, and after a complicated conversation involving names of people who had lived and worked where and when, it turned out that they were probably related. After much laughter and palm slapping between the two men, Labram got down to business.

  “My brother, Madam Emma here, is a detective in Accra,” he said to Solomon, switching to Twi for Emma’s benefit.

  “Oh, very fine, madam,” Zacharia said, looking at Emma. “You are welcome.”

  “We need help finding someone,” Labram said.

  “What is it about?” Zacharia asked with interest.

  “At the end of March this year,” Emma began, “one gentleman from America came to stay at the Riverview Inn.”

  “Ah, okay,” Zacharia said.

  “He was supposed to leave on the third of April, but when his driver came to pick him up and take him back to Accra, he had disappeared.”

  Zacharia frowned. “And up till now he is still missing?”

  “Yes,” Emma said. “Now, around two in the morning of that day, third of April, one woman in Atimpoku saw an SUV on the Adome Bridge and two guys removing something from the back of the vehicle that looked like a sack with a human body inside. They took it and threw it over the side of the bridge into the river.”

  “Oh!” Zacharia exclaimed, pulling back his head as if someone had jabbed him in the eyes with a garden fork. “Ah! These people, eh? How can they do this? Is it the American man they threw in the river?”

  “We don’t know for sure,” Emma said, “but we need to find out, and if he’s been thrown in the river, we must find his body. His son has come all the way from the States to look for his father, and we are trying to help him.”

  “God bless you, madam,” Zacharia said. “If the American was thrown into the river, then by all means the body will come to float on top of the water.”

  “Even if they put rocks in the sack?” Emma asked.

  “Yes,” Zacharia said with certainty. “It will float. Madam, you know one thing is that now the water is not as deep as in the old days, because of less rain every year. So, by all means, if the body is in the river, I think it will come to rest at a shallow area. But it can also get stuck on the riverbed or in some weeds, so that also might delay it small.”

  “Okay,” Emma said. “Please, how long have you been a fisherman?”

  Zacharia laughed. “Since I could walk. My father was a fisherman, and his father too.”

  “Oh, nice,” Emma said.

  “But the fishing life is not so good anymore, oo,” he said, turning regretful. “The river doesn’t flow as fast as before, so weeds get a chance to grow.” He pointed far out. “You can see where bush is growing in the middle of the river. Those are all weeds, and the fish hide inside the weeds. So, we can’t get them the way we used to.”

  “I’m sorry,” Emma said. “It makes life hard for you.”

  Zacharia was grim. “Even, my wife says we should go to live in Accra.”

  Emma tilted her head side to side. “Well, Accra too . . . that’s another problem place altogether.”

  The three of them laughed, but Emma noticed Solomon’s expression changed little if any.

  “Mr. Zacharia,” she said, “we are asking if you can tell your fellow fishermen all about this. They should look out for something like what I described—a dead body, or a sack with something inside. Anything unusual.”

  “By all means, madam,” Zacharia said, nodding vigorously. “I will start to look for something like that all around the weeds and the riverbanks near Adome Bridge. Please, give me your number in case I see or hear something. I will call you at once.”

  Emma obliged, and Labram gave out his number as well. “Your boy is very quiet,” Emma said, smiling at Solomon.

  “Yes,” Zacharia said soberly. “You know, he has some small problems. He finds it hard to communicate.”

  “I understand.”

  “But he fishes very well,” Zacharia said, brightening.

  “Very good,” Emma said. She dug in her pocket and pulled out a couple bills, which she handed to Zacharia. At this rate, she was going to have nothing left. “Thank you, eh? We appreciate it very much if you can help us.”

  “Not at all, madam,” he said. “I also thank you, and God bless you. If I find anything out, anything at all, I will call you or Mr. Labram for sure.”

  FORTY-SIX

  May 22, Accra, Ghana

  On the afternoon of his day off, Dazz Nunoo stopped for a couple of hours at Busy Internet on Ring Road to use their printing service. Having decided to find a part-time job to boost his family income, he had updated his resume. He was hoping he could find a position with an upscale security company. While waiting for his copies, he looked around the large, warehouse- like space occupied by row upon row of computer terminals and every seat occupied by people of all shapes and sizes. But young men predominated—students and otherwise. Dazz wondered how many of the “otherwise” were sakawa boys, and with some grim amusement visualized himself walking down the aisle to ask each of them who was their overseas mugu of the day.

  Resume copies in hand, he stepped out of the air-conditioned environment into the humid warmth of the afternoon. Heavy, dark clouds gathering in the northern sky promised rain in short order and Dazz, like all bona fide Accra residents who pointedly reject the use of umbrellas, hoped he would reach home before he got wet. He hurried to the lorry park just before the Ring Road flyover, passing the Samsung electronics store he had once visited and promptly left on seeing the eye-popping prices. Now he slowed down as he spotted Courage, his SWAT buddy, exiting the store with two employees who were carrying a large rectangular box emblazoned on the side with the words, samsung smart tv 52”. They carted it to the bed of Courage’s pickup truck and secured it with cables. Wow, Dazz thought, a fifty-two-inch Samsung? That ran a pretty penny.

  Courage spotted Dazz and called out. “Ei, chaley! How be?” They gave each other a man hug.

  “What!” Dazz said, “you dey buy flat screen? Heh!”

  Courage laughed with glee, showing every one of his teeth. “Oh, chaley, yeah. Dis no be just flat, oo, i’be smart too!”

  They guffawed and slapped palms.

  “Wow, congrats!” Dazz said. “When you go ‘vite me your crib watch am small?”

  “Oh, anytime, chaley, dis Saturday se’f. No, Sunday be better. Saturday, I get date with Emma.”

  Dazz put his hand to his open mouth in mock astonishment. “Already! Ei, you no dey waste time, koraa!”

  More laughter, but Dazz added, “But treat her well, okay? Emma, she’s not a loose woman at all, so don’t be trying to bed her, okay? You’ll disgrace yourself.”

  “Never you worry. I’m a gentleman.”

  “For sure,” Dazz said, clapping his colleague on the shoulder.

  “Okay, boss, make I go now for house to install the TV.”

  “No problem. You dey work tomorrow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. Tomorrow, then.”

  Dazz was smiling as Courage departed, but he couldn’t deny that he felt a twinge of envy o
ver that 52-inch.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Before Emma returned to Accra, her last call was the Akosombo Police Station, where Labram introduced Emma to the station commander. Inspector Bawa, a short man in his late forties.

  “You are welcome, madam,” he said to Emma, smiling. “Mr. Labram and I have known each other for years.”

  “Bawa, Emma is from Yemo Sowah’s detective agency in Accra,” Labram said. “They are investigating the disappearance of the American man.”

  “Good, good,” Bawa said with enthusiasm. “I wish you all the very best of luck. It’s a big mystery. I’m sorry but I don’t have any new information to give you. I wish I did.”

  “Thank you, inspector,” Emma said. “We went to alert the fishermen in case they see anything.”

  “Good idea. I hope your efforts are fruitful. Please, if you need any assistance, let me or Mr. Labram know and we will try to help.”

  Labram dropped Emma off at the junction and she waded through the madness to find the right tro-tro back to the Accra station. From there she went directly back to work and to Sowah’s office.

  “Welcome back,” he said. “Have a seat and tell me about the trip.”

  Emma told him about the meeting with Zacharia. “I think he’s a solid man and he has promised to search around the riverbanks and other areas. I trust he will be alert to anything resembling a corpse and let us know. We also paid a visit to the Akosombo Police Station and talked to Inspector Bawa there.”

  “Nice job, Emma.”

  “Thank you, sir. And how is your foot now?”

  “Much better, thanks. My doctor gave me some medicine for it.”

  “Okay, good,” Emma said. She hesitated. “Sir, I need to let you know about something. I wanted to do it earlier, but I couldn’t find the right moment. You see, I have a stepbrother called Bruno. My father never liked him and threw him out of the house many years ago. Since that time, he has been living on the streets, even getting in trouble sometimes.”

  “I see,” Sowah said, even though it was clear he was waiting for the bottom line.

  “But still,” Emma continued, “we are close with each other. I like him very much, but what troubles me is that he can never seem to hold a steady job, and on top of that, Bruno has been hanging around some of these sakawa boys.”

  “Ah,” Sowah said, light slowly dawning.

  “Okay,” Emma continued, “so, I had an idea to find out if he had heard anything about Mr. Tilson from some of the sakawa boys he has been associating with. I called him last night, and first he said he didn’t know anything about it, but in the end he confessed he did, although he didn’t want to personally tell me what he knows exactly. Instead he suggested we talk to the investigative journalist—”

  “Sana Sana,” Sowah said, finishing her sentence.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Interesting.” Sowah was staring at her, but it was a gaze lost in thought. “So, does that mean Bruno is in contact with Sana?”

  “Well, I think so, but Bruno neither confirmed nor denied, sir. All he kept saying was, ‘ask Sana. He knows about everything.’ Do you want me to keep pushing him, sir?”

  Sowah shook his head. “I don’t think we should alienate him—I don’t know Bruno, and it looks like you have a good rapport with him, but we want to be able to go back to him if needed. No, I think we should act immediately on his tip without worrying him any further. I know Sana, and in fact, I’m remiss in not thinking of asking him about this. He’s difficult to locate, but I will find him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve done some solid work in the past two days, Emma,” Sowah said soberly. “Well done.”

  She felt pride swell in her chest. “Thank you, sir. Please, do you wish me to follow up something today?”

  “Yes. The driver, Yahya. He was the first one we know of who arrived at the Riverview after Mr. Tilson had disappeared. It’s important we speak to him in person. See if you can meet him somewhere. We don’t only want to know if he saw anything of interest there—a vehicle or a person coming away from the house, for example—but we also want to see his demeanor. Does he seem to be hiding anything? And so forth.”

  “Yes, sir. I will do that.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  At first, Yahya declined to meet up with Emma. “Some lady detective has already come to ask me questions,” he said tersely on the phone.

  So, the police had done some work, Emma noted to herself. “Was it Detective Inspector Damptey who talked to you?” she asked.

  “Yes, that one,” he said without enthusiasm. “Are you working with her?”

  “Not at all,” Emma said, explaining the difference between the agency and the GPS. “Where do you live, sir?”

  “Maamobi,” he responded. It was one of Accra’s Zongo neighborhoods—home to predominantly Muslim, Hausa-speaking inhabitants.

  “Are you from Upper East Region?” Emma asked, taking a guess as she tried to warm him up.

  “Bolga,” he said.

  “I love Bolgatanga,” she said, even though she’d never been there. Much poorer than their southern sisters, cities of the north were often given short shrift.

  “Is that so?” he said, with new interest in his voice. “When did you go there?”

  “Three years now,” Emma said without a second’s thought. That she was lying with such facility was a little disturbing. “Please, my battery is getting low, so can I meet you somewhere in Maamobi to talk? I’m not far away at all.”

  He hesitated and gave a short sigh. “Okay. Do you know Maamobi General Hospital?”

  “Of course.”

  They agreed to meet outside the hospital in a couple of hours. Now, Emma thought, crossing her fingers, if only he’ll show up.

  Outside the hospital, a tree with buttress roots provided Emma and Yahya both shade and somewhere to sit. He was a little man, thirtyish, deeply black, and clearly dejected.

  “They sacked me from my job,” he told Emma.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Sorry. What happened?”

  He shrugged. “Ah, they said because the white man became missing—the one I took to Akosombo—it was my responsibility to keep him safe, so it’s my fault.”

  “Ah!” Emma exclaimed in indignation. “How is it your fault?”

  “Don’t mind them,” Yahya said, angry now. “It’s because one of the other drivers didn’t like me and he’s the boss’s boyfriend. Just looking for an excuse to sack me.”

  “I see,” Emma said. “What a shame. So, are you looking for a new position somewhere?”

  He nodded. “Trying to get another driver job. But the market these days? Hm, is not easy, madam.”

  True, Emma reflected, the economy did seem stagnant. No money in the system, or more accurately, unequally distributed.

  “What happened that morning when you went to pick up Mr. Tilson to take him back to Accra?” she asked Yahya.

  “Mr. Tilson told me he want to leave at seven,” he said, “so I arrive there by six-fifty. I text him say I’m waiting for him outside, but he don’t reply. By five past seven, I went and knock on the door, but no answer. So, I call him on the phone. No answer again. So, I try the door and it’s open. I went inside but no one is there. His bags—everything gone.”

  “How many bags did he bring with him?”

  “Two—a small one for his clothes and another for his laptop.”

  “And his mobile phone and laptop were gone too?”

  “Yes please.”

  It could have been a robbery gone awry, Emma supposed, but she really didn’t think so.

  “I thought maybe he decide to get another car service,” Yahya continued, “but why should he do that? I had Mr. Labram number, so I call him and he came down. He was axing me, ‘oh, did I see any other car here when I arrived?’ and I say no
. Even, I call my boss and ask her if any complaint or maybe Mr. Tilson tell her he want a different driver, but she tell me nothing like that have happened.” Gaze downward, defeated, Yahya wiped his perspiring face and shaved head with a ragged washcloth.

  Emma thought of Kafui’s description of the SUV on the Adome bridge. “What kind of vehicle were you using to transport Mr. Tilson?”

  “Toyota 4×4.”

  “What color was it, please?”

  “Black one.”

  “Okay,” she said. That would also fit Kafui’s description.

  Yahya looked up in some distress. “Madam, I don’t have anything to do with the oburoni make lost. For what reason? He was paying the company, paying my food and lodging every day and for that I will kill him and take his things? No! That lady detective Damptey over and over again she was axing me if I robbed the man and killed him and then buried him somewhere. Ah! How possible?” Yahya gestured at his body. “Look! Do you see any muscles that I can kill this fat American man?”

  “Did Madam Doris question you in person?”

  Yahya shook his head. “She call me on the phone. Mr. Labram give her my number.”

  “Did you know Mr. Labram before now?”

  “Yes, yes,” Yahya said. “I know him well. We have been taking tourists to that Riverview house long time now.”

  Was it remotely possible that the two men on the bridge had been Labram and Yahya, and the SUV could have belonged to either Labram or to Yahya’s vehicle rental company? Both men had unimpeded opportunities to commit the crime, but what would be their motive? You don’t amputate the hand that feeds you: Mr. Tilson was a potential returning customer for both men. It simply didn’t make sense.

  “Do you know Kweku Ponsu?” Emma asked, trying another angle.