The Missing American

by Kwei Quartey

  “Sorry, sis. Traffic. Nii brought me.”

  “Come in, come in,” Emma said. “Hi, Nii. Thank you for coming.”

  “Good evening,” Nii muttered.

  “He’s shy,” Bruno said, laughing.

  Nii glared at him and gave him a mock slap to the back of his head. “Shut up. I’m not.”

  Emma laughed at them. “Silly boys. Come and meet Abena and Kojo.”

  In the thick of cooking, Abena offered her wrist to the two men instead of a full handshake on introduction.

  “This is Kojo,” Emma said, kneeling next to him.

  Bruno followed her cue and addressed Kojo. “How are you? Give me five.”

  Kojo, glued to his tablet, ignored him.

  Emma smiled. “He has to get used to you first.”

  “I brought something for him,” Bruno said to Abena, producing the new T-shirt, still in its shrink wrapping.

  “Oh!” Abena cried. “Medaase!”

  “That’s so nice of you,” Emma said to Bruno. She was genuinely surprised at his gesture. She would not have predicted it of him.

  Abena washed her hands hurriedly, opened the package and unfolded the shirt for Kojo to see. “Look,” she said. “See what your Uncle Bruno brought you.”

  Kojo grabbed it, apparently attracted to the bright color.

  “Yellow is even his favorite color,” Abena said, delighted.

  “Let’s see how it looks on him,” Emma said.

  “I hope the size is correct,” Bruno said, getting his phone ready.

  “Oh, I think so,” Abena said, pulling off Kojo’s present shirt. She put it aside and Bruno discreetly took a picture of shirtless Kojo.

  Abena persuaded her son to let go of the garment and then put it on him with a mother’s practiced deftness. “It’s perfect,” she said, laughing. “Bruno, thank you so much.”

  “Take a pic of us together,” he said, handing Emma his phone. He crouched beside Kojo and made a cool finger sign.

  “Such handsome young men,” Emma said, snapping several images.

  “Yes, that’s very true,” Bruno agreed. He looked at Kojo and gave his head a friendly rub. The boy did not appear to mind.

  SEVENTY

  Next morning, Bruno and Nii were ready to take Kojo’s yellow T-shirt to Ponsu, but Nii was uneasy.

  “Be careful,” he cautioned. “Maybe Ponsu has the power to know that the boy didn’t really wear it.”

  Bruno, said, “Is that so?” Then he shook his head and dismissed the notion. “He won’t know. And if he challenges me, I will challenge him back. Let’s go.”

  Still, they were in some suspense as they watched Ponsu examining the garment. Bruno then showed Ponsu the before and after phone pics. He grunted and nodded. “Okay,” he said, apparently satisfied. He turned and yelled, “Ama!”

  A young woman came running. “Yes, Papa?”

  Ponsu handed her the T-shirt. “Take this, burn it, and make into a powder and bring it back.”

  “Yes, Papa.” She went away.

  “One of my daughters,” Ponsu said with pride to the other two men. “She’s here from our hometown.”

  Bruno and Nii murmured appropriate approval. Ponsu excused himself and disappeared around the corner somewhere. He seemed to have been gone for a long time, but when he returned, he had a black powder in an old chipped bowl in one hand and a sachet of water in the other. He sat down and silently mixed the water in slowly with the black powder.

  “Please, that’s the boy’s shirt?” Bruno asked. “You burned it?”

  Ponsu nodded, mixing diligently. Bruno shot Nii a knowing look of disgust. He knew what was coming next.

  The priest held out the dark concoction. “If you don’t fear to become a madman like the boy, drink it.”

  Bruno hesitated. Ponsu was pushing him past his limit. He felt like punching the priest in the head. But where would that get Bruno? Nowhere. He took the potion from the priest, took a breath, and drank it. It was grainy, bland, and bitter all at the same time. Bruno pulled a face and gave the bowl back.

  “You are good,” Ponsu said, showing a level of approval that had been absent until this point. “Now you have power. The mugus can’t control you, but you can make them do whatever you want. From this day on, when you are asking money from the mugus, you will see they will become confused and send you money no matter how much you ask for. The mugu’s family will even be telling him to stop, but he won’t be able to help himself.”

  “That’s great,” Bruno said. “Please, what about Godfather?”

  “You can go with Nii the next time he will visit.”

  That put a big smile on Bruno’s face. “Yes please. Thank you.”

  When Bruno met with Sana Sana the next time, he wasn’t alone. Along with his two bodyguards, four of his other investigators were present, each of them to discuss their latest progress and to receive further instructions.

  In Bruno’s case, Sana wanted to know when the tentative meeting with Godfather would take place.

  “I don’t know yet,” Bruno said. “I think it will be soon, but I will hear from Nii before.”

  He thought the golden beads cascading from Sana’s boonie hat in front of his face was one of his most attractive getups. Sana rose from his seat and beckoned to Bruno.

  “Come and sit here.”

  Bruno, afraid something was wrong, sat down warily.

  “Up till this time,” Sana said to him, “I have not shown you my face because I have been waiting to be sure you can be trusted. That time has come. You are a good man, a hard worker, courageous, and above all, trustworthy. So, from this day forth, you will now know what I look like.”

  Bruno was riveted as Sana pulled the beads to one side and slowly removed his hat. The others in the room began to laugh as it became clear that Sana was wearing a lifelike mask under that.

  “Okay,” he said, chuckling. “This time, I’m really going to reveal myself.”

  He snatched the latex mask off and Bruno saw a man in his early forties with a lean, angular face, a small tribal mark on his left cheek, short hair, mustache and goatee. While Bruno had imagined an intense, fierce gaze, Sana’s eyes were very much softer—kind, in fact.

  “Wow,” Bruno said.

  “Yes, so now you know,” Sana said. “You may now give me my chair back.”

  Bruno jumped up stammering, “so sorry, please,” much to the amusement of the others in the room.

  “This is the secret camera you’ll be using to film Godfather,” Sana said, holding out a watch to Bruno, who took it gingerly.

  He feasted his eyes on the device. It was thick and beefy with four buttons on the chrome bezel—three on the right and one on the left. The face was matte black with two chronographs.

  “This has a camera?” he asked in wonder. “Where is it?”

  “At the six,” Sana said.

  Bruno peered closer. “I can’t even see it.”

  “Let me show you how to operate it.”

  Bruno gave it back and Sana showed him which buttons to push for photo and video as well as the charging port. “Wear it and use it so you can accustom yourself to it and learn how to get the best photos and videos. For example, if you’re sitting down opposite the person, you rest your forearm on your thighs with the wrist turned outward.”

  Bruno nodded. “Yes please.”

  “But be very careful with it. It’s expensive.”

  Bruno carefully fastened the watch to his wrist. “Thank you, my boss.” He felt full of pride.

  “Let me know as soon as you hear from Nii Kwei,” Sana said, “and we will meet again to plan some more. I will be giving you dollars to take to Godfather. You’ll tell him it’s money you made from the mugus. You will pay him that money, and it’s very important that you get that on video. We
must show him accepting money in return for your protection from law enforcement all so that the sakawa system can continue to flourish.”

  He looked around. “All of you men are my faithful warriors. I’m your leader, and I care about what happens to you. That’s why I never stop reminding you that these are dangerous times. In the past few months, the death threats against me and my film crew have been on the rise. Yesterday alone, I’ve received four on Messenger, and one of them mentioned sakawa and warned me to stop investigating it.” Sana looked at the two bodyguards. “Next week, I will attend the UNESCO Conference on Press Freedom and we will need to be careful. After that event, I’ll be lying low until we’re ready to present the sakawa story to the world.”

  SEVENTY-ONE

  June 27

  The new Center Against Corruption (CAC) was President Bannerman’s brainchild. A month after completing its construction on the premises behind the CID building, the grand opening, evening gala, and fundraiser were in full swing. Cream in color, the floodlit, colonnaded edifice appeared luminescent and classic against the night sky. The courtyard within accommodated hundreds of well-heeled partygoers coiffed and dressed to the nines. Everyone who was anyone in Accra was in attendance, most of them undoubtedly keen for a chance to chat with the president. Getting to him was easier said than done, however. Apart from his entourage of closest associates, he had a flank of personal, armed bodyguards.

  In general, with military and SWAT present, security was heavy. Both Dazz and Edwin were on duty, Dazz on the rooftop and Edwin patrolling the grounds. At midnight, Edwin would switch places with another team member at the front entrance.

  James and Josephine Akrofi were among those lucky enough to be in President Bannerman’s inner circle. The Akrofis were big donors to the new center and their names were already up on the brass-plated list of patrons. The conversation was lively and the champagne bubbly. A DJ was spinning tunes and there was a small dance floor. Shortly after midnight, Josephine whispered to James that she needed to get something from the car. He nodded.

  When Josephine reached the front, Edwin was keeping an eye on the parking lot and surroundings.

  “Madam, can I help you with anything?”

  “Please escort me to my car, officer.”

  “Yes, of course, madam.”

  He walked alongside her. Their shoes created an irregular rhythm on the asphalt. “How are you, Edwin?” she said quietly.

  “I’m fine, Mummy. And you?”

  “I’m good. It’s been quite some time since we spoke. Why don’t you call more often?”

  “Sorry. I should do that. You look very nice tonight, by the way.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at him as they passed a row of shiny SUVs, still the vehicle of choice for the well off. A few chauffeurs were hanging around talking to pass the time.

  “Where are we going?” she asked him.

  He pointed ahead. “Over there.”

  At the end of the parking lot was a not-yet-open garden of shrubs and shade trees, a seating area with tables and chairs, and what was to be a bar with soft drinks and snacks for the center’s employees. The only illumination of this corner came from the lamps in the parking area. Now, Edwin and Josephine were in the shadows.

  They sat down together.

  “Do you ever speak to your father?” Josephine asked.

  Edwin grunted. “He doesn’t even mind me. Even at CID, it’s like I’m not even there.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry, eh?”

  “I’m not at all worried,” Edwin said.

  “That’s good.”

  “And Kwame, how is he?”

  “He seems to be much better in his new spot,” she said. “He had become tough for the old place to manage, so we had to move him out. He’s adjusting well.”

  “Great to hear that,” Edwin said, smiling. “I’ll never forget that day when he was a baby, long before you took him to UK, how you brought him to see me and I was holding him in my arms. It was so nice.”

  Josephine nodded slowly as she thought back on it. “Yes, it was. Whenever I think of that time, I wonder what it would have been like if he had been normal.”

  “I know what you mean,” Edwin agreed, “but praise God, Mummy, he is getting very good care in aburokyire.”

  “Yes, we thank God,” she said. “How is work—and your friends, Courage and Dazz?”

  “They are doing great.” Edwin paused. “Mummy, I want to move to a new place.”

  “Oh? Where?”

  “On Spintex Road. Two bedrooms. They want two years’ rent in advance.”

  That was against the law, but all the landlords did that.

  “How much, my dear?” Josephine asked.

  “It comes to seventy thousand.”

  “Is it a nice place?”

  “Very,” Edwin said. “Just a little repair work here and there, which will be easy for me. I can pay some of it—maybe about five thousand.”

  “All right, dear,” she said. “I’ll transfer the rest to your account on Monday.”

  On the roof, Dazz had noticed Edwin escorting the IGP’s wife. The area inside the perimeter of the CAC was secure, so accompanying the ladies was a courtesy and formality, really, as well as an opportunity for tips, sometimes good ones. The tips made these after-hours events worth their while. Dazz didn’t keep exact track of the time since he had seen Edwin with Mrs. Akrofi and when he put his night-vision goggles to his eyes, it was not for the purpose of “checking up” on them. But as he slowly scanned the perimeter of the property, he passed two figures in the garden area at the far end of the car park and came back to focus on them. Dazz’s head jerked back with surprise at first. He returned his eyes to the goggles to double check that he had really seen what he thought he had seen. Yes, it was indeed Edwin and Mrs. Akrofi locked in an embrace.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  March 23, Accra, Ghana

  Meandering around the Internet, Gordon came across a Facebook page titled “Sakawa Boys.” Among the video shorts was one of a reputedly filthy-rich Internet fraudster standing on the second-floor balcony of the West Hills Mall outside Accra while showering elated shoppers below with hundreds of cedi bills. Eventually, the clamor turned into a dangerous stampede in which people got hurt. The comments below the clip ranged from, “This is shameful,” to “This is either totally fake or a publicity stunt.”

  Gordon noticed an answer to the latter comment from someone called Susan Hadley. She wrote, “It could be real! I’ve encountered one of these ‘sakawa’ guys and they really do make that kind of cash. It’s not as easy a life as one might think, though.”

  Gordon clicked on Susan Hadley’s name and sent her a private message. “I don’t know your location, but would you be willing to talk to me about sakawa? I’m in Accra but originally from the States. One of these guys duped me. I’m here to find him and I want to know everything about their world.”

  Susan replied several hours later. “I’m in Accra as well. I have some experience with sakawa boys. Call me.”

  She had left a phone number, and so he did. She told him she was in Ghana for a short vacation. “So, you were scammed by an Internet fraudster?” she asked him, cutting to the chase.

  “I was,” Gordon said, “and now I’m learning to own it and face it head on.”

  “I’d like to hear about it,” Susan said. “Want to meet for coffee?”

  “Sure, absolutely.”

  She suggested a time and place: that evening at a coffee and sandwiches place called Ci Gusta! in the Airport Residential area.

  Gordon and Susan found an isolated table in Ci Gusta!’s farthest corner. The décor was bright and modern, the atmosphere cheerful. Outside on the patio sat a mixed crowd with a heavy presence of chain-smoking Lebanese.

  Gordon ordered a pistachio ice cream while
Susan had a raspberry froyo. He sized her up quickly as a burning-out blonde at the point where aging was about to usurp her attractiveness.

  Once they were settled, she said, “So, I’m eager to hear your story.”

  He told her, and she listened without a word till the very end.

  “Quite a tale,” she said. “Unfortunately, not that uncommon.”

  “So, what’s the ‘experience with sakawa boys’ you said you’ve had?” Gordon asked.

  “Four years ago,” Susan began, “I came to Ghana for a two-year visiting professorship in physics at the University of Ghana. I met a political science student, and we got romantically involved with each other. Nii—that’s his name—was poor as a church mouse then. Fast forward a couple of years, I come back to Ghana in February this year and Nii has transformed himself. He has expensive clothes and he’s driving a fancy car and living in a near mansion. Unbelievable. I knew there was no way this could be legit money. When I first asked him about it, he was evasive, but after I badgered him almost to distraction, he admitted he was a fraud boy, or sakawa boy—whatever term you prefer.”

  “What was his con game of preference?”

  “He’s done a little of everything—the rom-cons, like yours, and so on, but the most lucrative for him are the gold scams. They make thousands of dollars, and with a strong dollar they reap a boatload in local currency.”

  “You think I could meet this guy—Nii? You’re still in touch with him?”

  “In a way,” she said cryptically. “Not like before. I felt uncomfortable about his lifestyle and livelihood.”

  “Why didn’t you turn him in to the authorities?”

  Susan fixed him with a look. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Gordon turned sheepish. “Sorry, bad question. Anyway, can I meet this guy?”

  “Depends what you’re looking for.”

  “I’m hoping he might know who ripped me off.”

  Susan was doubtful. “Given how many fraudsters there are in Ghana and their unwillingness to snitch on each other, I’d say the likelihood of your finding that out is small, but we could try.”