“Maybe… two hours.”
“And then?”
“Then he left.”
“To go where?”
“Please, I don’t know. Sometimes he goes to Agbogbloshie side.”
“Do you like Akosua?”
“Eh?” Daramani was caught off guard.
“Akosua. Do you like her?”
“Yes, please, I like her.”
Careful, Daramani.
“In what way do you like her?”
“She’s a nice girl.”
“Would you like her as a girlfriend now that Musa is gone?”
“But please, are you sure he’s dead?”
“If he was dead, would you like to take Akosua for your girlfriend?”
“Please.” Daramani shook his head. “She’s his girlfriend, not mine.”
“Akosua already told me how you used to look at her, that you wanted her.”
“Me?” Daramani said, pointing at himself. “Not at all.”
“Look, don’t be afraid. If you were jealous of Musa because of Akosua, you can tell me. It’s okay.”
Daramani stared blankly at him.
“I know you northern men always want to get Ashanti girls, but it’s hard to get them,” Chikata said.
“Eh?”
“Accra women and Ashanti girls,” Chikata persisted. “That’s what you northerners like.”
What a ridiculous statement.
“Please, as for me,” Daramani said, “I like girls from the north.”
Chikata kept a steady gaze on Daramani. “We’re going to search your house. If we find anything bad, even if we find a little bit of marijuana, you’re going to jail, and the more lies you tell, the longer you’ll be in jail. Do you understand?”
“But, please, I’m not telling lies.”
“You were the last person to be seen with Musa, do you know that?”
“I don’t get you.”
“You were with him on Saturday night,” Chikata continued, “and the next morning he was found dead. Did you go with him to Korle Lagoon that night?”
“Please, no.”
“You were jealous of him and Akosua, and you wanted Akosua for yourself, not so?”
“No. Jealous of him and Akosua, why? Musa is my countryman.”
“Where did you kill him?” Chikata said. “We know you did it. Did you kill him near the lagoon? Where?”
Daramani turned his palms up and lifted his shoulders. “I didn’t kill him! What do you want me to say?”
“You did. Someone saw you.”
“What? Who? It’s a lie.”
Dawson rested his brow against the wall for a moment, eyes closed. This was horrible.
“You liked that Akosua so much,” Chikata said, lowering his voice, “and when you saw Musa with her that Saturday at the Nima Market, you decided to kill him.”
Daramani put his head between his hands.
“So after you left your house,” Chikata continued, “you went with him to Agbogbloshie and late at night you killed him. We know that’s how it happened. If you confess, it will be better for you. You’re going to jail. Why not tell the truth now and we can help you?”
“Please,” Daramani said wearily. “I am telling you the truth.”
Chikata pushed his chair back abruptly and stood up. “Okay, we will see about that.”
He and Lartey came out, shutting the door behind them and joining Dawson. The three of them went up the hallway a few meters to be out of Daramani’s hearing.
“I believe he is our prime suspect,” Chikata said.
“You didn’t give him a chance to establish an alibi,” Dawson pointed out. “You do that first and then you follow it up. If the alibi proves false, you come back to him and challenge him.”
“His alibi is implied,” Lartey interjected quietly. “Daramani says Musa was with him in Nima for two hours and then Musa left. That means Daramani is claiming he was in Nima when Musa was killed.”
Dawson looked away. He didn’t agree. And thank you for cutting me down in front of my junior officer. He wasn’t going to waste any more time arguing. What was the point? The chief supol would defend his nephew to the death no matter what Dawson or anyone else said.
“Go and get the search warrant, Philip,” Lartey said.
Chikata left the two men.
“I think your detective sergeant does have a case, Dawson,” Lartey said, lifting his chin imperiously. “You are probably blinded by your bias toward your, em, friend. It’s a normal human tendency.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And one word of advice to you. Be very careful who you mix yourself up with-not just on duty but off duty too. The kind of company this Daramani keeps-truck pushers, Agbogbloshie people-is unsavory.” Lartey made a face, as if bile had just erupted into his mouth. “It isn’t fitting for you to associate with such base elements of society. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. That’s all for today. You may go.”
14
Dawson didn’t go home immediately. Instead, he took a walk. He would have liked to escape to some wilderness setting with fresh air and beautiful vistas, like Mount Afadjato or Wli Falls, but the streets of Accra would have to do for now. He turned away from noisy Ring Road, heading past the vehicle yard to the relatively quieter neighborhood roads behind CID Headquarters. Here, where a street called Myohaung formed a shady alcove, policemen and women parked official vehicles while stopping for a meal from the outdoor food vendors.
Pulling out his shirttails, Dawson thrust his hands in his pockets as he walked along Myohaung Street. Curious about the name, Dawson had once researched it, finding out it referred to the part Ghanaian troops played in defeating the Japanese at Myohaung, Burma. Over 65,000 Ghanaians had fought abroad with the Allied forces during the Second World War. One of these days, Dawson would tell Hosiah about such historical details, which western textbooks often left out.
And Dawson? What would his contribution to the world be? What would he leave behind when he was gone? Would his name be in a textbook or on a street sign somewhere? Did it matter? Conflicts with Chief Superintendent Lartey often brought on these existential crises for Dawson.
Sometimes too, in these situations, Dawson thought about his mentor Daniel Armah, the detective who had first investigated the disappearance of Dawson’s mother when Dawson was a boy of twelve. What would he have become if he had never met Detective Armah? Now retired and living in Kumasi, Armah had been a sergeant back then. It wasn’t so much Armah’s abilities as a detective that had inspired Dawson to go into the same field. In fact, Armah never did find out what had happened to Dawson’s mother, and in that sense, some might have said that Armah failed. But no matter, it was the care Armah had shown to Darko the boy that had been so moving, care Darko never received from his own father.
Was Chief Supol Lartey right that associating with “people like Daramani” was unfitting for Dawson? Did Dawson have some kind of moral failing? Defensively he thought, I could be a worse man. After all, he was a good father and husband, was he not? But if that was the case, he should completely drop the vice that he strenuously kept hidden from his family.
As Dawson turned in to Rangoon Lane, he felt the existential crisis fading for now, but he knew it would be back sooner or later.
Chikata and Issifu, another detective sergeant, were gloved up and searching Daramani’s small, messy dwelling. Chikata went first for the thin foam mattress on the floor. Issifu was looking through a box of clothing. There was a hot plate on the floor with some battered cookware.
Turning to the clothes hanging from a nail in the wall, Chikata dug through all the shirt and pants pockets. He checked the two pairs of ragged tennis shoes on the floor. Nothing so far. There was a portmanteau in the corner packed with bottles of beer and plates. Chikata took the items out one by one. He found the odd fork and knife on the bottom as well as something flat wrapped in a newspaper. Chikata removed it. It was a hefty knife with a razor-sharp edge. The blade, about eight inches long, caught the meager light in the room and flashed it back. Chikata took the knife to the doorway to examine it in the late afternoon sunlight. The blade was clean except for some water spots, but along the bolster between handle and blade, there was a red stain that Chikata could have missed had he been careless. And indeed, the murderer could have missed the same spot as he washed the blood off the knife he had used to stab Musa Zakari in the back.