Dawson winced. “In other words, I just have to wait awhile.”
“Yes,” Armah said. “Particularly in this case. Something is going to happen.”
They chatted a little longer, moving on to happier topics. Too soon, it was time for Armah to take his leave. Dawson saw him off in a cab, waiting for it to be completely swallowed up by Accra traffic before he turned back to the house.
Next, Dawson had a debt of gratitude to pay off. He went across the street to Awo’s and bought some tilapia and banku. That was the easy part. The hard part was finding Jason Allotey, the Korle Bu technician who had processed Musa’s tooth DNA results in record time. He lived in Chorkor, but the directions to his house were as confusing as a rat’s maze.
After some patient hunting, Dawson found it. It was a tiny place with corrugated metal roofing. Jason was relaxing outside with his wife and children. He was thrilled to see Dawson and overjoyed by the gift. With ceremonial flare, Jason introduced the members of his immediate family and several of the extended relations. Custom demanded that Dawson sit and chat and have something to drink. When it seemed he had spent enough time, he made a gracious exit and went home, where Hosiah was eagerly anticipating their outing to the Silverbird Cinema at the Accra Mall.
38
Akosua Prempeh was a child on the street, not of the street. She had a home to go to, but her new stepfather, who had beaten her up three days ago, had told her to stay away unless she could bring back money.
“Useless girl,” he had called her as he threw her out. “Kwasea.”
The little bit of money she had made today was gone. Not because she had spent it, but because it had been stolen from her. Two men had roughed her up, searched her, and taken her money. On top of that, they tried to rape her. Another man who had been coming along raised the alarm and Akosua escaped.
Now she was wandering around Nkrumah Circle unsure what to do. It looked as if she would have to stay out tonight and get some kind of job in the morning. Had Musa been alive, she could have gone to him. They had killed the boy she loved with all her heart. Musa had once said to her, “Never, never sell your body.” She had promised him it was something she would never do.
But that was then.
Right now, it was a different story. She was hungry and tired. She wanted to sleep in her own bed, even if it was just a folded-over cloth. She was lonesome. The bustle of people around her didn’t make her feel any better. Tears pricked her eyes, but she pulled herself together. For a while, she sat and watched the goings-on at the circle.
Accra was a late-night city in only a few places. The Vienna City nightclub was the hub that kept Nkrumah Circle alive and crowded well into the early morning. Powerful music from inside the club spilled out to the sidewalk café, where people-watching patrons sat sipping cocktails. Just south of the circle, Nkrumah Avenue was jammed with shiny sedans and SUVs, their drivers looking for sex and drugs. “Enjoyment people,” Akosua called them. Prostitutes worked the club both inside and out. Taxis lined either side of the street waiting for passengers returning home or ashawos leaving with their customers. The taxis would take them to nearby lodges with names like California Inn and Beverly Hills Hotel. They accepted prostitutes and their clientele and made good money off them.
Akosua got up, walking past a tro-tro driver’s mate calling out his destination in a monotonous singsong. Mobile Fan Milk vendors were selling hot chocolate and coffee from the insulated containers attached to the fronts of their bicycles. In the midst of all this noise, a truck pusher slept peacefully on his cart next to a wall marked POST NO BILL.
A group of ashawos hung out at the corner of Nkrumah Avenue and Kente Street. They wore blouses and skirts that barely contained their big breasts and buttocks. They had bright makeup, wigs, false eyelashes, and heavy mascara. Akosua felt shabby in comparison. Three ashawos were having a squabble about something with a tall, slender male prostitute in a black see-through shirt, but the rest of them were flagging down cars and negotiating prices with drivers who had pulled over.
Akosua went on to a smaller street called Kente Link. She was faintly aware of the crunch of tires on gravel not too far away from her. At first she paid no attention. A horn sounded. Not impatiently-just a quick pim-pim to get her to look.
The man in the car waved. Akosua pointed questioningly at herself to be sure he really wanted her. He nodded and beckoned to her. Come.
What did he want? She wasn’t dressed anything like an ashawo.
For safety, she stayed on the passenger side.
He spoke to her in Ga, checking first that she understood.
“What’s wrong?” he said. “Are you sad?”
She shook her head.
“Yes, you are.” He smiled sympathetically. “I can tell.”
There was almost no street lighting, but she thought she saw a scar on the man’s forehead.
“You have no money,” he said. “You are hungry.”
She nodded.
“I can help you with some money if you help me too.” He took out a five-cedi bill and waved it.
Akosua swallowed hard. The temptation was powerful.
He smiled. There was something about his smile Akosua didn’t like. It gave her goose bumps. She backed away. He watched her like a thirsty man. She turned and walked off. Seconds later, she heard the tires spinning as they tried to gain traction in the dirt. For a panicky moment, she thought he might be coming after her, but when she whirled around to look, she saw the man driving away in a furious cloud of dust.
Relieved, Akosua walked farther along Kente Link. Many people slept at the storefronts along this street, some in pairs or groups. All ages, from babies to grown men and women. Akosua chose a spot and sat down with her back against a wall. She would half sleep, half stay awake. She was scared that if she lay down and went into deep slumber, she might be attacked and raped.
She dozed off but started awake again after a while, she wasn’t sure how long. A car was parked at the end of the street, lights on, engine running. It was one of those really beautiful cars she saw when she sold water to drivers on Liberation Road, silver and shiny. Through the partly open door of the driver’s side, Akosua caught sight of the dashboard lights twinkling like different colored stars.
But there was no one in the car. Akosua’s gaze moved to the sidewalk not far away. Underneath a storefront canopy, a man was kneeling beside a street boy, talking softly to him. She couldn’t hear what they were saying. It was too dark to make them out clearly, but after a few minutes, they both got up to go to the car. The boy was maybe fourteen or fifteen. The man opened the passenger door for him, and then he came back around to the driver’s side, got in, and shut the door. The car pulled smoothly and silently away.
Akosua reflected on it. Hmm, so this is Ghana now. Nothing was a surprise anymore. The driver of the car must have a liking for boys. But not nice, clean boys with fine clothes. He liked raw, dirty boys fresh from the street.
39
Five-thirty the next morning, Sunday, Dawson woke with a start, swung his legs out of bed, and got to his feet.
Something’s happened.
Another nightmare-Armah trying in vain to drive away vultures pecking at Comfort’s corpse awash in blood. Dawson’s heart was pounding as if it was banging its way out of his chest. But there was something else too-not just the nightmare. What’s happened? He looked at the phone on the night-stand. It rang.