Fiti hitched up his pants. “Go home!” he yelled at the crowd. “Foolish people. What are you looking at?”

They laughed as they turned to slink back to their houses. Terrific entertainment this evening.

Gyamfi rejoined Dawson and Inspector Fiti while Constable Bubo kept an eye on Samuel in the backseat of the police car. Fiti ordered everyone out of the Boatengs’ house.

“Only you in here with us,” he said, pointing at Mr. Boateng. “You hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

The dark of early evening was approaching. A kerosene lantern hanging from a hook on the wall provided dim, shadowy illumination in the main room of the house. It was the smaller adjacent sleeping room that was of greater interest to Fiti. On the floor was an assortment of mattresses, sleeping cloths and mats, clothes in several piles, and a tiny radio. There was a large battered portmanteau next to the door.

“Aha,” Fiti said, handing the flashlight to Dawson, who trained the beam on the portmanteau while Fiti lifted the lid and looked inside. He rummaged around, removing items-a few tins of sardines, evaporated milk, and two bags of gari-and dropped them on the floor. Fiti grunted as he got to the bottom of the portmanteau without finding anything significant.

“Boateng,” he called out. “Come here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fiti took the flashlight from Dawson and shone it full in Mr. Boateng’s face. He flinched and blinked in the beam.

“Which one is Samuel’s sleeping cloth?” Fiti asked him.

Boateng pointed to the opposite corner.

It was dark brown and rolled up in a neat bundle. Fiti unfurled it with his free hand, and something fell out. He pounced on it.

“What’s that?” Dawson asked.

Fiti showed him. It was a small plastic pack of three individually wrapped condoms.

“So now we know he was having sex,” Fiti said.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Dawson said, but Fiti didn’t appear to have heard him, or more likely, he was ignoring him.

He beckoned to Mr. Boateng.

“Yes, sir?”

Fiti showed him the condoms. “You see now? You see what your son was doing?”

Boateng looked mortified with embarrassment.

“Did he sleep with some girls here?” Fiti said.

Boateng was appalled. “NO, sir.”

“With whom was he sleeping?”

“Please, I don’t know. No one, sir.”

Fiti smirked and waved the condoms in Boateng’s face. “He’s your boy but you didn’t know he had these prophylactics. So how do you know he wasn’t having sex? Don’t try to be clever with me because you aren’t clever enough, you hear?”

Boateng looked away, and Dawson saw his jaw muscles working with suppressed anger.

“Was your boy trying to sleep with Gladys Mensah?” Fiti snapped. “I’m talking to you, Boateng. I say, was he trying to have sex with Gladys?”

Boateng shook his head. “No, sir.”

“We’ll see about that,” Fiti said. “I don’t think you know what kind of person your son really is, and if you do, then you’re trying to protect him.” He turned to Dawson. “Let’s go. Samuel will spend the night in the jail. In the morning he will be ready to talk.”

12

THERE WAS NO MORE police work for the day. Dawson was tired and wanted to go to his lodgings, but before he did that, he wanted to pay his respects to Auntie Osewa and Uncle Kweku. He asked Gyamfi to show him the way to the house.

The flickering kerosene lanterns of night traders lit up the evening like a constellation. The kiosks and chop bars had electricity, but many homes were still using kerosene lamps as their light source. The air smelled of smoke and the tantalizing aroma of kelewele, fried fish, and red-hot meat stews. The flying termites that always appeared after a rain shower were fluttering around whatever fluorescent lights they could find, irresistibly drawn to them but rendered flightless the instant they made contact with the bulbs.

It was a torturous route to Auntie Osewa’s. Dawson followed Gyamfi through alleys and over gutters and muddy paths. Ketanu had grown and sprawled so much since Dawson had been here that so far nothing was familiar to him, and the darkness did not help.

Suddenly, though, as they walked a little farther, Dawson was struck with déjà vu that raised goose bumps on his skin. He recognized where he was, and yet he didn’t. Houses and huts occupied the space that Dawson had known as trees and bush, and the edge of forest he and Cairo had explored had been pushed far, far back.

“There it is,” Dawson said to Gyamfi. He had spotted Auntie Osewa’s house, but some sixth sense must have enabled him, because although there was a hint of light coming from within, there was practically no illumination of the exterior.

Gyamfi switched on a powerful flashlight and gave it a panoramic sweep. Now Dawson could see the original dwelling had been added on to. There were two small additional single-room houses built around an open-air courtyard strewn with firewood, stone stoves, pots, and pans.

A woman came out of the house with a lantern. Auntie Osewa?

“Who’s there?” she said, squinting into the darkness.

Dawson came close enough to see better by the light of the lantern. It was her.

“Fien na wo, Auntie Osewa,” he greeted her in Ewe.

“Fien,” she replied pleasantly, but Dawson could see the puzzlement still in her expression. “Do I know you?”

“Yes, you do.”

He was giving her a chance, but she still wasn’t making the connection.

“Auntie, it’s me, Darko.”

Her expression changed. “Darko?”

“Yes, Auntie.”

She let out a cry, put down the lantern, and rushed forward to throw her arms around him. Now he towered over her, and the top of her head reached only to his chest. It felt strange because, after all, the last time she had hugged him, years ago, she had had to bend down to his level.

“Woizo, woizo!” She stepped back to gaze at him in disbelief. “Look at how tall you are! Oh, Darko, why did you wait so long to come back?”

“You’re right, Auntie Osewa. It’s been too long and I’m sorry.”

She placed her hand over her chest, and her eyes welled up. “Oh, Darko, my dear. I’ve thought of you so often.”

“Come on,” he said, hugging her again. “No need to shed tears. I’m here now.”

“Yes, you’re here now, and that’s all that matters.” Her voice still felt like silk after all these years, just at a slightly lower register. “Come, come inside. Uncle Kweku is home. Ei, Constable Gyamfi, is that you?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Come in too, both of you come in. Woizo.”

She led Dawson by the hand. It must have seemed natural to her, but Dawson felt awkward. Inside, the house was lit by a combination of a lantern and one small electric lamp. He knew this was the same place they had eaten Auntie’s masterpiece meal and played oware, yet everything looked different and much smaller.

Auntie Osewa also seemed smaller in stature than he remembered. Whether it was the effect of age on her or his false memory or both, Dawson couldn’t say. For certain, though, she had kept her looks and her smooth, lovely skin. Her eyes were a little less bright, or perhaps it was wisdom Dawson was seeing. In a way, through Auntie Osewa, Dawson had a fair idea of what his mother might have looked like by now.

Uncle Kweku was sitting at a small wooden table carefully writing something in an exercise book.

“Kweku, you will never guess who is here,” Osewa said excitedly.

He looked up over a pair of glasses halfway down his nose. That and the gray-peppered hair made him look like he had aged much more quickly than Auntie Osewa, and he was now a fraction of the size he used to be.

“Don’t say anything yet,” Osewa told Dawson. “Just stand there for a moment. Kweku, who do you think this is?”

He frowned. “I don’t think I know him…”