He suddenly remembered Elizabeth and wondered if she was okay. He would have to visit her later on, he thought.

He fell asleep upright in the straight-backed chair. It had always mystified Christine how he could do that. He started awake at the sound of a car pulling up. He looked out the window. Chikata was alighting from a Corolla, and directly behind him Chief Superintendent Lartey was getting out of a shiny black BMW marked CRIMINAL INVESTIGATIONS DEPARTMENT.

My God. Lartey was here? This was serious. Dawson’s heart sank like a lead nugget. There couldn’t be a worse time. He opened the door wide before they could knock. It was past eight in the morning, and the day was already buzzing with people shopping and running errands.

“Dawson,” Lartey said.

“At your service, sir. Come in. Hello, D.S. Chikata.”

Lartey looked quickly around and then back at Dawson. “Is something wrong with you? Are you drunk?”

“No, sir, I’m not.”

Lartey sniffed. “Is that marijuana I smell?”

“No, sir, just some strong cigarettes.”

“Since when do you smoke?”

“I do sometimes.”

Lartey grunted. “You look horrible.”

He took a seat. Chikata remained standing, scrutinizing Dawson but trying not to be too obvious about it.

“What are you staring at?” Dawson said to him sullenly.

“Sit down, Dawson,” Lartey said sharply.

He did.

“What’s going on with you in this place?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I’ve received more complaints about you in the past few days than I have had about any other detective in several years. Is it true you insulted Inspector Fiti by calling him a bush policeman?”

“He was having a prisoner beaten up, sir. That prisoner is now dead.”

“As a result of the alleged beating?”

“Indirectly, yes, I would say so. And it’s not alleged, sir. It did happen. I witnessed it.”

“Have you filed a report?”

“I was about to, sir.”

“At the same time it appears you’ve been doing your own share of beating up, doesn’t it? You assaulted Augustus Ayitey, a respected herbalist, and put him in jail for supposedly hurting your boy when he went for treatment. Which is a conflict of interest. The correct procedure would be to file a report as a citizen and let someone else in the department handle it. Seems to me you were just looking for an excuse to take revenge on Mr. Ayitey, isn’t that right?”

Dawson didn’t answer. Quite frankly, he was too tired and too high to care that much.

“You also managed to falsely accuse a Ghana Health Service official of murder and throw him into jail.”

“I made a mistake-”

“Wait, I’m not finished.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“You also beat up the fetish priest at Bedome. So my question is, What is wrong with you? Why are you so out of control?”

Dawson dropped his face into his palms. His head was throbbing.

“I don’t know, sir,” he said finally.

“Is it drugs?”

“No, sir.”

Lartey grunted. “You’re only sabotaging your own progress, Dawson. It’s folly, and it is giving my department a very, very bad name. That’s what I detest most. I hate it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I believe so.”

“The reason I’ve brought D.S. Chikata here is to have him take over the case. I’m suspending you. Three weeks’ suspension without pay, and then you face the Disciplinary Board.”

“Sir, wait, please. Please, I have to solve this. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior-”

“Pack up your things and get out, Dawson. Chikata is moving in.”

41

ISAAC KUTU HAD BEEN preparing a potion for a woman who had come to see him for her weak blood. It was still warm as he poured it into the bottle she had brought with her.

“Wait for it to get cool,” he instructed her, “and drink half of the bottle today. Tomorrow you drink the rest.”

She thanked him profusely and went away happy. For payment, she had left him two live chickens.

Isaac joined Tomefa in the courtyard, where she was cooking goat stew on the firewood stove. He sat on the stool and watched her quietly. She was a very good wife, he often reminded himself-faithful, hardworking, and fertile. She had borne seven children, and lost two, so now there were five and that was just fine. It was funny that he didn’t love Tomefa. He liked her well enough. In fact he could go as far as to say he was fond of her, but it wasn’t love. His father, Boniface, had arranged Isaac’s marriage to her, yes, but couldn’t love sometimes grow like a planted seed? He assumed it could, but with Tomefa, it hadn’t. Take Osewa by contrast. Even after all these years, whenever he saw her, he felt something in his chest, like a surge of joy, warm and wet. Why was it so? It was such a marvelous thing. And he would never give Osewa any kind of command the way he would Tomefa. There was no need for that. He and Osewa flowed together like two streams converging to form a single river.

Isaac got up and went to stand at the entrance of the compound, leaning against the side contemplatively. Some ten minutes later, he saw puffs of white smoke rising over the forest. One, two, two, one. He didn’t know why he even bothered to count. He knew when he was being signaled.

“Tomefa,” he called back, “I’ll be back soon.”

She nodded obediently.

He walked quickly. Off the footpath to Ketanu, he made his way into the bush and found Osewa harvesting plantain. The quenched fire was off to the side.

“Aren’t you afraid?” he said, half jokingly.

“Afraid of what?” she asked, pulling over a nice bunch of the plantains she had just cut down with her cutlass.

“This is where Gladys Mensah was killed.”

Osewa stopped. “Here? I thought it was the other plantain grove where they found her.”

“No. Right here.”

She shrugged. “There’s no reason her spirit would be angry with me. Anyway, my juju protects me just in case.”

“Yes,” he said, desiring her. “Come here.”

He took her hand and led her deep into the forest to where he had built another of their love shelters. Intimacy in the forest was all right with the gods provided it took place under a roof of some kind.

He sought her thighs hungrily, marveling at how tight and moist she still was after all these years. Her walls milked him quickly to climax.

They rested for a while, and then she said, “I have to get back soon.”

He nodded drowsily. “Me too.”

“Did you hear Samuel Mensah killed himself?” she asked.

Isaac sat up frowning. “Yes. That’s a terrible thing.”

“Maybe he couldn’t live any more knowing that he killed Gladys. Confessing couldn’t take away his shame.”

“But Inspector Fiti beat him,” Isaac said. “If someone beats you enough, you might confess to anything.”

“I still believe he did it.”

“I wish Darko Dawson saw it the same way. He’s still hunting me.”

“He thinks you are the one?”

“He searched all my rooms yesterday.”

“Ei! This boy.” She sighed. “I love him, but I’m sorry, this police business does not suit him. Is he worrying you a lot? I can talk to him, if you like.”

“No, he’ll wonder why you’re defending me like that, and he might get suspicious.”

“All right.”

He pulled her to him.

“I love you,” she said.

On the road to Kumasi, Dawson counted four serious accidents, the crushed carcasses of vehicles lying on their sides or overturned completely. He drove with both care and assertion, staying clear of speeding drivers, tro-tros packed with people, and trucks top-heavy with merchandise.

He made it to Kumasi in something over three hours. Alongside Kejetia, Ghana’s claim to the largest open-air market in West Africa, traffic crawled, rendering cars prey to kid traders hawking fruits, cold drinks, ice cream, and worthless trinkets.