Accra Noir Read online

  —Let me tell you a story. It is about my grandmother. The Colonial Office had well-trained officers who had to make sure that the sanitation situation was fine in the towns. They lived in constant fear of malaria and sickness, and they were not worried about us, but about themselves. But since they had to live with us, they had to be sure that we were not sick. My grandmother hated them, and she did not like people telling her what to do. She was a tall woman, very strong, and she made her living as a seamstress. They used to come to the road and investigate. They would open the water barrels where we stored drinking water, and if they found larvae, they would turn it over. Well, she wouldn’t have it. So one day they came and she moved the wood covering of a barrel, and she could see that there were larvae. She took her dipper and pulled up some water. They said look, “Look, there is larvae.” She looked at them and said, “I don’t see larvae.” They insisted. And so she took the dipper and drank all the water in five gulps. Then she opened her mouth and said, “See?” They called her a madwoman, but they walked away. One day I asked her what would she do if someone hurt me. She said women have killed before. Sometimes a life must not be allowed to continue to make more mistakes. She did not smile. I was very afraid of her. And yet I felt safe with her. When I was bullied, I feared for the bullies. I had to force myself to not tell her. I wasn’t afraid of them. I was afraid for them.

  3

  A Woman and a Man

  —Sometimes we mourn alone. Sometimes we have no right to mourn. My grandmother told me to be merciful to sad women who we want to call mad. She said everybody has a reason when they are mad. Sometimes they are allowed to tell why and many times they are not. She asked me if I remember when she was always singing and crying when I was growing up. I said yes. I remember because for years she was sad. So sad. So she told me that she was not mad. She said her boyfriend was murdered. I was frightened by this. I said, “How could you have a boyfriend?” She said it was before she met my grandfather. He was her age. When she was studying at the University of Science and Technology in Kumasi, he was at school in Achimota. And he would come and visit her. She looked in my face and said, “Sometimes a touch leaves a scar you always touch,” and I knew she was telling me that they slept together. Then they broke up because she thought she was pregnant and told him and it did not make him happy, and he thought she was too familiar with one of her teachers. They grew angry and he left. Then he had to hurry to Lomé where there was a new political time. He became one of the leaders and married a girl from Togo. My grandmother went with my grandfather. Then this boyfriend was killed in a coup. He was apparently hiding in his home while they took his wife from the house. And then she looked back and saw him on the roof and maybe her face betrayed her and the soldiers looked. They found him. They shot him. My grandmother said the woman was a fool. I could not understand her anger. And so she cried, she said, and was sick for five years. She told nobody. It was her only love. She said, “Be merciful to women.” We love ghosts. We women love ghosts. They stay with us for a long time. She told me that, you know? She saw me and she could tell that I was living with a ghost.

  —A man?

  —It is not always like that.

  —People die.

  —Yes, but sometimes you feel if it wasn’t for you . . .

  —But she wasn’t responsible for the coup.

  —No, but she still loved him, and so she couldn’t mourn, even though she mourned.

  —So you are mourning.

  —I am a cook.

  —I think we are in agreement that everybody is more than they say they are.

  4

  A Man and a Woman

  —This stew is good.

  —Uhhmmm, the plantain is fresh, that is why . . .

  —Pepper, it’s good, you can cook.

  —I am a woman.

  —But it is not a given.

  —Oh, your wife, she can’t cook?

  —A lot of assuming.

  —So she can cook.

  —Who said I have a wife?

  —Because you are asking me that question.

  —I think you are the detective.

  —Well, you said I was educated, so . . .

  —Where is the boy’s mother?

  —She left.

  —She left him?

  —She left all of us. She left everything.

  —What does that mean?

  —Sometimes the heaviness of life is so much that you have to leave. Some of us leave one place and go to another. Some of us stay in one place but go away. She stayed in one place, but she left. You understand that, I know you do.

  —And his father?

  —Men are always leaving. That one is not very remarkable.

  5

  A Woman and a Man

  —If there is nobody waiting for you . . .

  —Who said there was nobody?

  —You have not looked at your phone since you came here. It is late.

  —It would be impolite.

  —Then maybe somebody is waiting for you.

  —So you think there is?

  —You are a man with a satisfied body. Clean-shaven, starched shirt, clean socks, and polished shoes, but not too polished, and there is neglect, as if somebody forgot to iron the trousers, and you are not worried about impressing somebody that you are cared for. A maid does not forget to iron your clothes. A wife will smile and say sorry, and quarrel with you about doing it yourself. You sit like a satisfied man.

  —You mean I am fat.

  —I mean you are satisfied.

  —Can I be honest?

  —We are alone now.

  —Does that not worry you?

  —Now why would you do that? Why say something like that . . .

  —I am sorry, I did not mean . . .

  —Look, I can tell you are here for a reason, I don’t believe you . . .

  —I did not mean to suggest . . .

  —You meant to frighten me a little. Or a lot. If you did not know this, if you say it was accidental, then you don’t even know how this power of threat of violence is deep inside you. You think you are a threat by being yourself, but it does not frighten you because you are so arrogant and so sure of your power that you do not fear that I might be afraid of you.

  —You are making too much of it.

  —And you are not a minister, not a prophet.

  —As I drove here, I saw you standing in this place with all these trees. I have never been here before. I saw the blue cloth you had around you. The shirt you are wearing—a tailored men’s shirt, unbuttoned low enough for me to see the filigree of your black brassiere. And I could see your eyes, heavy with knowledge, and your face of carved ebony—and I said, “Beautiful,” because that was the easy word. The hard word was unreachable. I saw the scarf. I saw you before I got here. This is not to frighten you. It is to frighten me.

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  A Man and a Woman

  —This was very good.

  —Hold your hand out.

  —Thank you, thank you.

  —Here is the cloth. The ginger and onion will stay on your fingers. You can use soap as soon as you get home.

  —I am the prophet, not my wife.

  —I forgot that you are the prophet. And now I know you have a wife.

  —I suppose, but you knew that. Like you said, I look like a man with a wife. But you don’t believe I am a prophet. You have two kinds of prophets. The Bible is clear about that. One will tell you what is to come. That one goes around and says that this and this will happen. That prophet is the one who flames up like fire, and then suddenly, it goes away. That one does not even understand what she is doing. One day she starts to see things, and she knows what is happening. And just like that, it goes away. God goes away. The people who used to live here, Ashanti people, they used to have those prophets. Long before the British people came and built the sanatorium up here, Osei Tutu and his people knew that this place was special. Some prophet said it. They did not even underst
and what they were hearing, maybe. That is one kind of prophet. And then there is the one who explains things—that one is like a preacher, but different because she sees things, explains things, shows you things in your heart, shows you who you are. That one is always a surprise to the people who hear her, but never to herself. She is always going to be a prophet. People call them wise. Like how people call you wise. Don’t they? I know, you tell them they don’t know, but you know things and you know people’s hearts, and you can tell if they are good or bad. Isn’t that it?

  —Well, you think you know me well.

  —I know about you. Yes. I know you were not always cooking. I know if things did not happen you could be an . . . inspector.

  —So you are a policeman. Are you investigating me?

  —No, I am a minister. A prophet.

  —But you came to see me.

  —I came to see you.

  —It is far for you to come.

  —Yes, but it is a nice drive. By the time I reached Achimota there was not too much traffic. Then Dome, then through Kwabenya town, then straight through Berekuso. Even down at the T-junction, the people selling fish looked idle, as if somebody had told them that a storm was coming. Anyway, it was nice and cool by the time I started up here. I did not know if I would find you. But God was guiding me.

  —You want to know something funny?

  —What is it?

  —I have no interest in knowing why you are here. Why is that? I am not even curious.

  —Maybe you know. Maybe you are a prophet.

  —Oh, you know I don’t know. But everything is about one thing, and that thing, it is so normal in my life that it is not even important.

  —You are right, it is a strange thing.

  —That is what I said. Look, look, look.

  —What?

  —There, see, the moon. The cloud opened and the moon, look!

  —It is beautiful.

  —It is very beautiful.

  7

  A Woman

  —Did you know that in Nairobi, if you map all the tweets that happen, most of them are clustered in the zoo? It is white people looking at animals. And all around, there is darkness. But I like to think of my world, which is a lonely world, as a place where our hearts spark light at moments of great trauma or crisis. Think of the map of the world. Everything is black. Then think of sparks, sharp bursts of white and yellow light every time someone says, “Help.” Every second would look interesting. It would make it seem like we are not alone. Sometimes I think of what would happen if every time a woman had an orgasm a light flared up. There is something of pained joy there. The world would look like joy. And none of us would be alone. You may be ready to take me with you. And nothing will spark on the map. This is the darkness of what it means to be alone. But I like to think, my brother, that when I went into that room, and I saw the man lying there, and when there was that moment which I see every day but never say, all across the world, a spark of alarm went off, and I was righteous, and I was not alone. I see it like that.

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  A Man

  —I will tell you a story. I got a call to go to the home of a family I know. Well, not really their home, but the place where their son lives. It is not far from Legon, a small place in a compound. It was almost dawn when I got there. There were a lot of people around. They led me into the room where he stayed. The half-light came through the louvers. The son was on the bed. There was blood all over it. He was half-naked. Somebody had cut off his member. It was lying on the floor. I might have missed it, but they showed it to me. I asked if the police had come. They said the police had come and then went and were coming back. I asked them who did it. They said the boy was not good. That he was known to rape women in the area. They said people knew, but no one would trouble him because of the family. They said his brother was in the air force, so nobody wanted to trouble them. He would bring girls to the place and then rape them. Usually they were not girls from Accra. They were girls from the north who came to find work. He would promise them things and then he would rape them. Everybody knew that. I asked them who did it. They said they thought it was the police, but they didn’t know. I asked why they thought it was the police. They said it was what people were saying. One woman said she heard a girl crying and screaming, and then for a long time she heard nothing. So I went to see the family. They said the boy was bad, but nobody had a right to do that to him. They wanted to know who was responsible. I told them I would look into it. Then I prayed for them and went to the station. The officers said they had heard, and it was they who told the family, and maybe they were the ones who sent it to me. They said they had to investigate to see what happened, but he was a bad boy. I asked who was the senior officer on duty. They said she had gone home.

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  A Woman and a Man

  —So now I know that you are here for a reason.

  —Well, I did not say I had no reason.

  —You did not. But you have hidden why you are here.

  —I have to close whatever case I can. There are so many that need to be closed.

  —And how do you close a case? You want to know who committed a crime, right?

  —That and why. Mostly I want to know why.

  —So you came here to close the case.

  —Is this one not obvious?

  —By obvious you mean what happened made sense and was the right thing?

  —I did not say that.

  —Then what do you mean?

  —I mean that you know what happened.

  —I think I do.

  —Maybe you do.

  10

  A Woman

  —Let me tell you a story. A woman was the officer in charge on a night when very little happened. A few fights, some drunk driving, but nothing much. The officer was looking at the clock and planning for when she got off work. At one point she went out into the front yard and sat on the steps. Sometimes she liked to do that, just to think and plan her life. And when she was sitting there, a girl limped into the yard. She was crying. The light from the station showed her face as she came closer. Her face was broken. Her head was bleeding. And she was trying to hold together the blouse she had on, but it was torn. The officer could tell by the way she held her body what had happened. The pain was in her center. She asked if she could stay in the station for the night because she was afraid. The officer asked her what she was afraid of. She said there was a man who was looking for her, and she wanted to rest a little bit and then would leave before first light. The officer asked what the man did. The girl did not say, but slowly, the officer got her to talk. The girl said he beat her. The girl said he raped her. The girl said he spat on her. The girl said he beat her some more. By now she was shaking, but she had stopped crying. The officer asked where the man was. She said he was in his place. The officer asked how she got away. She said he fell asleep after he was finished with her, and she sneaked out. The officer asked if she could find her way back to the place. The girl said she could but did not want to go. But the officer convinced her and called one of the constables to come with them. The girl led them to the place. It was in darkness and quiet. The girl pointed to the door. The officer told the constable to take the girl back to the station and wait. The constable did not want to leave the officer, but he followed orders. The officer went into the room, and the man was there sleeping, just like the girl said. He had on a singlet and a pair of jeans, but he was on his back, and his jeans were zipped open and he was exposed. He slept with his mouth in a sneer. Maybe it was this or the white panties near the man’s hand that made her do what she did. She found what she was looking for under the bed. She did not even bother to wake him up.

  11

  A Woman

  —I never even bothered to wake him up.

  12

  A Woman

  —You know there was a riot, right? They attacked the police station and then I was officially asked to take leave. I have not been back. They have not writte
n to me or maybe they have. I think somebody told me that they wanted to place me at the police college because I could be helpful there. I was there when the man’s brother, an air force officer, brought his men to the station. Big men in their fatigues. From flight lieutenant up, every air force person feels he is a big man. And they beat up the small constable at the gate. But then of course, the rest of them took out rifles and stood there quarreling, and maybe there was a punch. But the man’s brother was crying too, because he said that people make mistakes, so why would we do him like that? I know my brothers wanted to be firm and hard, but because of what I did to him, well, every man would feel that I went too far, because I know that when they said it they wanted to hold themselves too, and I understand that, but I told them that they should understand that that is what my vagina felt like when the girl was telling me what happened to her, what he did to her, and when I saw her breasts with the slash, and when I saw the lacerations on her vagina, and when I saw how her eyes were so deeply wounded, well, it was me, and it was the same thing. Why must a woman have to suffer without revenge? I know in their heads they knew I was correct, but they could still only think of themselves with their penises. That is why nobody asked questions. I know that. A woman who does that to a man, and then leaves him to die like that, bleeding . . . Well, she is dangerous. But you know what I kept asking myself? The whole time, I kept asking myself, Where is this man’s mother? Maybe she was there, but I had this idea that if she was with him, if she was looking after him, I don’t know, maybe he wouldn’t . . . Isn’t it terrible how even we women take the blame for what our boys do? Even as I was thinking this, I was ashamed of my thoughts. But I had a son, and I could not say where he was that night. This is what a woman in my position must ask. I was a dangerous woman. Is that why you are here, now? Are you his brother?

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  A Man, a Woman, and a Boy