Accra Noir Read online

  Ours is a historic town in Accra, a town of native stock. Jamestown politics has always been a bare-knuckle affair. Even today, we command the newspeople like Daily Graphic, Radio Ghana, and Ghana Broadcasting: each big party starts its national campaign off at Maŋtsɛ agbo naa. That is because Jamestown can make or break presidents. The right MP for us can mollify the president or squeeze his balls small when necessary, at the right time.

  And the right time is always election year—but our work is year-round every year. In an election year, we squeeze the balls of the MP extra hard. The situation on the ground is dire, we would tell him. The more money we needed, the more dire the situation on the ground became: the boys who broke the heads of the other party’s boys; the girls we sent to spoil the other party’s gatherings with loud, vulgar chanting and insults.

  Even the “big people,” some would call them the “pillars of our society,” must eat some. The priests are also inside—discreetly, though; they would look aside, mumble thanks on behalf of widows and orphans, as the envelopes went into the voluminous pockets of their vestments. So, too, are the heads of this or that family association . . . and I haven’t forgotten the market women, the fishermen, and the women who buy the day’s catch. We just had to make sure that the ground was much better where we were standing than where the other side stood. In fact, we had to make sure that we buried them in quicksand.

  I was the spigot, the tap the politicians pissed through. This work was too dirty for my MP to handle directly, and the little schoolboys and schoolgirls who trailed after him, with their foolish university accents, these people were too stupid to be told the truth. Especially today when the newspapers and TV stations are stirring themselves, today when some of them are becoming overzealous, today it takes a dirty man like me, like I was, to handle dirty money that is meant to keep the peace precisely where it should be.

  I was expendable, obviously, but I was also wily and I rolled along with it. I made sure the ground was good, I also made sure it was cool, gbᴐjᴐ—done and with no fuss, as my people like to say. How I did it, I didn’t really share with many. The MP certainly didn’t care to know, and perhaps he shouldn’t. It was all a game of lies and bluffing, this peacemaking campaign of ours. The wife turned her nose up at it, but she liked the estate house on Spintex that we paid for in cash, in the name of a company that our fancy lawyer claimed couldn’t be traced to me. I believed him. The kids go to international school. I have a small insurance policy—a fifty-acre fruit farm near Somanya, an old Dangbe town twenty or so miles to the northeast of Jamestown, and three trucks—enough, if looked after well, to last the children through university. This can be a dirty and unforgiving business. You could be up today, and still end up being the dirty piece of shit who didn’t bring the votes in. The one they counted on who failed them.

  I might have seemed like a big man to the people I passed when I trekked to Maŋtsɛ agbo naa. People see what they want to see. They saw the showy gold ropes around my neck, the Pajero with the shiny wheels, my Friday-night parties where the boys drank free Club beer and local gin and feasted on kebabs. They also feasted on the ladies who showed up. But I knew two things the people didn’t. First: the stress I got from their fantasies of unlimited money in my reach, and the strain of kissing ass upward and downward, and the knowledge that I would stand alone if some of my crimes ever saw the light of day. I would stand alone, and I would fall alone.

  The second thing I knew was the distance between me and Peduase, where the leaders—the president and his coterie—a truly sybaritic lot, live a life that wouldn’t be believed if I had tried to describe it to the average Jamestown citizen. In my mind, and I’d been abroad once, Jamestown was Ghana, Peduase was the ablotsiri, the land beyond the ocean, of my imagination. With its frosty cold rooms, heavy tapestry, silver trays, and deep hush, the distance between my Jamestown and this transplant was almost an unbridgeable chasm. There, my beer becomes Moët; my kebabs, tough and chewy, become fine small chops; my women give way to women for whom the maintenance of their lustrous skin and hair costs a year’s wages in Jamestown.

  So, it’s not easy, it’s not easy at all. I stayed on top by the skin of my teeth. There are always people who want what you have. They see beer, easy sex, violence with impunity, the escape from Jamestown and yet an even deeper immersion into its affairs. Some people saw the ease with which I kept the peace, and they wanted it. Undiluted.

  They start to undermine you. They whisper into the ears of your MP.

  “See your boy, Honorable?” their sibilance exactly like that of the biblical serpent.

  “He’s not doing the groundwork, he will make the ground harder.”

  “See your boy, boss? He spends all his time in rooms with other people’s wives, everyone hates him, if you don’t get rid of him it might not go well for you, I’m telling you as a friend.”

  In Jamestown, we call this “chooking.” Some call it backstabbing.

  And that was all within your own camp.

  The guys in the other camp were worse. They were out of power. Out of power meant that they couldn’t do jack for the contractors and the other people whose symbiotic relationship with the politicians fattened them both. They were lean and feral. True diehards. Wasn’t this the ultimate test? To be true when there was nothing left to feed on but hope? Even I admired the fervency with which they came after me. It ranged from outright insults hurled from the side of the street as I walked by, to nasty side-glances. I would hear, “Thief, thief, you and your thieving government, we will kill you one by one.”

  I knew these guys. Some of the leaders of the opposition were members of my family. I grew up with them.

  * * *

  Nii Odoi was sitting on the second-floor balcony of the grand old house that overlooked High Street. It had been built by a great-grandfather who had grown rich trading with the English. Over the years, the family’s matriarch had become almost permanently ensconced in the living room that opened onto the balcony. She sat in a wide wooden armchair, on plumped-up red cotton cushions filled with kapok. She was usually dressed in a blue and yellow kaba, and her head was covered with a silk scarf, from underneath which poked the ends of her plaited gray hair.

  He heard her visitor’s heavy footfalls on the wooden staircase. The visitor entered the living room and was received with good feeling and warmth. “O, Nii Teiko, oba?” You’ve come? the old lady asked. “Ta shi, ta shi.” Sit down, sit down. Nii Teiko acknowledged that he was indeed there in the flesh and took a seat at a right angle to his aunt.

  “Ma,” he started, “you’re looking well, paa, have you found yourself some handsome young man?”

  “Oh, stop it, you bad boy, since your uncle left us I’ve flown solo, the bed has been mine alone. If I’m looking well, it’s by grace and, of course, your kind gifts.”

  “Ma,” Nii Teiko assured her, “the young guy is bringing this month’s provisions. You’re so precious to me, I have to take care of you like I would my own mother. In fact, after she died, you were more than a mother to me.” He placed a small flat envelope on the side table next to her.

  “Oh, stop it.” The old lady pretended to be embarrassed by his flattery and gratitude. “You always say that, but your mother, Adjeley, was not just a cousin; she was my closest friend. I always thought that at some point the two of us would spend our remaining days sitting here in this room bossing stories.”

  There was a short lull in the conversation, each one of them lost for a moment in a reverie about days past, about the woman—mother, cousin, confidant—they had both loved and lost way too soon.

  “How are things on the street with your politics?”

  “Ma, it’s not easy, election year matters. You’re my mother, I have to tell you the truth, I don’t sleep. The politicians have made our work difficult. The economy has become tough, the market women say no one is buying anything. Our little support we give them has dried up. The foreigners are not bringing in the loans, th
ey say we haven’t used the old loans well. We are doing our best, we have to keep the peace, come what may, but it’s not easy.”

  “Mibi.” My child. Her voice was as warm and sweet as the milo she used to make for him when he was a boy. “It shall be well. When you’re my age, when you’ve seen Nkrumah, Ankrah, Kotoka, Busia, Acheampong, J.J., and the rest, you know that there are ups and downs. Keep your head, you’re smart. Grace will lead you where you should go. Have faith in Him, and be faithful to the madam. Don’t let these small girls turn you against her.”

  “Mmaa, small girls . . .”

  “Oh stop, you think because I’m up here all the time I don’t know . . . Nyɛkwɛa nyɛhe nᴐ jogbaŋŋ.” Look after yourselves well.

  He made as to leave, but hesitated and said, “Mmma, I’ve a small favor to ask . . .”

  She looked up at him intently.

  “Mmaa, minyɛmi nuu.” My brother. “Nii Odoi. He has to know that this is only politics, but he is taking it personal, too personal. I have many enemies, but my cousin . . . my own brother . . . shouldn’t be one of them.”

  The old lady’s eyes darkened, she shook her head quickly. “No, you’re right,” she agreed. “I will see to it.”

  He said his goodbyes and left the cool breezy room for the hurly-burly of High Street.

  A few minutes after the old lady had opened the envelope, examined its contents, and tucked it safely away in her brassiere, her son clomped in from the veranda.

  “I hate that fucker,” Nii Odoi said plainly. “He shouldn’t come here and talk about brother this and brother that. Take it personal? Take it personal? I shouldn’t? After all he’s done to destroy order around here?”

  “Herrrrhhh, Nii Odoi! Watch your mouth! What kind of nonsense ranting is this?” She pointed her right index finger at him. “The man has done what he had to do. Let’s face it, he was an orphan who had nothing. Do you remember the scraps I fed him while you ate meat, the mat he slept on while you slept on a mattress? I am sure he has not forgotten, and yet you begrudge him what he has made of himself?”

  “Mmaa, please.” Nii Odoi waved his hands in the air as if to erase his mother’s words. “Don’t let me say things that I shouldn’t because you’re also taking his dirty money. It was you who told me how his grandfather stole my grandfather’s property, and how they drank everything away. You are the one who has forgotten, but I have not. You know how we ran this area before J.J. came in and threw everything upside down, how your baking business collapsed, how you were reduced to selling even your gold trinkets so that we could survive. Yes, I ate meat, but that ass deserved the scraps he was given. How dare he think he has the right to throw his weight around? He is the only person standing in the way of the right people coming to power, but it won’t be forever, you know.”

  “Herh, herh,” his mother snapped. “Stop it. Enough with these old stories. Are you sure it’s not about that stupid two-by-four girl, Naa, who you both seem to like? You . . . you . . . my son, consorting with that reject. Sometimes I think you’ve lost your mind.”

  “I have said what I am going to say, it won’t be long, things will change with this election.” He banged his fist on the dining table. It made the glasses on the runner in the middle shake. He threw his mother an unapologetic and pitying look, then stormed out.

  * * *

  Everywhere Nii Odoi looked, these cadres, these revolutionaries turned politicians, had grown fat. Each day brought more shocking news: the lands they had taken, the state enterprises they had sold to themselves, their homes abroad, their children rubbing their shit in everyone’s faces. As far as Nii Odoi could tell, all their shitty boys, Nii Teiko included, were talking about peace while fucking the people in Jamestown over and over again. He had walked up and down those streets and could see that the warehouses, once belonging to them, were now shuttered; his uncle’s medical clinic was flyblown; the people who used to be productive were now idling in the doorways of their homes, their daughters’ communal property. Nii Odoi had spent the last of his mother’s money studying in London, and he had brought that degree back home to Ghana, to Jamestown, thinking that there would be room for him to rebuild, to pay homage to the past and make a difference for the future. But he was nothing there without money, nobody was. Not even the air of ancient entitlement that he wore held meaning. The one and only thing that held meaning anymore was money. And where was it? It was in just one place. Money was in politics.

  Nii Teiko may have found his way into a position of power. He may indeed have been the key to change, but Nii Odoi was determined to be the hand to turn that key in the right direction, for all their sakes.

  * * *

  The political boss, deep in conversation with his close associates, one of whom was a carpenter, a true-to-goodness, fly-by-the-seat-of-his-trousers Jamestown carpenter, looked up. A small girl, no more than ten years old, had come into the bar to find him. She tugged at his sleeve, as children do, and he bent his head toward her.

  “Please,” she whispered, her words barely audible. “Auntie Naa sent me. She said she hasn’t seen you in a long time, and would like to see you. She wants you to come tomorrow night at about eleven.”

  Nii Teiko smiled. He handed the small girl a ten-cedi note and patted her on the head. He’d been so busy with this election business, he’d not paid Naa a visit in a while. He liked her independence. She was the sort of woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to go out and get it. But she was also mild-mannered and didn’t hesitate to let a man be a man. He thought of holding Naa, pulling her body tightly into his embrace, inhaling the scent of her, which was mildly intoxicating. He thought of them kissing, then making love, in front of her fan, set to its highest speed, the colored lights strobing through the darkness of the room. This made him release a loud, joyous laugh. He couldn’t wait for night to fall.

  That is how it happened. That is how Nii Teiko walked into Nii Odoi’s ambush.

  PART II

  Heaven Gate, No Bribe

  The Labadi Sunshine Bar

  by Billie McTernan

  Labadi

  The Labadi bᴐᴐla collectors drive around town from as early as four or five a.m. during the week, bandannas covering their noses and mouths, barely keeping the smell of days-old bean stew from being caught in the back of their throats. Their tinny music rings from the wagon, piercing through the area, attracting customers, an alarm for those who have yet to rise and begin their day. As the minitruck circles around, residents, like dutiful ants, scuttle to the roadside to hail the crew with bags of refuse. After a few hours the truck is full. Often the driver dumps the waste at a landfill site on Mortuary Road, close to the Korle Lagoon. Everything from fridges and mattresses to car parts and cholera can be found in it. After paying a fee to the minders of the landfill, they drive off. And as one job ends, another begins. The salvagers take charge of the refuse. They wade through the junk to make sure there is nothing of value left to rot away, then set the junk alight; flames burn through the rot, licking the stench-filled air around them.

  It’s not uncommon to find dead bodies there: men and women, young and old, surface. The blowflies and maggots always find them first, crawling around lips and poking out of nostrils. The salvagers groan, hand on head. What happened to these people for their bodies to have ended up in this fill? Bankruptcy? Divorce? Depression? Betrayal? A makeshift burial is given, a short prayer spoken: In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.

  But they end it there. No need to get the authorities involved. After all, no one wants to be suspected of a crime they didn’t commit.

  * * *

  When Priscilla arrived in Circle, along with all the other travelers venturing into the city, Accra became real. It was loud and obnoxious with cars, commuters, and hawkers vying for space. As the passengers from across the country poured out into the bus station from vehicles big and small, layers of the city’s stress settled onto their skin.

  Before leaving Aflao, the
busy border town between Ghana and Togo, some of the girls had advised Priscilla to look for work in Labadi.

  “Osu busy o. Dey get plenty Liberian girls for there,” Gifty said, gnawing on a chewing stick. “Dem fill de place.”

  “Abeg no go East Legon. Too much police wahala,” Yomi added.

  “Labadi town dey between Osu and Labadi beach,” Gifty continued. She spat out wooden splinters from her chewing stick. “You go still find obroni for dat place.”

  By way of Ghanaian beaches, Labadi is fairly unremarkable. In fact it was quite dirty, the ocean gray with accumulated filth.

  Priscilla was directed to Madam Joanna, one of those older women with a perpetual I am not amused face, the mouth poised ever ready with a quip should you step out of line. Her darkened knuckles were a telltale sign of regular skin-bleaching rituals. Her hair was shaved low and she wore large goldhoop earrings, gold bangles, and a collection of necklaces. Her chest heaved in the tight midlength floral dress she wore. More was more for Madam Joanna.

  “Good afternoon, ma,” Priscilla greeted.

  Madam Joanna, while in repose on a sun lounger, shifted her eyes from her diary toward Priscilla. She peered at her over her sunglasses. The young woman was tall, and she wore her hair in long braids that fell down her back. Her eyes shone.