Accra Noir Page 9

  The day after Madam Joanna went to the Grace Jones Hotel to look for Priscilla, it was almost business as usual. The kebab stand had been set up. The bar was stocked. The girls were chopping up slivers of gizzard and goat meat. But Madam Joanna wasn’t there. Cici was. Making directives, as the body of the previous owner of the Labadi Sunshine Bar washed up into the Korle Lagoon.

  The Driver

  by Ernest Kwame Nkrumah Addo

  Weija

  Joojo arrived home in a rush. His wife, Angel, had sounded incoherent on the telephone. Now she was blabbing like an insane person, each heaving sob racking her small frame. Her eyes were red and her face was puffy.

  “He has stopped breathing,” she cried. “I didn’t do anything to him.”

  It took some time for Joojo to notice that there was someone slumped in their well-worn living room couch, its upholstery covered with the adinkra design “gye nyame.” The name of the symbol translates literally as “except God,” its message being that there is nothing greater than God. The adinkra symbols are a collection of proverbs believed to reflect aspects of the worldview and philosophy of Ghanaians who believe that they are incapable of achieving anything of worth without God’s intervention. It’s no wonder, then, that gye nyame is the most recognizable symbol, the nation’s obvious favorite, used to adorn everything from jewelry and clothing to furniture.

  And, in Joojo’s home, today was as good a time as any to call on God.

  * * *

  The occasion was certainly a big one. It had been ten years since Abrebrese had died following a short illness.

  The old man had been a person of great wealth and standing in the community. After the death of his pregnant wife during labor, he had buried himself in his work and soon became one of the biggest farmers in the region. He owned several acres of land on which he grew cash crops like cocoa, coffee, and cashews. He reared livestock—including cattle, goats, sheep, pigs, rabbits, and grasscutters—and had won the regional Best Farmer prize on two occasions. A known philanthropist, he always donated large sums at church harvests, funerals, festivals, and other important social activities in the community.

  Unfortunately, Abrebrese had died intestate. As is determined by the traditional system of inheritance in such a situation, one of his nephews, a young man he had hardly even known, a factory hand in another town, was endorsed by the family. The young man became Abrebrese’s heir and took over all of his property. Yet, after taking charge of the wealth, the young man refused to look after the dead man’s two teenage children, so they were left to begin a new life of struggle.

  The two—a girl and a boy—were close and so alike that many mistook them for twins, though the visual resemblance was not particularly striking. Ama was a year older than her brother, but it was Susu, at the age of eighteen, who decided to brave the city in search of a better life for them. Ama only discovered the plan he’d hatched sub-rosa when she woke to find him gone, along with a framed family portrait, his favorite memento of the life they’d once had.

  Ama, now known by her Christian name, Angel, currently lived in Accra, but her hometown, Kumasi, was never far from her mind. Lately, she’d been thinking about it constantly.

  Within many Ghanaian tribes, it is believed that the dead superintend the affairs of the living. Honoring the ancestors is, therefore, a vital custom. On the tenth anniversary of Abrebese’s death, the extended family had planned a grand memorial to celebrate his life and legacy. The event was advertised in the newspapers, on radio, on TV, and on the Internet. Those expected to attend included politicians, wealthy cocoa farmers, civil servants, doctors, and traders.

  The commemoration was to be held in Kumasi. The second largest city in Ghana, Kumasi is the unofficial center for funeral celebrations. A funeral there is not just an opportunity to bring the community together to bury the dead; it is also an opportunity to display the art and culture of the bereaved peoples. From dawn to dusk, there is unceasing drumming and dancing among the milling crowd, many of whom have traveled from near and far to partake in the communal ritual. Mourners clad in red and black, Ghana’s colors of mourning, are seen cloistered in small groups eating, drinking, and generally making merry. Funerals are also excellent opportunities for dating. Indeed, many people have confessed to meeting their spouse in this way, and many people attend specifically for this reason.

  The pallbearers are always a key highlight. Well dressed in uniform or designer suits, they put on a show for all in attendance by displaying a variety of dance moves, such as Michael Jackson’s moonwalk, with the coffin perched precariously on their shoulders. Another highlight is the presence of professional mourners, people who have been hired for the sole purpose of crying, loudly and dramatically. They sit and weep for hours on end at the funerals of important people, high-ranking members of the community whom they’d probably only heard about but never met, let alone knew well enough to be so heartbroken by their death. There is a saying in the Akan language: Ɔhohoɔ a osu dennen sen nea ade no ayɛ no. The outsider weeps louder than the bereaved. In Kumasi, this saying is actually a reality.

  There was no way Angel was going to miss her father’s funeral anniversary. She’d left Kumasi eight years earlier to live in Accra after meeting then marrying her husband. There hadn’t been any reason to return. She’d not maintained a relationship with her extended family, especially given how they’d so handily taken her father’s money yet neglected to care for either her or her brother. Susu had left home shortly after their dad’s death and no one had heard from him since. Everyone just assumed he was dead, that some tragedy had befallen him in Accra. Angel was inclined to believe otherwise. She believed that her brother had found his way to Accra and, from there, to aburokyire (overseas). Angel often imagined him happily living his life somewhere in America or Europe with a wife and children. It pained her to think of him being sick or dying alone someplace so far away from home, so far away from her. At the same time, it also pained her to think of Susu having a full, joyous life and not wanting to share it with her, so she’d taught herself to not think of him at all, which was hard now with the upcoming funeral.

  * * *

  Angel, along with her daughter, Kukua, left the house early in order not to miss the traders. They came from the rural areas, like Techiman and Kintampo, which are noted for their yams, plantains, and tomatoes; Dormaa Ahenkro, for their poultry and eggs; and Anloga, for their production of onions. They arrived at dawn to off-load their produce. The merchants who received this produce would turn around and sell them at exorbitant prices later in the day at the various markets in town. Angel wanted to be there early not only to buy cheap but also to have the benefit of handpicking the best of the goods.

  Long after the traders were gone from Makola, the main downtown market, Angel sat on one of the discarded crates that had only recently contained juicy-looking red tomatoes, and watched as the sun gradually rose, generously dispensing warmth and light, like a veil slowly lifted to reveal the secrets it had been shielding. The sounds of increased human activity and motor traffic signaled daybreak. As if to also announce that morning in downtown Accra was officially underway, the pleasant smell of vegetables was quickly overtaken by the pungent smell of rot from the choked gutters. Angel stayed put with Kukua until the stores opened. She wanted to purchase some supplies and provisions to present as an offering, a token, a requisite show of respect for the extended family back in Kumasi, even though she did not respect them at all. They hadn’t done a single thing for her since her father’s passing. Even so, it was unheard of for a traveler to return home empty-handed.

  By midmorning, after going from store to store, comparing and haggling over prices, she had all she would need for the long journey to Kumasi the following day. As it was well over 270 kilometers from Accra, Angel and her husband, Joojo, would be on the road for hours. Whenever she’d complain about the length of the journey, Joojo would laugh at her. To him, that was a short trip. He enjoyed driving, espec
ially long distances. It was, for him, all in a day’s work.

  Since they’d be gone, Angel had given their house help several days off to go to her village and spend time with her family. Joojo usually preferred for Angel to prepare the evening meal herself anyway, but it was nice to have the help around for the rinsing, chopping, stirring, and, of course, dishwashing. Angel was running late, yet she still didn’t rush to get back home. Joojo would understand how emotional this anniversary business was for her; besides, he was not always home in time to join her for dinner. Lately he’d been working longer and longer hours, sometimes not even making it home until the wee hours of the morning. She assumed it was to make up for the extra money she’d been spending in preparation for the funeral and trip to Kumasi.

  Angel smiled at the thought of Joojo. He was the one thing in her life that had turned out right. She’d married a good man, somebody sensitive and dependable. She often thanked the heavens for bringing him to her. She remembered how easy and pleasant their first meeting had been. It was her second day as a waitress at the McDonald’s that had newly opened in Kumasi.

  “Ei! Why are you so beautiful, awuraa?” he had asked when she served him a chicken sandwich and a bottle of Coke. She was startled, but happy to receive the compliment. Joojo waited until her shift ended and then walked her to the single-room apartment where she stayed. The next evening after her shift ended she had gone home to find him waiting—with a gas cooker, a refrigerator, and a television. These were things she did not have and, of course, had not asked him to buy. He must have noticed when she’d quickly shown him around the night before. His consideration made her weep. That night she slept in his arms. By morning, she knew that he was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

  * * *

  Kotoka International Airport is always a place of confusion. There’d been a long, slow-moving queue at the Immigration stop where people entering the country have their passports stamped. Owusu was one of the last passengers to complete his arrival formalities. He couldn’t help but wonder if the queue in Germany would have been that long and disorganized. He didn’t know because he’d never formally entered Germany. Like so many refugees, he’d sneaked into the country. That was nearly seven years ago, and since then he’d called Germany home. Now that he was back in Accra, he realized that Ghana would always be home. His heart and soul would always belong to the Black Star nation.

  “Good evening, sir,” a voice broke through his reverie. He turned and looked up into the face of a smiling, smartly dressed man. His white shirt looked well ironed and was tucked in. A man who pays attention to detail, Owusu thought.

  “May I help you with your luggage?” the man asked.

  The area around the luggage carousels was filled with unofficial porters, men who’d bribed their way into the airport so they could offer passengers help with their bags, a taxi ride to their hotels, or currency exchange. Many of them were too aggressive, attempting to take hold of your bags before you’d even agreed to their assistance or understood what fee they’d be charging. This made Owusu suspicious, so he usually held on tightly to the handles of his baggage and firmly refused whenever anyone approached him with an offer of help. There was something about this one man, however, that made Owusu feel he could trust him. It was more than his attire. It was his calm demeanor, his impeccable manners. He was polite and seemed educated, trained to interact with foreigners and “big men.” Owusu quickly agreed to the man’s offer of assistance, sliding his bags toward him.

  When they exited the arrivals hall and stepped outside, Owusu stopped to look around. Nothing could have prepared him for the scene that greeted him. Accra had changed so much in the decade he’d been gone. It was almost unrecognizable. He needed a few minutes to take in the transformation. He’d been momentarily taken aback by the migration from manual to digital checkout processes at the airport, but given that most of the nation was using mobile phones and accessing the Internet, he quickly figured it wasn’t so noteworthy after all. What did surprise him, though, were the tall, modern buildings surrounding the airport. It wasn’t the same skyline he’d left.

  “That’s my car parked right there,” the man said, pointing to a Pontiac Vibe.

  “Thank you,” Owusu replied, following him to the vehicle.

  Once in the car, they formally introduced themselves.

  “I’m John,” Owusu said, using the Western name that everyone in Germany called him. He laughed, dispensed with the affected aburokyire accent, and said, “Actually, you can just call me Owusu.”

  The driver laughed as well. “You can call me Abraham.”

  Owusu wanted to ask the man what his real name was, the traditional name he’d been given at birth, but thought that might be too forward and presumptuous, so he stopped himself. What if his parents hadn’t given him either a day name or a family name? What if his only name was his English one? Owusu had heard that some Ghanaian families had now stopped giving their children both an English name and a Ghanaian name, that they only gave one or the other.

  Abraham shared with Owusu that he was thirty-six years old and unmarried. He said he hadn’t yet taken a wife because he wanted to leave Ghana; he hoped to one day be a bᴐga like Owusu. Owusu smiled knowingly, thinking that the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. It seemed that every young Ghanaian dreamed of one day becoming a bᴐga, a been-to, someone who had traveled to or lived in America or Europe. It had never even occurred to Owusu to leave Ghana until he started living in Accra. He’d been working as a street kid, selling everything from packets of P.K gum to socks at intersections, weaving his way around the vehicles, standing at some driver’s window pleading for him or her to buy something, anything. He usually made two or three cedis a day. It was not enough to feed or house him, so he’d sleep on the streets and eat whatever he could steal or beg from the women at the kiosks. This was the great Accra, the place that everyone in the whole of Ghana spoke of as though it were the best of the best, the light of the world, the city upon the hill. When Owusu slept on the streets he always dreamed the same dream, of one day going far, far away from Ghana and all its hardships.

  One evening, he was given the opportunity to make that dream come true. He and a few of the friends he’d made, young men like him whose circumstances had also forced them onto the streets, hatched up a plan to walk from Accra to Tangier, Morocco, and then cross the Strait of Gibraltar into Tarifa, Spain. It sounded like a crazy and dangerous thing to do, but no crazier or more dangerous than the life they were already living. After two years in Spain, he had sneaked into Germany through its border with Belgium, one of the most porous entry points for undocumented migrants. There, he was finally living his dream. Owusu wanted the driver to know that anything was possible, no matter how unlikely it seemed.

  Owusu took one of his business cards from his wallet and handed it to the driver. He told Abraham to call him should he ever find himself in Germany. He would show him around Hamburg, where he lived, and introduce him to his wife and children. Abraham asked Owusu whether he had any family in Accra.

  “No,” Owusu answered, thinking of the young men who’d set out on the journey to North Africa and Europe with him. When they left Ghana, they had numbered twelve, a band of high-spirited brothers determined to find their place in the world, a place where life would not be a losing battle. By the time they reached Tangier, they were six. Two of the men, tired and afraid to travel any farther, had stayed in Ouagadougou. As the remaining ten walked on, witnessing their surroundings transform from savanna to the Sahel to desert, their journey to a place with better prospects started to seem more and more like a suicide mission. The heat became so severe it was difficult to move more than a few hours each day. They were forced to travel by night, well after the sun had set, which was extremely dangerous. Three of the men died of dehydration and heat exhaustion. One after the other, they just dropped dead.

  It seemed as though Boyo, the one with whom Owusu was c
losest, might also perish from the desert heat. Fortunately, he made it to Timbuktu, with its formidable mud buildings, and, despite Owusu’s pleading, decided to stay.

  “No,” Owusu repeated, thinking of Boyo, who’d been like a brother. Then he thought of Ama, his sister. He’d not seen or spoken to her since the day he left Kumasi. He hadn’t called from Accra because he’d been too ashamed of his circumstances. And by the time he settled in Hamburg, so much time had passed, he didn’t know what he could say to bridge it. How could he explain it all? How could she, living in the small bubble that was Kumasi, understand what he’d been through, the things he’d endured, survived?

  “I have no family here. My people are from Ashanti,” he continued. People sometimes used Ashanti and Kumasi interchangeably because everyone indigenous to the city belonged to the tribe. Owusu explained to Abraham that he would be headed there the following day. That’s why he had booked a hotel online; it was someplace in East Legon, a part of Accra that was unfamiliar to him.

  Abraham assured him, again, that he knew the hotel well and would take him there. “It’s a fabulous place,” he promised. “Executive rooms.”

  As Owusu eased into the ride and started taking in the sights and sounds of the Accra streets, the car suddenly jolted to a stop.

  “Damn it,” Abraham said, slapping the steering wheel with the palm of his right hand. “We’re out of fuel. That thief!” Apparently the last attendant he’d bought fuel from had cheated him. As of late, he explained, the attendants had been scamming their customers. They adjusted the scales on the fuel dispensers so the readings corresponded with the amounts the customers had requested. And the attendants then pocketed the extra money.

  Abraham sighed. “He should just wait; he’ll see what I will do to him.” And then he laughed a short, sinister laugh, one that cast him in a light that was a complete departure from the warm, polite gentleman Owusu had been chatting with all this while.