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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Ghana Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
Almost a year ago Lady Araba, the head of a self-made fashion empire, was found murdered at her home in Trasacco Valley, the Beverly Hills of Accra. Araba's driver was arrested but her aunt, Dele, suspects that Araba's boyfriend was the real killer. Now Dele approaches Emma Djan, a young PI with a fast-growing reputation for getting results, to help find the truth. From alleged suppressed evidence by the Ghana Police to unpleasant accusations involving Araba's parents, Djan's investigation will navigate a long list of suspects and she will discover that not only are they willing to lie for each other, but that one is prepared to kill.
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Seitenzahl: 434
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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SLEEP WELL MY LADY
KWEI QUARTEY
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In memory of Careen Chepchumba Let justice be done though the heavens fall and To Mama, who never got to see Emma #2
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CONTENTS
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
The day of the murder
In the lavish Trasacco Valley, the Beverly Hills of Accra, no one would have anticipated a murder. The sprawling gated community was landscaped with neat hedgerows and palm trees lining its streets. Pink, yellow and red hibiscus bushes dotted impossibly green lawns. Red and yellow bougainvillea spilt over the walls and fences.
Completed about a decade before, the Valley couldn’t possibly fit any more buildings. However, east of it along the N1 Highway stretched acres of virgin land where the Trasacco Company had begun constructing several new gated complexes on what would be called Trasacco Hills.
The entrance to the Valley was a ten-foot-high wrought-iron gate with a sentry box where the security guards kept track of who went in and out. Peter, the veteran lead security guard, knew every resident by name and face, but all visitors needed to state their identity and destination, and their number plate might be noted as well. Peter, forty-five, was older than his peers, some of whom were in their twenties. True, he was a tad overweight and could probably not outrun a fit young intruder, but the Valley’s 10five-year security record was impeccable, with not a single instance of robbery, burglary or carjacking. Peter was proud of that.
Change of shift was between 6.30 and 7 a.m., giving Peter another fifteen minutes or so before he went home to his wife and kids. Another early bird in Trasacco Valley was Ismael, the head groundskeeper. With a small number of assistants, he kept hedges trimmed, grass mowed and weeds cleared. Unlike Peter, he was wiry in build, but like the security man, he was friendly and smiled easily. He had a way with greenery. The elegance of the grounds was, for the most part, due to him. Today, he was to put in Blood of Jesus plants – eye-catching with their deep purple leaves and crimson veins that looked like streaks and splatters of blood – in select areas of the complex.
But before he did that, he had promised Lady Araba Tagoe, who loved decorating her palatial space with flowers and trees, that he would bring her a pair of planters for the upper terrace outside her bedroom.
It was a Monday – a fresh start to the week. Ismael went to the garden shed that stood at the end of Ruby Row next to a motion-sensor exit. From the shed, Ismael removed two large terracotta planters and carried them one in each hand to 401 Ruby Row.
For additional security, each mansion in the Valley had a remote-operated wrought-iron gate at the driveway entrance. Among the several different house types and colours, Lady Araba’s was called ‘the Duke’, painted orange chiffon with a red tile roof trimmed in white. A high-ceilinged portico formed the Duke’s front entrance. As Ismael approached, Lady Araba’s chauffeur, Kweku-Sam, was washing her Range Rover, which he did every morning before he took the boss out. Any driver worth his salt kept his employer’s vehicles shiny and spotless – barely possible in Accra’s dusty environment. Araba’s second car was an Audi, 11but she preferred the Rover for its high profile and smoothness over rough roads.
‘Morning, Kweku!’ Ismael called out.
Kweku-Sam looked up from his work and smiled. ‘Morning. How be?’
‘I dey, oo! Wassup?’
They slipped seamlessly into Twi instead of English. Ismael was from arid Northern Ghana, while Kweku-Sam was Akan, but Twi was their lingua franca.
‘Where is the house girl?’ Ismael asked. ‘Usually she’s sweeping the yard by now.’
‘She travelled to her home town for a funeral. Where are you taking those flowerpots?’
‘To the terrace,’ Ismael responded. ‘Madam asked me to get them for her.’ He worked part-time at a plant shop in town.
‘OK,’ Kweku said, glancing at his watch. ‘She will be down in about thirty minutes. Today is a big day for her – the fashion show.’
‘Ah, fine.’ Ismael knew next to nothing about that kind of thing. It was a different world. The lives of Trasacco’s residents were far removed from his own.
Ismael took a left across the green lawn with sprawling hibiscus, past the projecting bay window of the living room and the kitchen, then a right at the staff quarters to the rear of the house.
On the second floor, Lady Araba’s master bedroom occupied the west wing and opened directly onto a terrace via a framed glass door. Ismael already had a ladder leaning against the wall from the day before when he had been up on the terrace. It was tricky climbing up with a heavy planter in one hand, but he was accustomed to awkward manoeuvres. At the top of the ladder, he reached over the decorative terrace wall and set down the first planter gingerly. He returned to the ground and did the same for the second planter before skipping over the wall into the terrace. Ismael loved it here. 12The shaded pergola, which Lady Araba had designed herself, was surrounded by explosions of colour. Hanging ferns, blue plumbago, red ixora, yellow galphimia and pink desert rose flourished. There wasn’t any other homeowner in Trasacco who could boast of such plant glory. Ismael moved the planters to either side of the pergola. Lady Araba liked symmetry and matching pairs. As Ismael went past, he looked towards the glass door and felt his stomach plunge.
He scrambled down the ladder, jumping the last four rungs to the ground. He ran around to the front of the house, shouting, ‘Kweku! Kweku!’
Kweku-Sam looked up from polishing off the Rover with a chamois. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Madam,’ Ismael said, breathing hard. ‘Something bad has happened. Do you have a key to the house?’
Kweku-Sam shook his head. ‘No. But what has happened?’
‘She’s lying in her bed,’ Ismael said, ‘and there’s blood. Take the car and bring Peter here. Quick!’
The Rover’s tyres squealed as Kweku-Sam gunned the engine.
Inside the security booth, Peter had finished entering his summary of the night’s activities into the logbook and was giving the morning report to the two security guards taking over duty. There wasn’t much to report, as the shift had been quiet.
He looked up as Lady Araba’s Rover came towards them at top speed. Kweku-Sam jumped out. ‘Peter, come! Ismael says something bad has happened to Lady Araba.’
Peter frowned. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know. You just come, my brodda.’
Peter dropped everything and got into the Rover. Kweku-Sam made a rubber-burning U-turn, and they took off back to 401, where they skidded into the driveway. Ismael was nowhere to be seen. 13Peter followed Kweku-Sam at a full run to the rear of the house.
‘Ismael!’ Kweku-Sam called out.
‘I’m up here!’ Ismael’s head appeared over the terrace wall.
‘Chaley, what’s going on?’ Peter asked.
‘I think she’s dead,’ Ismael said, voice shaking.
‘What?’
‘Do you have a key to get inside?’ Ismael asked Peter.
‘No, no, I don’t.’ Peter started up the ladder. Kweku-Sam followed.
‘Then I have to break the glass door,’ Ismael said, grabbing a metal patio chair from the pergola. By the time the other two men reached the terrace, Ismael was attacking the door with the legs of the chair. It splintered open on his second attempt, and he reached inside and pulled down the door handle. The other two men were right behind Ismael as he pushed the door open.
‘Awurade,’ he said. ‘Oh, Jesus.’
Shades of white and cream were the colour scheme of the room. The copious scarlet of the spattered blood on the carpet and bed was a jarring contrast. A bloody duvet covered Lady Araba’s body up to her neck. She was lying on her back and might have simply been asleep, save that her face was bloated and grey. Her eyes, now milky white, were still open. So was her mouth. The pillow on which her head rested had a wide halo of dried blood.
Peter and Ismael stood staring, frozen. They heard a loud wailing sound and turned to see Kweku-Sam weeping as he rushed inside. Calling out his boss’s name, he lurched towards the bed, but Peter grabbed him and held him back.
‘Kweku,’ he said quietly, then more emphatically, ‘Kweku, there’s nothing you can do. Madam is dead.’
CHAPTER TWO
Twenty years before
Araba had learnt to sew by the time she was thirteen years old. Her Auntie Dele Tetteyfio was a seamstress who patiently taught her how to put together blouses, skirts and dresses from scratch. Araba preferred the company of her doting aunt to that of her parents, Fifi and Miriam. Reverend Fifi Tagoe was a priest at the All Saints Anglican Church in Accra and an extreme disciplinarian apparently obsessed with the sin of fornication. Every other sermon of his seemed concerned with its evils.
In her early teens, Araba had only the foggiest notion what fornication meant. Was it having a boyfriend, or just hanging around boys? It might also mean having sex when you weren’t supposed to. If that was the case, then Araba was not a fornicator. She didn’t like boys much then, and certainly not enough to have a boyfriend. Boys were silly, empty-headed.
Reverend Tagoe wasn’t a loving man in any demonstrable way. He didn’t hug his children. Tagoe was a believer in the maxim ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child’. He kept a cane in his bedroom in case Oko needed a whipping, but rarely did he use it on his daughter.
15Leaning against Dele’s chair, Araba watched her aunt hem a sleeve on her sewing machine, her fingers deft and precise while her feet pumped the pedal.
‘Auntie?’ Araba said. ‘What is fornication?’
Dele was a short, powerful woman with a stubborn mouth. Appropriately, she came from Bukom, a tough old part of Accra that continued to churn out a disproportionate number of professional boxers.
Dele held up a blouse to examine it. The fabric, a cotton blend with swirls of pale blue and fuchsia, was by Woodin – a well-known, upscale brand. ‘Why are you asking me that, Araba?’
‘I always hear Daddy preaching to people not to fornicate,’ Araba said.
‘And he hasn’t explained it you?’ Dele asked. ‘Or is it you don’t understand the explanation?’
Araba shook her head. ‘He hasn’t told me. If I ask him, he’ll be angry.’
Dele rested the almost-completed blouse to the side and turned to her niece. ‘When a man and a woman get married,’ she said, ‘they are supposed to stay together for ever and only make love to each other. If the husband goes to be with another woman, or the wife goes to be with another man, then they have committed fornication.’
‘So, it’s only for grown-ups, then,’ Araba said, relieved.
‘Yes, my dear.’ Dele gave Araba a hug. ‘You won’t have to worry about that for a long time. Now, sit here and do the sleeves. Let’s see how good you are.’
Araba executed it to her aunt’s approval and smiled at her praise.
Someone knocked on the door, and Dele went to answer. Araba heard her father’s voice and stiffened.
‘Is she here?’ Fifi asked Dele. His voice was deep and rich – perfect for preaching. 16
‘Yes, she is,’ Dele replied. ‘Please come in.’
Fifi did and saw Araba in Dele’s sewing bay. Clothes were everywhere, and it looked like a jumble, but Dele knew exactly where everything was.
Fifi eyed his daughter. ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming here,’ he said. ‘I was worried.’
‘Sorry, Daddy,’ Araba said in not much more than a whisper.
‘It’s not her fault,’ Dele said. ‘It’s me who should have called you. I lost track of time.’
Fifi grunted. ‘No problem. Come on, Araba. Say goodbye to Auntie. We have to go home for your bath and dinner.’
‘Bye, Auntie,’ Araba said. ‘Can I come back tomorrow?’
‘I’ll be here,’ Dele said. ‘But check with your father first.’
Fifi guided Araba out with a light hand on her head. ‘See you later, Dele,’ he said, with not so much as a glance at his sister.
Araba didn’t completely understand why her father and aunt didn’t get along, but what she did know was that Dele always took Araba’s side if it came to that.
That night, after her bath and dinner, Araba waited for Mama to come up and tuck her in. To pass the time, she looked through her old dog-eared fashion magazines, examining the dress styles, the hairdos, the shoes.
Mama came in. She went by her middle name, Miriam, not her indigenous name, Yaa. She had a tiny waist and wide hips, the kind that always had men staring. But Araba had never seen her father show affection to his wife.
‘Are you OK, love?’ Miriam said.
‘Yes, Mama.’ Araba put her magazines away. Her parents constantly checked her reading material to be sure there was nothing to encourage an interest in boys before she was old enough for that – eighteen, in her father’s view. 17
Miriam sat at the edge of the bed and rested her hand near Araba’s cheek. ‘How was Auntie Dele?’
‘Oh, fine,’ Araba said. ‘She let me do a lot of sleeves and hems today.’
‘That’s good,’ Miriam said, smiling sweetly. She had never appeared to have a problem with Dele, as far as Araba could tell.
‘By the time I get to fashion school,’ Araba declared, ‘I’ll already know a lot.’
‘OK, well, we’ll see,’ her mother said, smoothing Araba’s covers. ‘You know Daddy wants you to have a job like … like—’
‘Yes, I know,’ Araba said. ‘Like a nurse. Is that the only job in the world?’
‘Now, now,’ Mama chastised gently. ‘He only wants the best for you.’
‘The best for me is what I want to do,’ Araba said.
Mama chuckled. ‘Well, you have a few more years before you know for sure. Things might change.’
Araba played with her mother’s gold wedding ring. ‘But I’ll never change,’ she said. ‘I’m going to be a fashion designer.’
Mama kissed her on the forehead. ‘All right, dear. Na-night, and sleep well, my love.’ She turned off the light, left the room and closed the door quietly behind her.
Later that night, the power went off. This time of year, it was hot and stuffy day and night, and without the air conditioner, Araba woke up sweating lightly. She threw her covers off and opened the windows to let some air in.
Her door cracked open, and she looked up to see the figure of her father. He was a big, solid man. If you punched him, he probably wouldn’t budge.
‘Are you OK, Araba?’ he whispered, coming into the room and shutting the door. 18
‘Yes, Daddy.’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come to say goodnight to you earlier,’ he said, sitting on the bed the same as his wife had done. ‘I was on an important phone call.’
‘OK, Daddy.’
‘Give me a hug.’ He embraced her – he always did. ‘I love you, OK? God loves you too. It’s a special love we have in the Lord, you understand?’
Araba nodded. ‘Yes. You’re squeezing me so hard, Daddy.’
‘Ah, I’m sorry. My goodness, you’re sweating. Why not let us change you into some dry clothes?’
He used what little light there was from the street to look in her chest of drawers. ‘Here – a T-shirt and some underwear.’ He dropped them on the bed. ‘I’ll help you.’
He took off her blouse. She flinched and shielded her developing breasts from him.
He laughed. ‘Come on, don’t be shy. I’m your daddy.’
She hurried to put on the shirt and turned away from him in bed as she put on her underwear.
‘You’re growing so fast,’ he said. ‘Does the underwear still fit you?’
‘Yes, they’re OK,’ Araba said, covering herself.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said, gently pulling the covers away. ‘Look at the hem – too tight.’
‘They’re OK, Daddy,’ she pleaded.
‘Right here,’ he said. ‘Too tight.’
She caught her breath and held it, looking away as he slipped his finger under the lace edge of her underwear. His breathing was irregular and sounded loud in the quiet room. It always did.
‘You know I care a lot about you, Araba,’ he said. ‘These special little times we spend together are just for us and for God, right? It’s not for others to know about because they won’t understand. They’ll say you’re a bad girl, but I know and you know that you are good.’ 19
He pulled Araba’s hand towards him to make her touch him, but she wriggled from his grip. Soon Araba became aware of the other sound – him stroking himself. She dared not look. She fixed her gaze elsewhere as Daddy spluttered and gasped – a strange choking noise pushed down against itself.
He stood up, kissed her on the forehead and left without another word. Outside in the hallway, Araba heard him say, ‘What are you doing there?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’ It was Mama, speaking timidly. ‘I thought I heard a noise, so I came to see if everything was OK.’
‘Well, everything is fine,’ he said tersely. ‘Go back to bed.’
Mama’s steps retreated, and then Araba heard Daddy going downstairs. Her parents did not sleep in the same room, let alone the same bed.
Araba brought her knees up to her chest, staring at the wall.
CHAPTER THREE
The day of the murder
Monday morning was the start of Accra Fashion Week, held this year at the garish Tang Palace Hotel in the South Airport Residential area. Before Araba’s show at 10 a.m., a lot had to be done. Samson Allotey, Lady Araba’s right-hand man, had arrived at six to begin setting up.
The models – sixteen in total – began to roll in at seven-thirty. Samson and a freelance helper Araba had hired for the day were going over the order of their appearances on the catwalk. The theme of the show this year was ‘We Too’, a play on #MeToo, to expose rampant but deeply buried sexual assault within the fashion industry. No one in this supposedly glamorous world liked discussing such a distasteful subject, choosing to pretend it didn’t exist at all, but Lady Araba was dedicated to facing it down. Now that her eponymous line of women’s clothing was gaining fame throughout West Africa, she intended to become an activist and influencer.
For this session, the models were to walk on in pairs – hence, ‘We Too’ – to the end of the runway and return along each edge as stirring music blasted. Samson had the sequence in his mind, but as 21he got the women to do the first run-through, something just didn’t look right, and he needed Araba. So did everyone else. She was the glue that held it all together. Her authority, her instincts and her knowledge had a calming effect during the frantic preparation and inevitable last-minute emergencies before a show.
Now it was getting on for eight o’clock. Where was she? She ought to have arrived by now. The models were starting to have their make-up applied, and there would be last-minute fittings and alterations to their outfits – a button here, a slight hitch-up of a hem there. Araba was always present for that. She simply had to be.
Samson called her, and when she didn’t pick up, he texted her. Fifteen minutes later, still without a response, he phoned Lady’s brother, Oko, who had become a friend over the years.
‘Hey, Samson,’ Oko said, picking up right away. ‘Wassup, bruh?’
‘Chaley, have you heard from your sister?’
‘We spoke yesterday, why?’
‘She hasn’t come in this morning to prepare for the show,’ Samson said, getting frantic. ‘She’s normally here long before now. I’ve tried calling and texting her, but she’s not answering.’
‘Let me try her,’ Oko said.
‘If you reach her, tell her to call me as soon as she can, please. We still have a lot to do here.’
Oko, a prominent chemistry and physics professor, had been on his way to his first lecture at the University of Ghana and had almost reached the campus. Like Samson, he tried calling and texting his sister several times to no avail, so he tried his father, Reverend Tagoe, who was in a meeting at St Anthony’s Anglican Church.
‘She’s not answering her phone,’ Oko explained to him. ‘Neither texts nor calls, and Samson is getting desperate at the show because she should be there by now.’ 22
‘I can go to Trasacco to see if she’s there,’ Tagoe said. ‘Maybe she overslept or something.’
The Reverend left his meeting with his apologies – a ‘family emergency’, he said, which was essentially true.
St Anthony’s is near the N1 Motorway via Achimota Road, and once Father Tagoe was past the chaos of the Accra Mall cloverleaf interchange, he made good progress to Trasacco Valley. He pulled up at the front entrance of the complex, where the guards recognised him at once as Lady Araba’s father.
‘Morning, sah,’ the guard said and waved him through. He looked nervous – or was that Tagoe’s imagination?
As Tagoe turned left on Ruby Row and saw a crowd outside Araba’s garden fence, he felt sick. A police officer stood at the driveway entrance. Beyond that point, an old Tata police vehicle and one of the newer Toyota Camry patrol cars were parked in the driveway.
Tagoe stopped the car abruptly and jumped out. The spectators’ eyes turned to him as he ran to the gate, where the officer, a fresh-faced constable, moved to bar his way.
‘What’s happened?’ Tagoe demanded.
‘Who are you, please?’ the constable asked.
‘Reverend Fifi Tagoe. I’m Lady Araba’s father.’
‘OK, sir.’ The constable stepped aside.
Tagoe ran up the driveway and in through the open front door to the entrance hall. He heard voices from the second floor. The staircase was to Tagoe’s right. Two men in conversation stood at the base of the stairs and turned as they saw him approaching.
‘Who are you people?’ he thundered. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Your name,’ one of them demanded as he reached them.
‘Reverend Tagoe.’ He was hyperventilating. ‘Lady Araba’s father.’
The two men exchanged glances. One of them took a step towards 23Tagoe and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Reverend, your daughter was found dead this morning—’
‘What do you mean, “dead”?’ Tagoe said, raising his voice. ‘How can that be?’
He rushed up the stairs, screaming Araba’s name. A crowd of people doing, it seemed to Tagoe, nothing but standing around staring into Araba’s bedroom, had gathered on the landing. As Tagoe got there, a man blocked the doorway, preventing him from going inside.
But Tagoe could see a few people around Araba’s bed, apparently taking pictures and videos. He also caught a glimpse of someone in the bed – and a lot of blood.
His vision went dark. The next he knew, he was on the floor in the hallway with people above him, shaking him and asking if he was OK.
‘What happened?’ Tagoe asked, confused.
‘You fainted,’ someone said.
They began helping him up. He took two unsteady steps towards the room, but several people held him back and the door was now shut. ‘You can’t go in, sir. They are collecting evidence.’
‘Who did this to her?’ he said, beginning to break down.
No one responded, because no one knew the answer.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sixteen years before
Auntie Dele used her front yard to sell her outfits. She had three mobile racks of skirts, blouses, dresses and gowns, and often a steady stream of women came in seeking her wares. Araba always looked forward to Saturdays when there was no school and she could help her aunt with retailing. By seventeen, Araba was blossoming into a fetching young woman, and customers constantly stole admiring – or jealous – glances at her.
Like her mother, Araba was fair in colour, and her exceptionally fine skin had a silken sheen. Her waist was tiny, flaring out to buttocks that were at once muscular and bouncy when she walked. Boys hovered outside at Dele’s front yard so they could peek at Araba. Sometimes they would walk slowly up the street and come back in the opposite direction five minutes later so they could look at her again. Dele kept an eye on them, saying nothing until they attempted to innocently wander into the yard to chat Araba up. That’s when Dele yelled at them in caustic Ga to get lost.
Araba helped Dele’s customers find the type of outfits they were looking for. There was a changing booth rigged up at the corner of 25the house, and there the customers could check the fit and style in the mirror. Araba quickly mastered saleswomanship. If the dress looked halfway decent on a potential buyer, she would praise and flatter. If, on the other hand, the customer didn’t like it, she would be ready with an alternative. Because Araba was so stunning in her own outfits, women looked to her for approval. Dele loved having her around, and Araba loved being there.
Included on the different racks were many pieces that Araba had helped her aunt put together, and a few Araba had designed and sewn herself. She knew how to sketch her own designs, a precise skill people associated more with boys than girls. In fact, the only class Araba really enjoyed at school was art.
Now that women had begun to notice and purchase her outfits, Auntie Dele split the proceeds with Araba, which thrilled her niece and gave her a heady feeling of accomplishment. She loved Dele for that.
That Saturday evening, as Araba and Oko were watching TV at home in the living room, Father Tagoe came in and clicked off the set with the remote.
‘I need to talk to your sister in private,’ he said to Oko.
Oko, who was twenty, got up and slouched out. Fifi took a seat on the sofa next to his daughter, who eyed him with anxiety. What was it now?
‘How was your day with Auntie Dele?’
‘Fine, Daddy.’
‘You enjoyed yourself?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘You like being around your aunt and helping to sell clothes.’
Was that a question or a statement? Either way, Araba nodded.
‘That’s good,’ Fifi said, but something about his expression worried Araba. ‘Your mother tells me you’ve also been selling your own dresses there.’ 26
Araba hadn’t shared this with her father because she’d sensed he would disapprove.
‘Is that true?’ Tagoe asked.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I see,’ he said, pressing his lips together. ‘From now on, you will hand over any money you make to me so I can donate it to the church, is that understood?’
Her eyes widened as she looked at her father in dismay. ‘But why?’
‘Because I say so,’ he said sharply. ‘I am your father; you are living under my roof and you are not yet an adult. Where is the money you made today?’
Araba looked away sullenly. ‘In my room.’
‘Then go and bring it to me. All of it.’
Head bowed, Araba rose and went up to her bedroom, where she had hidden her earnings in an envelope in a clothes drawer. On her way back to her father downstairs, Araba tapped on Oko’s bedroom door. He was listening to music through a giant pair of headphones.
Araba pulled them off his head.
‘What?’ Oko said irritably.
‘Daddy wants to keep all the money I make from selling my dresses,’ Araba said. ‘I don’t want him to have all of it. Can you keep a portion for me?’
‘Only if I get some,’ Oko replied sullenly.
Araba rolled her eyes. ‘OK, OK. You can have a few cedis. But don’t say a word to him about this.’
‘Whatever,’ Oko said, holding out his hand. Araba counted out about a quarter of the cedi bills and gave it to her brother with a warning. ‘Don’t spend it, OK? I’m trusting you.’
Oko grunted and put his headphones back on. As she left the room, Araba gave a wistful backward glance, missing the days when she and her brother had been close. Once Oko had started boarding school 27at age twelve, the bond between them had weakened like a rusty old chain. Whenever Oko came home for the holidays, he was quiet and didn’t communicate much except with his friends, who talked about girls all the time. Araba was amused by their boasts of getting this girl or that – most of it probably untrue. Despite his change in mood, Oko remained a brilliant student with As or A-pluses all down the line on his report card. He was a whiz at physics, chemistry and mathematics, so much so that his teacher made him the unofficial tutor for the weaker students. Oko and his academic brain had no interest in Araba’s budding taste for fashion, and the reverse applied: Araba couldn’t care less about differential equations.
CHAPTER FIVE
Twenty years before
Francis Augustus Seeza had always been ambitious and competitive. He was a good student who always aced his exams. He founded a small school paper that chronicled events on campus, along with opinion pieces, short stories and poetry.
After secondary school, Augustus entered the School of Journalism at the University of Ghana. While there, he interned at the Ghana Broadcasting Corporation, the country’s equivalent to the BBC, to gain experience in broadcast journalism. He did everything – sitting in for people at the front desk, getting water for programme guests, writing notes for the hosts. Augustus was very good. His strengths were his versatility and adaptability. He showed initiative where others frankly couldn’t care less, and that made managers notice him. After Augustus graduated from university, the GBC offered him a job as a junior producer.
On one occasion, a prime-time radio host was held up by the monsoon-like floods Accra was experiencing that rainy season. The guest was in the studio, it was five minutes to airtime, and the station manager was in a state of panic. 29
‘I’ll do it,’ Augustus said matter-of-factly.
‘What?’ the manager said.
‘I’ll do the interview,’ Augustus said.
And so, he did – and a superb job he made of it. One hour of smooth, insightful conversation with the guest. Augustus’s voice was a pleasing baritone that injected calmness into the most probing of questions – like giving quinine to someone in a spoonful of syrup. The regular host took over the second hour, but listeners began calling the station to ask about this Augustus ‘Caesar’ who had sat in for the first half of evening drive time, and was that his real name?
Among those who heard Augustus that night was the Minister of Science and Technology, Adam Kyei. One of the richest people in Ghana, Kyei owned Metro Media, which had both radio and TV divisions. Kyei recalled meeting Augustus a couple of weeks back at GBC when they had planned a joint production on the plight of farmers in the drought-stricken Upper East Region of Ghana. Augustus had been accommodating, sharp and quick-witted, and he had asked all the right questions.
Kyei lured Augustus away with a nice offer; competing with the government-run GBC was not difficult. Augustus came over to Metro without hesitation. With his university education and easy charm, he was poised to launch a successful career in journalism. At Metro, Kyei put Augustus in charge of two radio programmes – the once-a-week Politics Now at noon, and an evening opinion and call-in show, Ghana Speaks. But Kyei wanted a flagship evening TV programme to mirror its radio counterpart, a little later, in the 8 to 9 p.m. hour, when most people had got home from work, traffic allowing.
When Kyei thought the time was right, he pulled Augustus from radio and moved him over to TV, where he joined another producer on Good Morning Ghana. One day, Kyei took Augustus to a buffet 30lunch at the Mövenpick Hotel and asked him if he had any ideas about an evening show.
At that moment, Augustus was marvelling at the amount of food Kyei had served himself. Kyei was fat and rich. He enjoyed food without limits.
Refocusing, Augustus said, ‘What I see in my mind is a show where I talk to controversial or important people and ask them tough questions.’
‘OK,’ Kyei said, chewing noisily with his mouth open. ‘Go on.’
‘Have you ever seen that BBC programme HARDtalk? We need something like that. Where I, as the interviewer, don’t let anyone, no matter how important he is, get away with anything.’
‘What would you call such a programme?’
‘Tough Talk comes to mind.’
‘That’s not bad,’ Kyei said. ‘So, we would have politicians, performers, newsmakers and so on.’
‘Yes, but the more controversial, the better.’
‘Of course.’
‘There is, however, one proviso I would ask from you, sir.’
Kyei looked surprised. ‘What is that?’
‘That we don’t favour your political party in any way. Whether you’re in power at the time or not.’
Kyei stared at Augustus for a moment. ‘OK. That’s not a problem.’
Augustus smiled, taking a sip of wine and looking at Kyei over the rim. ‘So, Tough Talk it is, then?’
With Tough Talk, Metro TV’s evening viewership exploded. The show’s debut episode was ironic in that Augustus’s first guest was Kyei himself. The MP often appeared on his own station’s programmes. He talked a lot of bluster and braggadocio, but Augustus held on to Kyei’s thrashing tail of sorts. Although the exchange wasn’t acrimonious in any way, the questions and answers were sharply delivered. 31
Adam Kyei satisfied the ‘controversial figure’ benchmark for Tough Talk because he was one. In the first place, as a minister of parliament, what was he doing owning a giant media company? His gruff answer: ‘But is it against the law? Do you think people in the three branches of government in the United States don’t own businesses and property?’
‘Doesn’t make it right,’ Augustus returned evenly. ‘You are using the tactic of “whataboutism”, sir, by deflecting the question to another target. Let’s forget about the United States and concentrate on Ghana. Don’t you think that your ownership of an information-disseminating institution might invite conflicts of interest?’
They argued about that for a while, and then Augustus segued to a second question: why had Minister Kyei repeatedly demonised a young investigative journalist, Ahmed Hussein, who had been working on a story about corruption, only to be gunned down in the street?
Kyei bluntly denied any connection between his denouncement of Hussein and his subsequent assassination, even though Kyei had publicly revealed where Hussein lived and encouraged residents in the neighbourhood to ‘take action against him’ if they saw him.
After the show, Augustus sought reassurance from Kyei that he hadn’t gone after the MP ‘too hard’, which Kyei dismissed. ‘No, this is very good. These are the kinds of probing questions we want.’
Over the next few years, Augustus went on to interview a string of personalities, both local and international, who fell into one or more categories: politically powerful and/or controversial, flamboyant entertainers and athletes, and trailblazers of all types. No matter who was in the hot seat, Augustus engaged with them in a way that captivated viewers. Most of the interviews ended on a cordial note, though a few concluded not in the best way – like the erratic manager 32of Ghana’s Black Stars football team, who yanked off his mic and stormed off the set midway through the hour. Of course, all that made for great television and didn’t bother Augustus in the least.
What some saw as Augustus’s reassuring self-confidence, others perceived as conceited arrogance, particularly members of the old guard who had been around broadcasting for much longer. But he was Adam Kyei’s trophy, and no one could touch him. To balance out this resentment towards him was a certain admiration, even grovelling. A good number of women at the station went googly-eyed in Augustus’s presence, dressing to kill to attract his attention. He was good-looking with a ready smile of even white teeth and a habit of winking suggestively at these women, many of whom he ended up having sex with.
All that playing the field – well, most of it – came to an end when Augustus met his wife-to-be, Bertha Longdon, a woman a few years older than him and the daughter of Cyril Longdon, the owner of Longdon Shipping. Bertha was the only heir to Cyril’s considerable fortune.
Augustus and Bertha’s wedding was over the top, with three hundred guests in attendance. The first inkling Bertha had that something might be off was when Augustus got blind drunk in the final hours of the reception and had to be carried away by two of his friends, who recognised a disaster in progress.
CHAPTER SIX
The day of the murder
When Reverend Tagoe called, Oko had just finished his chemistry lecture, and his mother, Miriam, had gone to a meeting with a community alliance trying to get old town Accra cleaned up and modernised.
Oko saw his father’s name on the screen. ‘Yes, Daddy?’
For a moment, Oko thought his father was laughing, and he couldn’t understand what he was saying. He realised then that Reverend Tagoe was weeping.
‘Daddy, what’s wrong?’
‘It’s Araba,’ Tagoe said, his voice cracking. ‘They found her body this morning.’ He gasped. ‘A lot of blood—’
‘Stay right there,’ Oko said, his voice shaking. ‘I’m on my way.’
A short distance away from the front door of Araba’s house, a detective questioned the Reverend after offering his condolences. His name was Sergeant Isaac Boateng, a tubby man in his early forties.
‘Father Tagoe,’ Boateng said, ‘please, when did you last speak to your daughter?’ 34
‘Just last night,’ Tagoe replied, his brow creased and his eyes red. ‘It’s Accra Fashion Week, so my wife and I called her just before nine to wish her luck.’
‘How did she seem, Father?’ Boateng asked. ‘Did she appear to have any worries or fears? Was she upset about anything or anyone?’
‘No, no, she sounded fine, even though she’s been struggling to get over that man—’
That raised Boateng’s eyebrows. ‘What man?’
‘She was in a toxic relationship with – well, I’m sure you know of him. Augustus Seeza, the guy who used to be on Metro TV.’
‘Can you tell me more about that, sir?’ Boateng asked. ‘I mean the relationship between your daughter and Mr Seeza.’
‘It was abusive, and Mr Seeza was, is, a drunk,’ Tagoe said bitterly. ‘Ever since his fall from grace, he became more dependent on Araba, who supported him financially and in every other way. We – the Tagoe family, I mean – confronted her and warned her to bring the relationship to an end. Araba tried her best, but every time Seeza got sick from drinking too much, he reached out to her and she came running.’
‘I see,’ Boateng said. ‘But I’m a little confused. I thought Mr Seeza married that lady – the one who owns the shipping company. Or am I wrong?’
‘Bertha Longdon, yes, you are correct. They are separated. I suppose at some point they’ll divorce.’
Someone called the Reverend’s name. He turned to see his son running up to him. At thirty-six, he was stout with a broad, flat face and early baldness.
Father and son embraced briefly, and then Oko stood back, gripping his father’s arms and looking squarely into his eyes.
‘Can this be true, Daddy?’ he said, voice quivering. ‘Is it true?’
‘It doesn’t seem real,’ Tagoe said, shaking his head.
‘You saw her?’ Oko asked. ‘You saw Araba dead with your own eyes? Where is she? I want to see her.’ 35
‘They’ve taken the body, son,’ Tagoe said.
‘Why?’ Oko demanded wildly.
‘The police didn’t want too much decomposition to set in.’ Tagoe gestured to the detective. ‘This is Sergeant Boateng. In charge of the case.’
‘I want to know what happened to my sister, Mr Boateng,’ Oko said, turning to the detective.
‘Yes please, sir,’ Boateng said. ‘I can’t say much at the moment. Hopefully, we will learn more after a post-mortem is conducted.’
‘But you must have an idea, surely,’ Oko said forcefully. ‘I mean, how is it possible that my sister has been murdered in this supposedly secure neighbourhood? Does that make sense to you? There are guards at the front entrance, and yet still someone was able to get into the house and kill her?’
Oko’s voice rose and splintered, and he stopped talking to gulp down his emotion.
‘Well, it may be your sister knew the culprit,’ Boateng said, ‘because there was no evidence of forced entry. Which is the one reason why I’ve been trying to find out from your father here if there’s anyone who might have harboured ill will towards Lady Araba. He mentioned Mr Seeza – that Araba was in a relationship with him?’
Oko’s face clouded. ‘I tell you, the devil dwells in that man Seeza’s heart. I won’t tell you how to do your job, Mr Boateng, but I would advise you to question him very closely.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
The day of the murder
The 37 Military Hospital in Accra is so named because it was the thirty-seventh medical unit built by the British Army in their now-evaporated empire. Government-run, the hospital is chaotic and lacks many of the facilities found in equivalent private institutions.
The ambulance took Araba’s body to 37 Hospital, but she should have gone straight to the police mortuary, since her death was unnatural. After a furious argument between the 37 Hospital personnel and ambulance drivers, it was finally agreed that the Ghana Police Hospital was the correct destination.
Tagoe, wife Miriam and son Oko committed the same error as the ambulance, going to the 37 Hospital morgue first before being redirected to the right place. When the Tagoes went in to officially identify Araba’s body, they shuddered and averted their eyes from corpses stacked in piles for lack of space. The morgue was a distasteful place to be whether one was alive or dead. The place reeked, the sour, saliva-curdling smell of corpses mixed with the scent of the bleach used to mop the floors. 37
Tagoe and Miriam went in holding hands, but when the morgue attendant showed them where Araba lay on her slab, Miriam broke away from her husband, touched Araba’s cold arm and began to weep – not loudly, but so that each surge of grief rocked her entire body. She looked as if she might collapse, and Tagoe moved to her side to steady her. ‘I’m here for you, my love. Be strong in the Lord.’
Oko stood a distance away. Tagoe looked at him, signalling for help. Oko came to stand next to Miriam, and she leant against him with her head bowed.
The attendant watched as the Reverend launched into a soliloquy in steady, measured tones.
‘He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son.’
‘Amen,’ Oko and Miriam murmured.
Tagoe’s voice rose. ‘But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.’
‘Amen,’ Oko and Miriam said, more strongly.
‘In the Book of Isaiah,’ Reverend Tagoe continued, raising his right hand overhead, ‘the Lord says, “So do not fear, for I am with you.”’
‘Amen.’
‘“Do not be dismayed, for I am your God.”’
‘Amen.’
‘“I will strengthen you and help you.”’
‘Praise Him.’
Tagoe concluded, ‘“I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”’
‘Yes, Lord,’ Oko whispered.
Tagoe rested his hand for a moment on his daughter’s right shoulder, then turned away to put his arm around Miriam and 38support her to the exit. Emerging outside, they breathed in fresh air with relief. Tagoe guided his wife to a chair, and she sat heavily, staring ahead in a daze. Suddenly, her expression turned to consternation, and she sat up straight. Tagoe turned to follow the direction of his wife’s gaze and saw what – who – had caused this change in demeanour. Augustus Seeza was approaching the entrance to the morgue. An instant after Miriam spotted him, he recognised the three Tagoes, whom he had met on only a single occasion. His step faltered, and uncertainty crossed his face.
Miriam rose and walked towards him, her gait suddenly resolute. Augustus stopped moving. In fact, he took a step back.
‘You!’ Miriam said through clenched teeth. ‘You murderer. You killed her, and now you come to the morgue to delight in seeing her dead body?’
‘No, no,’ Augustus said, looking distressed. ‘It isn’t that. I was looking for you to express my—’
‘Your what?’ She grabbed the front of his shirt, clutching it in a fierce grip. ‘Your false condolences?’
Tagoe came up behind his wife. ‘Miriam—’
She ignored her husband and continued to address Augustus. ‘My daughter rejected you and you were filled with rage. So, you killed her, didn’t you? Didn’t you?’
Augustus shook his head, trying to shrink away from Miriam and take her hand off him. ‘No! I didn’t do it. Why don’t you look within your own family and find the real culprit?’
‘What?’ Her fists loosened. ‘What do you mean “within my own family”?’
‘Araba and I were reconciled again before she died,’ Augustus said. ‘Didn’t you know that? Your husband knew. He’s the one who was angry with your daughter for coming back to me.’
Miriam moved back from Augustus as if a ‘do not touch’ sign had materialised. She whipped around to her husband. 39
Tagoe was glaring at Augustus with narrowed eyes. ‘You are a liar, sir. I knew no such thing.’
‘No, you are the liar, Mr Tagoe. Araba told me that she told Oko here, and Oko told you.’
Oko got into Augustus’s face with a warning finger. ‘Get out of here. You are not welcome.’
Augustus’s lip curled. He turned on his heel and walked away.
Miriam turned back to her husband. ‘Is what he said true? You knew Araba had gone back to him?’
Tagoe was indignant. ‘Of course not. Wouldn’t I have told you?’
Miriam looked at Oko. ‘Did she tell you?’
Oko shook his head. ‘No.’ But he was dithering. ‘Well, she hinted at it once.’
‘When?’ Miriam demanded, her eyes blazing.
‘I don’t remember exactly. Three months ago? Four?’
‘Four months!’ Miriam exclaimed. ‘And you said nothing?’
‘I didn’t want you to get more upset over it than you needed to. I tried to get Araba to see the light and turn herself around.’
‘When did you last see her?’ Miriam asked pointedly.
‘Why are you interrogating him?’ Tagoe interjected.
Miriam looked surprised. ‘I’m not.’
‘Please,’ Oko said quietly. ‘Can we stop the quibbling? We’re all very upset right now, so let’s go home and cool off.’
Miriam was visibly distressed. She pressed her palms to her tearful eyes. ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. ‘Please rescue us from this nightmare. Let it not be true.’
Oko exchanged a bitter glance with his father. Miriam was right. This was a nightmare.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Four years before
Augustus was thirty-eight now. When he was twenty-nine, he and his wife, Bertha, had had their first child, a boy they named Benjamin. Three years later, they had a girl, Belinda. Because his last name was Seeza, Augustus had been inclined towards regal names like Athena and Apollo, but bowed to his wife’s wishes for something more conventional. The name ‘Seeza’ was originally from Northern Ghana. A Rashid Seeza had swung in on one branch of the family tree, and the name had kept going. Augustus’s grandfather had christened his son Julius, and Julius in turn, continuing the play on the name, had named his son Augustus.
By the time Ben was nine years old, Augustus and Bertha were experiencing difficulties in their marriage. Augustus still loved the party life and seemed to be drinking progressively more heavily.
Bertha was torn, wanting to rein in her husband without smothering him. His constantly returning home late was insufferable, and his drunkenness was worse. On such occasions, Bertha wanted nothing to do with him. At the same time, she didn’t want him straying to anyone else. She brimmed with suspicion, often texting 41Augustus and demanding that he prove in real time that he wasn’t in the company of another woman. When he didn’t answer, his most common excuses were that his phone was on silent, that his battery was low, that he just didn’t hear her call or see her text, or that he was in a late-evening meeting.
But Augustus still managed to be a good father – a functioning alcoholic of a good father – which made it impossible for him to seem all bad to Bertha. In the moments he was so loving and caring to Ben and Belinda, she felt her heart go soft in her chest like a moist sponge, and everything would feel perfect until the next time she confronted him with an accusation.
Above all, Bertha was proud of Augustus’s status as a premier broadcaster and one of the best TV interviewers around. She did watch him most nights, unless something unexpected came up. Tough Talk was a live programme. The first take was the last, and anything could go wrong with no recourse or do-overs, like walking on a tightrope with no net. If something went wrong, it went wrong.
