break it. We just have to remove a small piece from it, so small that you wouldn’t notice. You get me?”
“Yes, please.”
“About the fight you say Musa had with the thieves—did you see it happen?”
“No, I wasn’t with him.”
“How old was Musa?”
“Sixteen. He was going to be seventeen.”
“And how old are you?”
“Seventeen too.”
“Do you know anyone who didn’t like Musa?”
She shook her head. “Everyone liked him.”
“That evening when you and Musa went to the market, what time did you leave each other?”
“About seven o’clock. One friend came to help Musa take something to Maamobi.”
“Did you know that friend? His name?”
“I know his name is Daramani, but I don’t know him well.”
Daramani . Dawson stiffened, but then he reassured himself. There were undoubtedly countless Daramanis in Accra, not just the one he knew.
“Do you know where this Daramani lives?”
“He lives in Nima. I went to his house with Musa one time.”
Nima . Where Dawson’s Daramani lived.
“About how old is this Daramani?”
“I don’t know,” she said, adding, “older than me.”
“Do you like him?”
“I don’t like him.” Akosua squirmed. “He was always looking at me like he wanted to be with me.”
“Do you think he was jealous of Musa?”
“I don’t know.”
“If we take you to Nima, can you show us his house?”
“I think so. But I don’t want him to see me.”
“Okay, no problem.”
Dawson stood up. So did Chikata.
“You stay here,” Dawson said to him abruptly.
Chikata was puzzled. “Why shouldn’t I go with you?”
“It doesn’t need two of us to go to question this man. You’ve got a lot of paperwork to finish. Come along, Akosua.”
As they left the room, Dawson could feel Chikata’s stunned look burning a hole in his back.
N ima was bustling with furious midweek commerce, men and women weaving through the crowds with loads of merchandise while they dodged horn-blaring cars. Truck pushers forged paths through the jammed traffic, their unwieldy carts piled with scrap metal, engine blocks, old TVs, and computers. The sidewalks were packed with traders bursting beyond the boundaries of Nima Market. With no space for pedestrians on the pavement, vehicles and people shared the street in a constant battle for dominance.
Akosua was in the backseat. Dawson, in the front next to Baidoo, wasn’t much bothered by the chaos of Nima. What was taking his attention was the turmoil in his own head. You panicked . Afraid that Akosua’s Daramani was the same as the one he knew, terrified that his “other life” might be exposed, he had ordered Chikata to stay behind. Dawson suddenly felt corrupt and ashamed.
“I think we can get down here,” Akosua said. She pointed to their left. “His house is somewhere over there.”
Baidoo inched over and somehow created a parking space next to a paint and hardware store. Dawson and Akosua got out, weaving to the other side of Nima Highway. He let her lead him through the narrow walkways of the market, where the vendor stalls were packed on either side and space between one person and the next was a matter of a few inches. Whenever there was a cry of Agoo! behind them, they moved instinctively to one side to give way to someone pushing or carrying a load of grain or produce so heavy that, if he broke stride for even a second, it would be a disastrous loss of momentum.
Under the pitiless sun, the smell of raw sweat merged with the pungency of heaps of cinnamon, cumin, and thyme, sharp and fresh enough to make Dawson sneeze. As they moved from the sweetness of the spice market to the olfactory assault of the stink-fish section, Dawson was watching which way Akosua was going. In Nima, there was always more than one route anywhere, so it was too early to say if she was moving in the direction of Daramani’s place. She took a sharp right, which Dawson knew would move them out of the main body of the market.
“Yes, please.”
“About the fight you say Musa had with the thieves—did you see it happen?”
“No, I wasn’t with him.”
“How old was Musa?”
“Sixteen. He was going to be seventeen.”
“And how old are you?”
“Seventeen too.”
“Do you know anyone who didn’t like Musa?”
She shook her head. “Everyone liked him.”
“That evening when you and Musa went to the market, what time did you leave each other?”
“About seven o’clock. One friend came to help Musa take something to Maamobi.”
“Did you know that friend? His name?”
“I know his name is Daramani, but I don’t know him well.”
Daramani . Dawson stiffened, but then he reassured himself. There were undoubtedly countless Daramanis in Accra, not just the one he knew.
“Do you know where this Daramani lives?”
“He lives in Nima. I went to his house with Musa one time.”
Nima . Where Dawson’s Daramani lived.
“About how old is this Daramani?”
“I don’t know,” she said, adding, “older than me.”
“Do you like him?”
“I don’t like him.” Akosua squirmed. “He was always looking at me like he wanted to be with me.”
“Do you think he was jealous of Musa?”
“I don’t know.”
“If we take you to Nima, can you show us his house?”
“I think so. But I don’t want him to see me.”
“Okay, no problem.”
Dawson stood up. So did Chikata.
“You stay here,” Dawson said to him abruptly.
Chikata was puzzled. “Why shouldn’t I go with you?”
“It doesn’t need two of us to go to question this man. You’ve got a lot of paperwork to finish. Come along, Akosua.”
As they left the room, Dawson could feel Chikata’s stunned look burning a hole in his back.
N ima was bustling with furious midweek commerce, men and women weaving through the crowds with loads of merchandise while they dodged horn-blaring cars. Truck pushers forged paths through the jammed traffic, their unwieldy carts piled with scrap metal, engine blocks, old TVs, and computers. The sidewalks were packed with traders bursting beyond the boundaries of Nima Market. With no space for pedestrians on the pavement, vehicles and people shared the street in a constant battle for dominance.
Akosua was in the backseat. Dawson, in the front next to Baidoo, wasn’t much bothered by the chaos of Nima. What was taking his attention was the turmoil in his own head. You panicked . Afraid that Akosua’s Daramani was the same as the one he knew, terrified that his “other life” might be exposed, he had ordered Chikata to stay behind. Dawson suddenly felt corrupt and ashamed.
“I think we can get down here,” Akosua said. She pointed to their left. “His house is somewhere over there.”
Baidoo inched over and somehow created a parking space next to a paint and hardware store. Dawson and Akosua got out, weaving to the other side of Nima Highway. He let her lead him through the narrow walkways of the market, where the vendor stalls were packed on either side and space between one person and the next was a matter of a few inches. Whenever there was a cry of Agoo! behind them, they moved instinctively to one side to give way to someone pushing or carrying a load of grain or produce so heavy that, if he broke stride for even a second, it would be a disastrous loss of momentum.
Under the pitiless sun, the smell of raw sweat merged with the pungency of heaps of cinnamon, cumin, and thyme, sharp and fresh enough to make Dawson sneeze. As they moved from the sweetness of the spice market to the olfactory assault of the stink-fish section, Dawson was watching which way Akosua was going. In Nima, there was always more than one route anywhere, so it was too early to say if she was moving in the direction of Daramani’s place. She took a sharp right, which Dawson knew would move them out of the main body of the market.
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