Wife of the Gods (14 page)

Isaac guided Boniface to his chair, helped him sit down, and
then wiped his dripping forehead with a sweat-stained rag.

Osewa’s eyes flickered to Isaac’s face and then guiltily away.
He had fine, smooth features, eyes shadowy and deep, glistening
skin blacker than night, and a tight, compact body packed with
power. He beckoned to Osewa and Kweku, and they came forward. She
knelt on a straw mat at Boniface’s feet while Kweku sat on his
haunches to one side.

Boniface leaned forward with some effort and peered at Osewa,
his face so close to hers she could smell his foul, wheezing
breath. He traced her facial features with his fat fingers. His
palms were saturated with the dark color and odor of herbal
medicines. Osewa found Boniface Kutu repulsive in a way that made
her believe in him.

“So, Kweku Gedze,” he said. “Tell us why you have brought your
wife here.”

Kweku cleared his throat. “Please, Mr. Kutu, she is barren.”

“Eh?” Boniface said, craning forward to hear.

“Speak up, my friend,” Isaac prompted.

“She cannot bear fruit from my seed,” Kweku said more
loudly.

“Have you taken your wife to a healer before?” Boniface
asked.

“Yes, please. Many.”

“And what did they do?”

“They gave her medicines to change her desert into a rich soil.
And also a tonic for the blood.”

“And what happened?”

“Please, nothing.”

“Stand up,” Boniface said to Osewa.

She did as she was told. Boniface placed his hands on her belly
and began to press upon it. It was an experienced touch, firm and
sure. He suddenly stopped and stayed completely still, as though he
had felt something or caught a sound. Then he took his hands away
and signaled to his son to perform the same inspection.

Isaac knelt on one knee in front of Osewa. She thought his
inexperience and physical strength would render him rough and
coarse, but the instant he put his palms flat upon her belly, she
felt such a thrill race through her she almost gasped. He did not
have anything approaching the hardness of his father. Instead, his
hands were soft and light, his fingers long and flowing as they
glided over her skin like a warm stream. She had never been touched
like that.

Osewa looked down at him. His head was level yet his eyes were
turned up at her, dark and burning. Her face grew fire hot, and her
heart raced as he held her gaze.

“What do you feel?” Boniface said.

“Something is there…,” Isaac said, his voice trailing into
doubt.

“No,” Boniface said with a sigh. He sounded tired. “There is an
absence, not a presence.”

Isaac nodded. “Oh, yes.”

“Don’t make things up. If there is no water in your calabash, do
not tip it as if to pour. Do you understand?”

Isaac looked embarrassed. “Yes, Papa.”

Boniface turned to Osewa. “Do you know what is wrong with
you?”

Osewa dipped her body in a slight curtsy. “Please, Mr. Kutu, no,
I don’t know.”

“Little woman, you have no womb.”

Osewa reeled.

“No womb?” she whispered. “How is it I have no womb?”

“It has been stolen from you.”

“By whom? Who stole it?”

“Most certainly a witch.”

Osewa stared at him in disbelief. “A
witch?
”

“Yes. Do you have any problems with your in-laws?”

“No,” she said, with a sidelong glance at Kweku.

“How many sisters do you have?”

“Two.”

“Are you fighting with them?”

Osewa shook her head. “No.”

“Is one of them a troublemaker? When she was a small girl, was
she disrespectful to her elders? Tell the truth.”

“Yes. You are right.”

“What is her name?”

“Akua.”

“Is she jealous of your beauty?”

“Beauty?” Osewa was surprised both by the question and the
compliment it held. “No, Mr. Kutu, I don’t think so.”

“I suspect her. Bring her here. I will try her by an ordeal that
will tell us whether or not she’s a witch. If she is, and she
confesses to stealing your womb, then we can get it back. Then you
will regain fruitfulness. Do you hear?”

“Yes, please. I hear.”

“You will need to bring three hens with you for the trial.”

♦

Osewa, twenty-five, was the middle of the three sisters. Akua
was younger by about three years, and Beatrice, thirty, was the
oldest. As Osewa had predicted to Kweku, Akua ridiculed the idea
that she might be a witch and resolutely refused to go to Boniface
Kutu’s compound to be “tried.” Kweku made the decision to take her
there by force. It took him three days to arrange for this. Two
friends of his agreed to help kidnap Akua.

Boniface had told Osewa that she would have to attend the
ordeal. After all, it was
her
womb that was to be restored.
When she saw Akua being hauled in by Kweku and his friends, Osewa’s
stomach turned. She had feared there would be a struggle, but this
was horrible beyond imagination. Akua was writhing and screaming
like a beast. Her clothes were torn and twisted around her body,
and her face was drenched with sweat and frothing saliva.

Kweku had brought the requisite three hens. The trial was a
nasty affair, in which Akua had to partially slice each hen’s neck
and release it to run around blind and crazy for a few dying
moments. When it finally staggered to a stop and collapsed, the
question was whether it had died breast up or down. The first one
died with its breast up.

“And what does that mean to you?” Boniface asked Isaac.

“It means that the gods approve of the woman.”

“No
. It means they approve of this one sacrifice and
only
this one.”

“Oh, yes, Papa. That’s what I meant to say.”

“Does she have more chickens?”

“Two more, Papa.”

“Carry on.”

Akua’s face was twisted and her eyes bloodshot with revulsion.
Covered in blood, feathers, and beastly excrement, she looked at
Isaac as if she would slice
his
neck if she got the
chance.

She killed the second chicken, and then the third. Each did its
strange dance of death, half running, half staggering, with its
head flapping about like an appendage. The second one died with its
breast upward like the first, and the third died on its side but
more up than down.

“Come here,” Isaac said to Akua.

She approached shaking like a leaf in a stiff wind, and Isaac
turned her to face Boniface.

“The fowls have all died breast upward,” Boniface said, new
strength in his voice. “That means all your sacrifice has been
accepted by the gods. They would not approve of it if you were a
witch. Therefore, I declare you not guilty.”

The verdict barely registered with Akua. She was in a daze.
Isaac rubbed powdered clay over her arms and shoulders and gave her
a piece of white clay as a token.

♦

Much later in life, Osewa was to have mixed feelings about the
trial experience. She was glad it had happened because that was how
she had met Isaac. At the same time, the memory was anguishing and
sad because Akua never forgave Osewa for conspiring to subject her
to the most humiliating experience of her life. Akua and her
husband had to move away from Ketanu because rumors kept surfacing
that she really
was
a witch, and Osewa never, ever heard
from Akua again. The tragedy of it was that Akua had been the best
sister Osewa had.

∨
Wife of the Gods
∧

A
fter his meeting
with Elizabeth and Charles, Dawson’s first stop that morning was to
have been the police station, but Elizabeth insisted he visit her
fabric shop before that. Instead of the usual religious reference,
she had named it simply Queen Elizabeth’s Dress Shop, and Dawson
smiled to himself and thought how fitting a name it was. It was a
cozy space packed with clothing, rolls of beautiful fabric, and
that unmistakable smell of fresh new textiles.

“This is really nice,” Dawson said, looking around.

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said sweetly. “Would you like to choose
something for your wife?”

He picked out a kente stole. “I think she’ll like this one. How
much is it?”

“It’s a gift, Mr. Dawson. I would not dream of charging you for
it.”

♦

The station was quiet. Constable Gyamfi was at his desk taking
swigs from a bottle of Malta Guinness. Dawson’s eyes lit up.
Goodness, energy, vitality, as the label proclaimed. “Good morning,
Constable Gyamfi.”

The young man jumped to his feet with a beaming smile. “Morning,
sir.”

They shook hands cordially.

“Inspector in?” Dawson asked.

“He’ll be here soon, sir. Please, you can have a seat. Will you
have some Malta?”

“Yes, please.”

Gyamfi poked around in a space under the counter and extracted a
bottle. He popped open the top and handed the bottle to Dawson.

“Thank you. Cheers,” Dawson said.

He clinked bottles with Gyamfi and then took a swig. It was
warm, but no matter. Malta was good whichever way. Dawson let out a
satisfied sigh.

Gyamfi smiled at him. “You like it, sir?”

“Very much. Even though I know it’s too sweet.”

Gyamfi laughed. “That’s all right. Do you enjoy beer, sir?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh, sir,” Gyamfi said in mock regret. “I’m sorry to hear
that.”

It was Dawson’s turn to laugh. He clinked bottles with Gyamfi
again. “How’s the prisoner doing?”

“Fine, sir.”

“No need to call me ‘sir’, Gyamfi. Just call me Dawson.”

“All right, very good, sir. I mean, Mr. Dawson.”

“Did he have something to eat this morning?”

“Yes. He ate some porridge.”

“Good.” Dawson took a sip and savored the taste. “You think he
killed Gladys Mensah?”

“Well, you know – whatever Inspector Fiti says…”

Dawson nodded, wondering why he’d asked the question. Gyamfi
wouldn’t contradict his boss.

“How long have you worked here, Constable Gyamfi?” he asked.

“Almost two years now. I was in Sekondi before here.”

“What about the other constable?”

“Bubo? He’s been here less than a year.” Gyamfi dropped his
voice. “He doesn’t like it.”

Constable Bubo walked in at that very moment.

“Morning, Bubo,” Gyamfi said, self-consciously clearing his
throat.

“Morning, Gyamfi. Morning, sir.” His voice was slightly hoarse,
like a sharp-edged river reed scraped across the palm. Bubo took a
sullen look at a couple of folders on the desk, turned around, and
walked out again.

Gyamfi looked at Dawson and shrugged. “I don’t know what’s wrong
with him. He doesn’t like to talk much. He stammers sometimes –
maybe that’s why.”

Minutes later they heard Inspector Fiti addressing Bubo outside.
“Where are you going?”

There was a not quite audible reply from Bubo, but Dawson
detected the stammer.

Fiti loudly objected to the constable’s plans, whatever they
were. “No,” he said sharply. “Forget about that. Go and get Samuel
Boateng from the jail. We’re going to interrogate him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Constable Bubo returned ahead of Inspector Fiti, who faltered
when he saw Dawson. Perhaps he had forgotten the CID inspector was
going to be present for the interrogation.

“Morning, Inspector Dawson,” he said heartily, recovering. “I
hope you slept well.”

“I did, thank you.”

Bubo unhooked a large bunch of keys from his belt and
disappeared around the corner and down to the jail.

“Elizabeth and Charles Mensah came to see me this morning,”
Dawson told Inspector Fiti.

He looked both surprised and somewhat annoyed. “For what
reason?”

“To talk about Gladys. They told me something interesting. She
had owned a diary, but they can’t find it among her belongings. She
had also had a silver bracelet, and that’s missing too.”

“I see.” Fiti’s brow furrowed. “There was no diary in her
briefcase and she didn’t have a bracelet at the scene either. But
you know, people lose things. Maybe she lost them.”

“Anything is possible, you’re right, but if she didn’t lose
them, their absence could be connected to her murder.”

Fiti nodded soberly. “We will ask Samuel if he knows something.
Gyamfi, you will take notes.”

“Yes, sir.”

♦

They heard the cell door clang shut. Bubo returned, guiding
Samuel ahead of him. Samuel’s head was bowed, and he looked
wretched. He hadn’t been provided any new clothes, so he was still
shirtless, and his pants were filthy and almost coming off his lean
frame.

♦

The interrogation room was small with splotchy walls, a bare
table, and four chairs. Fiti and Dawson sat at one side, opposite
Samuel on the other. Gyamfi stayed behind Samuel, closer to the
door.

Fiti cleared his throat and began. “Samuel, I’m going to ask you
about the killing of Gladys Mensah.”

“I didn’t do anything, sir,” Samuel said, his gaze down.

“The evening before she died, she was walking from Bedome to
Ketanu and you were following her, is that not so?”

“I wasn’t following her. I was talking to her. Sir.”

“About what?”

“I asked her what she went to do in Bedome.”

“And what did she say?”

“She told me she has been teaching the people about the AIDS
disease. And I asked her if I could walk with her to Ketanu and she
said yes. And so we were talking and walking. Like that.”

“Tell me everything you talked about.”

“She asked me if I knew something about AIDS, and I said no, so
she told me about it and gave me a paper to read.”

“Where is that paper? What did you do with it?”

Samuel looked uncomfortable. An undulating wave traveled across
his brow.

“What did you do with it?” Fiti repeated.

“I looked at it, but later I threw it away in the bush because I
felt shame to take it home.”