Wife of the Gods (20 page)

♦

Nunana noticed how silent and downcast Efia was as she scooped
the pounded fufu into a pot.

“What’s wrong, Efia?”

Efia shook her head, but she didn’t say a word.

Nunana touched Efia’s left cheek, and she flinched. “He beat
you?”

Efia nodded.

“Why?”

She shook her head.

“Come here,” Nunana said. “Come.”

She led Efia away so they could have some privacy.

“What happened?” Nunana pressed her. “You might as well tell me.
I will find out in the end anyway. Why did he beat you?”

“Because I talked to the policeman from Accra.”

“About what?”

“Gladys.”

“But why did you do that?”

“I thought we were safe – but someone saw us and told
Togbe.”

“Ao, Efia!” Nunana said. “Don’t you know you have to be careful?
These people who come here from Accra just do their business and go
home and never think of us again. You don’t know that? Don’t talk
to them!”

Efia nodded, wiping tears away.

“What did he ask you?” Nunana said. “The policeman.”

“Just what I saw that day. You know – how I found Gladys. And
what Togbe was doing that evening she came here and if they were
quarreling, and if he went somewhere after she left.”

“And what else?”

“If I’ve seen a silver bracelet they say Gladys was wearing
before she died and now it’s gone, and I told him I haven’t seen
anything like that.”

Nunana’s blood ran cold, and at once she knew what had happened.
After Efia had rushed back to Bedome to report Gladys’s death,
Togbe had gone to the plantain grove to “see for himself.” He must
have arrived there before anyone else, and when he saw that
bracelet on dead Gladys’s wrist, he just could not resist taking
it. Nunana’s lip curled. What kind of man steals jewelry off a dead
body?

Just then she had another thought that took her breath away and
left her matchstick legs unsteady. What if…what if Togbe had taken
Gladys’s bracelet even
before
that? Say, at the time she was
killed? In other words, what if Togbe had murdered Gladys?

∨
Wife of the Gods
∧

N
ot a good day.
Inspector Fiti, in a state of high distress and agitation, had
kicked Dawson out of Bedome. Like a chastened schoolboy, Dawson had
obediently returned to Ketanu, which was bruising to his ego but
probably the better part of valor.

He lay on the bed in the guesthouse and stared at the water
spots on the ceiling. Now that adrenaline was no longer suffusing
his brain, now that he was calm enough to think, he wondered
exactly what had happened. He didn’t remember anything clearly
beyond the point at which he’d entered Togbe Adzima’s house. After
that it was a clouded memory, like a river laden with swirling
silt. This wasn’t Dawson’s first such experience. It had been the
same when he had beaten up the rapist for his disgusting comment
about little girls. He didn’t recall striking him or how many
times, but at the end of it all, someone’s face was a bloody mess
and it wasn’t Dawson’s.

The eeriness of it was that he couldn’t physically feel anything
while he was in attack mode. Was he outside himself watching his
shell, or was he inside completely insulated from sensation? What
was the explosion that went off inside him? Did he get it from his
father?

Now he was annoyed that he was spending time and energy trying
to figure himself out when he should have been contemplating the
case.

His mobile rang, and he fumbled for it in his pocket.

“Hello?”

It was Christine. “Dark, I’ve been trying to reach you for
hours.”

Dawson heard the tremor in her voice, and he sat up rigid.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Hosiah.”

Dawson’s heart stopped.

“He’s going to be okay, Dark, but he’s been hurt.”

“What happened?”

“Mama took him to Augustus Ayitey this morning.”

“Who?”

“Augustus Ayitey, the traditional healer she mentioned the other
day.”

“Go on.”

“They were trying to make Hosiah go through some kind of
cleansing ritual – don’t ask me what – but he was putting up a
fight and while that was going on he hit his head against the tub
or bowl or whatever it was and burst his scalp open.”

“But he’s all right?”

“Apart from being terrified and having to get stitches in his
head, yes.”

“I’m coming home right now.”

“Please be careful driving. I don’t want anything to happen to
you.”

“Nothing will.”

♦

It was just after dusk when Dawson got home. He had broken every
possible speed record getting back to Accra. Hosiah burst into
tears the moment his father walked in. Dawson scooped him up in his
arms and sat down on the sofa next to Christine.

“Daddy’s home now,” Dawson said softly. “Daddy’s home.”

He rocked Hosiah back and forth for a while and then took a
quick look at the scalp wound. It had been neatly closed up, but
there was still a little dried blood around it.

“Eight stitches,” Christine said. “Mama took him to the
University Hospital.”

“Does it hurt?” Dawson asked Hosiah.

“Yes,” he said, sniffing his tears away.

“You want Daddy to check it and see if it’s all right?”

“Okay.”

“Here, wipe your nose.”

Hosiah messily scrubbed at his face with a tissue Christine had
ready. Dawson made an elaborate show of peering at Hosiah’s scalp
and turning his head this way and that.

“It’s almost all better already,” he said brightly. “Soon you
won’t even know it’s there.”

“What does it look like, Daddy?”

“You want to see? I can show you if you like.”

Hosiah agreed, and Dawson took him to the bathroom, where he
used a hand mirror and the mirror over the sink to show Hosiah a
reflection of his injured scalp.

“Oh,” he said.

“See?” Dawson said. “It’s not that bad, is it? And when they
take the little stitches out in a few days, everything will be
healed up.”

“Why do they have to take the stitches out?” Hosiah asked in
alarm.

“They can’t leave them inside your head, Hosiah. You know how
Teddy Bear has sewing in his head?”

“Yah?”

“You want to have a head like Teddy Bear?”

Hosiah giggled. “No.”

“All right then, so that’s why they have to take them out.”

“But will it hurt?”

“It might a little bit, but not as much as it hurt today.”

♦

Christine and Dawson gave their son a bedtime snack of warm,
sweetened akasa and then took him to bed. Before Hosiah went to
sleep, though, they had the painful task of explaining that Daddy
would have to go away again in the morning and would not be there
when Hosiah woke up. This caused more crying and clinging, and it
took quite some time to get him to settle down for his bedtime
story.

Unlike on an ordinary night, Hosiah wanted Daddy to stay with
him for a while, so Dawson lay down next to his son until Hosiah’s
breathing turned rhythmic and he was fast asleep. Dawson left a
night-light on, went out to the sitting room, and sat down next to
Christine. She was staring morosely at the floor.

“I don’t know what could have got into Mama,” she said.

“She gave you no clue at all she was going to do this?”

“None.”

Dawson leaned back with his eyes closed and rubbed his forehead,
trying to work away the throbbing in his skull.

“She’s been phoning me all afternoon,” Christine said, “and she
called again just now while you were with Hosiah.”

“To say what?”

“She’s in a state, a complete mess. Crying, saying she’s sorry
again and again, begging me to let her come over. I told her we
should postpone that for now.”

“I’d like to talk to her, though.”

Christine was surprised. “You would?”

“Yes, I would,” Dawson said.

He got up and slipped on a pair of tennis shoes from the rack by
the door.

“Where’re you going?” Christine asked nervously.

“To see your mother.”

“Don’t you think we should wait until we’re a little
calmer?”

“I
am
calm.”

“But I know how angry you are inside, Dark, and sometimes you
snap and that’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, “everything’s under control.”

“Dark,
please
.”

But he was already gone.

♦

He knocked softly on Gifty’s door. She opened it and expressed
no surprise that he was there.

“Come in,” she said resignedly. “Christine rang me to warn – to
say you were coming.”

She was makeup-free now, although still wearing one of her many
posh wigs. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. She asked
Dawson if he would like to have a seat.

“No,” he said, “I won’t be staying long. I just want to know
what happened.”

Gifty’s face creased with pain. “I would never want to hurt
Hosiah, you know that. I just wanted the best for him. We’re all
one big family, and I love him so much.”

“Why didn’t you tell Christine or me that you were planning to
do this?”

“I wanted it to be a nice surprise, to please you, to help you
out because I know it’s so hard to save the kind of money needed
for that operation. And I wanted to help little Hosiah too.”

“No, none of what you’ve said is the reason. Shall I tell you
the reason?”

Tears began to roll down her cheeks, and she turned away from
him. “I don’t know. Do whatever you like.”

“Look at me, Gifty,” Dawson said sharply. “I’m not going to talk
to your back.”

She turned around again but could not meet his gaze.

“I said, look at me,” he said.

Her gaze fluttered jerkily to his face, eyeballs twitching and
bouncing.

“Here’s the true reason,” he said. “You want to compete with me.
You never liked me that much, and you want to steal my son in
revenge for taking your daughter.”

“No, it’s not that. You don’t understand.”

“I
do
understand. When you took Hosiah to the zoo, you
knew I had been planning on it. You wanted him to think
Granny
is much better than Daddy because she took me to the zoo first
.
And now you wanted to be solely responsible for curing his heart
disease so again he would look at you as his heroine and give you
all the credit.
Granny is better. I love Granny more
.”

Face in her hands, Gifty began weeping uncontrollably. Dawson
put his arms around her, and she flinched. “Don’t hurt me,
please.”

“I’m not going to.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so very sorry.”

“You can’t compete with me for Hosiah,” Dawson said, squeezing
her more tightly, “and as long as I’m alive, you will never steal
him away no matter what you fantasize. Now, you won’t be seeing him
at all for a while. Christine and I will let you know when you
can.”

Her crying grew louder, and Dawson felt a stab of anger at her
sniveling. She disgusted him. He held her even more firmly as he
felt her trying to push away from him. His fist closed slowly over
her wig, and he wrenched it off her head. She shrieked and made a
grab for it, but Dawson easily moved it out of reach. Gifty’s real
hair, which Dawson had never seen, was short, thick, and gray. She
suddenly seemed vulnerable, weak, and much older. She made another
unsuccessful dive for the wig, then tried to hide her head with her
hands.

“Be yourself for a change, Gifty,” Dawson said. “Look in the
mirror, see the real you, and stop hating yourself.”

He dropped the wig on the sofa and walked out.

♦

When Dawson returned, Christine was reading in bed, or appearing
to be.

“Hi,” he said.

She didn’t reply. Dawson began to get undressed and then sat on
the edge of the bed next to her in his underwear. “For the record,
I didn’t hit your mother, if that’s what you were worried about. I
wouldn’t do that.”

She kept her eyes on the page.

“You’re ignoring me?” he said.

Still no answer.

He tried again. “You’re annoyed because you thought I should
wait and I didn’t?”

She put the book down. “This is a family affair, Dark. She’s my
mother, you’re my husband, and Hosiah is our son. This is the worst
crisis we’ve ever had. To exclude me from a discussion between you
and
my
mother is just wrong. It’s disrespectful and very,
very upsetting. You’re supposed to be this modern, progressive man
– equality of women and all that – but in the end it’s the same old
male supremacy rearing its ugly head, isn’t it?”

He stared at the floor without seeing it. She went back to her
pretence of reading.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t listen. I was
angry.”

“I seem to remember saying something to that effect.”

“Yes. You did.”

Christine put her book down again. “I see you driven by anger so
often, Dark. You can’t continue like this. It makes you so
irrational, so…
crazy
…”

“I get it from my father.”

“Oh, come on. You’re a better man than he is. So rise above it
for God’s sake and stop blaming him.”

He nodded. “But what you said about male supremacy? I want you
to know that it didn’t enter into this. Anger, yes. Hardheadedness,
yes. But not male supremacy. Please.”

“All right,” she said. “I accept that.”

Dawson stood up. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Okay.”

He kissed her on the cheek. “You know I love you, right?”

She sighed. “Yes. For better or worse, I know that.”

“You still love me?”

“No, not at all. Go away and have your shower.”

“Really? You really don’t love me?” He nuzzled her neck. “Not
even a little bit?”

She was unbearably ticklish in that spot, and she squealed
trying to hold her laughter back. When she attempted to get away,
he followed her until they were stretched out on the bed
together.