Free Wife of the Gods by Kwei Quartey

He
fiddled with the radio dial until he found a station playing
hip-life music – something to keep him company for the hour-long
journey. Much of that time was taken up by slowing at police
checkpoints. Togo, Ghana’s neighboring country, was not far away,
and as Dawson knew only too well, the Volta Region was a hub for
illicit drugs going back and forth across the border.
    No drug-sniffing dogs at the checkpoints, thank goodness .
Dawson had a little marijuana on him, and though his CID badge
would get him easily past the human police, nosy canines were
another matter altogether.
    Traffic was light up to Ketanu. Along the road, pedestrians
trudged between one town and the next, and not for the first time,
Dawson marveled at the stamina of even small children carrying
firewood or buckets of water on their heads.
    By the time he reached Juapong, he was good and hungry and kept
thinking about Dr. Biney’s alluring invitation to dine on grilled
tilapia. Dawson would have to settle for something gastronomically
simpler, and he pulled over to buy golden-roasted plantain and
groundnuts from a roadside trader.
    On the way again, Dawson noticed how the vegetation began to
change from open bush with isolated skyscraper trees to denser
semi-deciduous forest, but that in turn gave way to buildings as
Dawson approached Ketanu. He passed a sign announcing YOU
ARE ENTERING KETANU and slowed down over the brain-rattling
speed strips.
    If Ketanu had been an impressionist painting, it would have been
dots and daubs of tan and brown. Buildings were a cream color or
darker, and the rusted tin roofs exactly matched the color of the
ground. Tro-tros and taxis plied the streets, and shops and trading
kiosks lined the roadside with entertaining appellations like
Nothing but Prayer Electrical Goods and the God Is Great Hair
Clinic. Dawson loved these names.
    He was looking for something recognizable from long ago, but
nothing familiar had struck him so far. Even the road he was on was
newly constructed and not the same one he had traveled with Mama
and Cairo.
    Dawson was to meet an Inspector Fiti at the police station. The
directions were in his head. He turned right onto a fitfully paved
road, drove slowly up a small incline, and pulled up to a small,
stand-alone square building painted the signature dark blue with
the words GHANA POLICE SERVICE – KETANU across the
top in white.
    Before the entrance itself, there was a small covered veranda,
where three people were seated on a wooden bench. As he walked in,
Dawson saw a counter at the front with space to fit no more than
two people behind it. To his left, down a couple of steps, were two
small jail cells, and to his right was an office whose door was
shut.
    Two constables in the standard GPS gray-and-black
camouflage-like uniform were behind the counter doing some
paperwork. The younger, round-faced one, who looked to be in his
mid-twenties, looked up inquiringly.
    “Good afternoon, sir. You are welcome.”
    “Good afternoon. I’m Detective Inspector Dawson, Accra CID.”
    The constable stood up even straighter.
    “Yes, sir, Inspector Dawson, sir. I’m Constable Gyamfi.” They
shook hands. “That is Constable Bubo over there.”
    “Good afternoon, sir,” Bubo said, standing up with an
acknowledging nod.
    “I will let Inspector Fiti know you are here, sir,” Gyamfi said,
coming around from behind the counter. He knocked on the closed
office door, opened it, and put his head in.
    “Please, sir, Detective Inspector Dawson from Accra is
here.”
    “Who?” Dawson heard the inspector say.
    “D.I. Dawson, sir. From CID, sir.”
    “From Accra , you say?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    There was silence for a moment. The door opened fully, and
Inspector Fiti emerged. He was probably in his late forties,
pointy-faced with a thick neck and sweat rings at the armpits of
his olive shirt, which was coming undone from underneath his
paunch. He seemed both puzzled and wary as he