The Driver

by Ernest Kwame Nkrumah Addo

Weija

Joojo arrived home in a rush. His wife, Angel, had sounded incoherent on the telephone. Now she was blabbing like an insane person, each heaving sob racking her small frame. Her eyes were red and her face was puffy.

“He has stopped breathing,” she cried. “I didn’t do anything to him.”

It took some time for Joojo to notice that there was someone slumped in their well-worn living room couch, its upholstery covered with the adinkra design “gye nyame.” The name of the symbol translates literally as “except God,” its message being that there is nothing greater than God. The adinkra symbols are a collection of proverbs believed to reflect aspects of the worldview and philosophy of Ghanaians who believe that they are incapable of achieving anything of worth without God’s intervention. It’s no wonder, then, that gye nyame is the most recognizable symbol, the nation’s obvious favorite, used to adorn everything from jewelry and clothing to furniture.

And, in Joojo’s home, today was as good a time as any to call on God.

* * *

The occasion was certainly a big one. It had been ten years since Abrebrese had died following a short illness.

The old man had been a person of great wealth and standing in the community. After the death of his pregnant wife during labor, he had buried himself in his work and soon became one of the biggest farmers in the region. He owned several acres of land on which he grew cash crops like cocoa, coffee, and cashews. He reared livestock—including cattle, goats, sheep, pigs, rabbits, and grasscutters—and had won the regional Best Farmer prize on two occasions. A known philanthropist, he always donated large sums at church harvests, funerals, festivals, and other important social activities in the community.

Unfortunately, Abrebrese had died intestate. As is determined by the traditional system of inheritance in such a situation, one of his nephews, a young man he had hardly even known, a factory hand in another town, was endorsed by the family. The young man became Abrebrese’s heir and took over all of his property. Yet, after taking charge of the wealth, the young man refused to look after the dead man’s two teenage children, so they were left to begin a new life of struggle.

The two—a girl and a boy—were close and so alike that many mistook them for twins, though the visual resemblance was not particularly striking. Ama was a year older than her brother, but it was Susu, at the age of eighteen, who decided to brave the city in search of a better life for them. Ama only discovered the plan he’d hatched sub-rosa when she woke to find him gone, along with a framed family portrait, his favorite memento of the life they’d once had.

Ama, now known by her Christian name, Angel, currently lived in Accra, but her hometown, Kumasi, was never far from her mind. Lately, she’d been thinking about it constantly.

Within many Ghanaian tribes, it is believed that the dead superintend the affairs of the living. Honoring the ancestors is, therefore, a vital custom. On the tenth anniversary of Abrebese’s death, the extended family had planned a grand memorial to celebrate his life and legacy. The event was advertised in the newspapers, on radio, on TV, and on the Internet. Those expected to attend included politicians, wealthy cocoa farmers, civil servants, doctors, and traders.

The commemoration was to be held in Kumasi. The second largest city in Ghana, Kumasi is the unofficial center for funeral celebrations. A funeral there is not just an opportunity to bring the community together to bury the dead; it is also an opportunity to display the art and culture of the bereaved peoples. From dawn to dusk, there is unceasing drumming and dancing among the milling crowd, many of whom have traveled from near and far to partake in the communal ritual. Mourners clad in red and black, Ghana’s colors of mourning, are seen cloistered in small groups eating, drinking, and generally making merry. Funerals are also excellent opportunities for dating. Indeed, many people have confessed to meeting their spouse in this way, and many people attend specifically for this reason.

The pallbearers are always a key highlight. Well dressed in uniform or designer suits, they put on a show for all in attendance by displaying a variety of dance moves, such as Michael Jackson’s moonwalk, with the coffin perched precariously on their shoulders. Another highlight is the presence of professional mourners, people who have been hired for the sole purpose of crying, loudly and dramatically. They sit and weep for hours on end at the funerals of important people, high-ranking members of the community whom they’d probably only heard about but never met, let alone knew well enough to be so heartbroken by their death. There is a saying in the Akan language: Ɔhohoɔ a osu dennen sen nea ade no ayɛ no. The outsider weeps louder than the bereaved. In Kumasi, this saying is actually a reality.

There was no way Angel was going to miss her father’s funeral anniversary. She’d left Kumasi eight years earlier to live in Accra after meeting then marrying her husband. There hadn’t been any reason to return. She’d not maintained a relationship with her extended family, especially given how they’d so handily taken her father’s money yet neglected to care for either her or her brother. Susu had left home shortly after their dad’s death and no one had heard from him since. Everyone just assumed he was dead, that some tragedy had befallen him in Accra. Angel was inclined to believe otherwise. She believed that her brother had found his way to Accra and, from there, to aburokyire (overseas). Angel often imagined him happily living his life somewhere in America or Europe with a wife and children. It pained her to think of him being sick or dying alone someplace so far away from home, so far away from her. At the same time, it also pained her to think of Susu having a full, joyous life and not wanting to share it with her, so she’d taught herself to not think of him at all, which was hard now with the upcoming funeral.

* * *

Angel, along with her daughter, Kukua, left the house early in order not to miss the traders. They came from the rural areas, like Techiman and Kintampo, which are noted for their yams, plantains, and tomatoes; Dormaa Ahenkro, for their poultry and eggs; and Anloga, for their production of onions. They arrived at dawn to off-load their produce. The merchants who received this produce would turn around and sell them at exorbitant prices later in the day at the various markets in town. Angel wanted to be there early not only to buy cheap but also to have the benefit of handpicking the best of the goods.

Long after the traders were gone from Makola, the main downtown market, Angel sat on one of the discarded crates that had only recently contained juicy-looking red tomatoes, and watched as the sun gradually rose, generously dispensing warmth and light, like a veil slowly lifted to reveal the secrets it had been shielding. The sounds of increased human activity and motor traffic signaled daybreak. As if to also announce that morning in downtown Accra was officially underway, the pleasant smell of vegetables was quickly overtaken by the pungent smell of rot from the choked gutters. Angel stayed put with Kukua until the stores opened. She wanted to purchase some supplies and provisions to present as an offering, a token, a requisite show of respect for the extended family back in Kumasi, even though she did not respect them at all. They hadn’t done a single thing for her since her father’s passing. Even so, it was unheard of for a traveler to return home empty-handed.

By midmorning, after going from store to store, comparing and haggling over prices, she had all she would need for the long journey to Kumasi the following day. As it was well over 270 kilometers from Accra, Angel and her husband, Joojo, would be on the road for hours. Whenever she’d complain about the length of the journey, Joojo would laugh at her. To him, that was a short trip. He enjoyed driving, especially long distances. It was, for him, all in a day’s work.

Since they’d be gone, Angel had given their house help several days off to go to her village and spend time with her family. Joojo usually preferred for Angel to prepare the evening meal herself anyway, but it was nice to have the help around for the rinsing, chopping, stirring, and, of course, dishwashing. Angel was running late, yet she still didn’t rush to get back home. Joojo would understand how emotional this anniversary business was for her; besides, he was not always home in time to join her for dinner. Lately he’d been working longer and longer hours, sometimes not even making it home until the wee hours of the morning. She assumed it was to make up for the extra money she’d been spending in preparation for the funeral and trip to Kumasi.

Angel smiled at the thought of Joojo. He was the one thing in her life that had turned out right. She’d married a good man, somebody sensitive and dependable. She often thanked the heavens for bringing him to her. She remembered how easy and pleasant their first meeting had been. It was her second day as a waitress at the McDonald’s that had newly opened in Kumasi.

“Ei! Why are you so beautiful, awuraa?” he had asked when she served him a chicken sandwich and a bottle of Coke. She was startled, but happy to receive the compliment. Joojo waited until her shift ended and then walked her to the single-room apartment where she stayed. The next evening after her shift ended she had gone home to find him waiting—with a gas cooker, a refrigerator, and a television. These were things she did not have and, of course, had not asked him to buy. He must have noticed when she’d quickly shown him around the night before. His consideration made her weep. That night she slept in his arms. By morning, she knew that he was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

* * *

Kotoka International Airport is always a place of confusion. There’d been a long, slow-moving queue at the Immigration stop where people entering the country have their passports stamped. Owusu was one of the last passengers to complete his arrival formalities. He couldn’t help but wonder if the queue in Germany would have been that long and disorganized. He didn’t know because he’d never formally entered Germany. Like so many refugees, he’d sneaked into the country. That was nearly seven years ago, and since then he’d called Germany home. Now that he was back in Accra, he realized that Ghana would always be home. His heart and soul would always belong to the Black Star nation.

“Good evening, sir,” a voice broke through his reverie. He turned and looked up into the face of a smiling, smartly dressed man. His white shirt looked well ironed and was tucked in. A man who pays attention to detail, Owusu thought.

“May I help you with your luggage?” the man asked.

The area around the luggage carousels was filled with unofficial porters, men who’d bribed their way into the airport so they could offer passengers help with their bags, a taxi ride to their hotels, or currency exchange. Many of them were too aggressive, attempting to take hold of your bags before you’d even agreed to their assistance or understood what fee they’d be charging. This made Owusu suspicious, so he usually held on tightly to the handles of his baggage and firmly refused whenever anyone approached him with an offer of help. There was something about this one man, however, that made Owusu feel he could trust him. It was more than his attire. It was his calm demeanor, his impeccable manners. He was polite and seemed educated, trained to interact with foreigners and “big men.” Owusu quickly agreed to the man’s offer of assistance, sliding his bags toward him.

When they exited the arrivals hall and stepped outside, Owusu stopped to look around. Nothing could have prepared him for the scene that greeted him. Accra had changed so much in the decade he’d been gone. It was almost unrecognizable. He needed a few minutes to take in the transformation. He’d been momentarily taken aback by the migration from manual to digital checkout processes at the airport, but given that most of the nation was using mobile phones and accessing the Internet, he quickly figured it wasn’t so noteworthy after all. What did surprise him, though, were the tall, modern buildings surrounding the airport. It wasn’t the same skyline he’d left.

“That’s my car parked right there,” the man said, pointing to a Pontiac Vibe.

“Thank you,” Owusu replied, following him to the vehicle.

Once in the car, they formally introduced themselves.

“I’m John,” Owusu said, using the Western name that everyone in Germany called him. He laughed, dispensed with the affected aburokyire accent, and said, “Actually, you can just call me Owusu.”

The driver laughed as well. “You can call me Abraham.”

Owusu wanted to ask the man what his real name was, the traditional name he’d been given at birth, but thought that might be too forward and presumptuous, so he stopped himself. What if his parents hadn’t given him either a day name or a family name? What if his only name was his English one? Owusu had heard that some Ghanaian families had now stopped giving their children both an English name and a Ghanaian name, that they only gave one or the other.

Abraham shared with Owusu that he was thirty-six years old and unmarried. He said he hadn’t yet taken a wife because he wanted to leave Ghana; he hoped to one day be a bᴐga like Owusu. Owusu smiled knowingly, thinking that the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. It seemed that every young Ghanaian dreamed of one day becoming a bᴐga, a been-to, someone who had traveled to or lived in America or Europe. It had never even occurred to Owusu to leave Ghana until he started living in Accra. He’d been working as a street kid, selling everything from packets of P.K gum to socks at intersections, weaving his way around the vehicles, standing at some driver’s window pleading for him or her to buy something, anything. He usually made two or three cedis a day. It was not enough to feed or house him, so he’d sleep on the streets and eat whatever he could steal or beg from the women at the kiosks. This was the great Accra, the place that everyone in the whole of Ghana spoke of as though it were the best of the best, the light of the world, the city upon the hill. When Owusu slept on the streets he always dreamed the same dream, of one day going far, far away from Ghana and all its hardships.

One evening, he was given the opportunity to make that dream come true. He and a few of the friends he’d made, young men like him whose circumstances had also forced them onto the streets, hatched up a plan to walk from Accra to Tangier, Morocco, and then cross the Strait of Gibraltar into Tarifa, Spain. It sounded like a crazy and dangerous thing to do, but no crazier or more dangerous than the life they were already living. After two years in Spain, he had sneaked into Germany through its border with Belgium, one of the most porous entry points for undocumented migrants. There, he was finally living his dream. Owusu wanted the driver to know that anything was possible, no matter how unlikely it seemed.

Owusu took one of his business cards from his wallet and handed it to the driver. He told Abraham to call him should he ever find himself in Germany. He would show him around Hamburg, where he lived, and introduce him to his wife and children. Abraham asked Owusu whether he had any family in Accra.

“No,” Owusu answered, thinking of the young men who’d set out on the journey to North Africa and Europe with him. When they left Ghana, they had numbered twelve, a band of high-spirited brothers determined to find their place in the world, a place where life would not be a losing battle. By the time they reached Tangier, they were six. Two of the men, tired and afraid to travel any farther, had stayed in Ouagadougou. As the remaining ten walked on, witnessing their surroundings transform from savanna to the Sahel to desert, their journey to a place with better prospects started to seem more and more like a suicide mission. The heat became so severe it was difficult to move more than a few hours each day. They were forced to travel by night, well after the sun had set, which was extremely dangerous. Three of the men died of dehydration and heat exhaustion. One after the other, they just dropped dead.

It seemed as though Boyo, the one with whom Owusu was closest, might also perish from the desert heat. Fortunately, he made it to Timbuktu, with its formidable mud buildings, and, despite Owusu’s pleading, decided to stay.

“No,” Owusu repeated, thinking of Boyo, who’d been like a brother. Then he thought of Ama, his sister. He’d not seen or spoken to her since the day he left Kumasi. He hadn’t called from Accra because he’d been too ashamed of his circumstances. And by the time he settled in Hamburg, so much time had passed, he didn’t know what he could say to bridge it. How could he explain it all? How could she, living in the small bubble that was Kumasi, understand what he’d been through, the things he’d endured, survived?

“I have no family here. My people are from Ashanti,” he continued. People sometimes used Ashanti and Kumasi interchangeably because everyone indigenous to the city belonged to the tribe. Owusu explained to Abraham that he would be headed there the following day. That’s why he had booked a hotel online; it was someplace in East Legon, a part of Accra that was unfamiliar to him.

Abraham assured him, again, that he knew the hotel well and would take him there. “It’s a fabulous place,” he promised. “Executive rooms.”

As Owusu eased into the ride and started taking in the sights and sounds of the Accra streets, the car suddenly jolted to a stop.

“Damn it,” Abraham said, slapping the steering wheel with the palm of his right hand. “We’re out of fuel. That thief!” Apparently the last attendant he’d bought fuel from had cheated him. As of late, he explained, the attendants had been scamming their customers. They adjusted the scales on the fuel dispensers so the readings corresponded with the amounts the customers had requested. And the attendants then pocketed the extra money.

Abraham sighed. “He should just wait; he’ll see what I will do to him.” And then he laughed a short, sinister laugh, one that cast him in a light that was a complete departure from the warm, polite gentleman Owusu had been chatting with all this while.

Fortunately, the petrol ran out near a station. Abraham, along with a taxi driver who had stopped to offer his help, pushed the vehicle the few meters. As the attendant filled the tank, Abraham received a call and walked away from the vehicle to speak privately. Owusu leaned against the car and observed him. Abraham had the tall, well-muscled build of a bodyguard. He seemed like the sort of person who remained cool under pressure but could easily turn wild and threatening if he needed to. He was definitely the sort of person you’d want on your side in a bad situation.

“Is everything all right?” Owusu asked when Abraham returned. They both got back into the car. “Was that your wife?”

Abraham laughed. He explained that the call was from his boss, the owner of the vehicle. “These Accra women,” he said with a chuckle. “They are too much. But I am sure that soon, God willing, I will meet the right one. His time is the best.”

Owusu wasn’t sure what to say. Amen did not seem like an appropriate response. He had forgotten how religious Ghanaians were, or at least pretended to be. Abrebrese used to scoff at the idea of Ghana as a nation of God-fearing people. “More like a nation of churchgoers,” he’d say.

Life on the Accra streets and as a refugee in both Africa and Europe had taught Owusu a lot about the limits of Christian compassion and Muslim tolerance. He decided it was best to stay quiet. He started sipping the complimentary beverage that Abraham had offered him before they drove out of the airport car park. The driver had said it was the latest craze in town. It was good, but Owusu didn’t see why the drink would generate any excitement. It tasted like the same sobolo he had grown up drinking. He’d even learned to make it himself in Germany. It was simply two parts hibiscus tea to one part fresh ginger juice and three mint leaves.

Nevertheless, he made a mental note to surprise Abraham with a considerable tip for his kindness. It also occurred to him to make an arrangement with Abraham to be picked up early in the morning from the hotel and taken to the bus station at the Kwame Nkrumah Circle. It was where everyone went to board buses headed to the northern cities, like Kumasi, Tamale, and Bolgatanga. Taxi drivers in Accra were notoriously unreliable, but this one seemed like a hardworking, trustworthy man, someone Owusu could even befriend.

Abraham reminded him of the guys he’d trekked through the Sahara with and, at times, thought he’d die with. The six of them had somehow managed to cheat death. They’d made it to Tangier, where they begged on the streets for two years until they raised enough money to purchase space on a boat headed to Spain. During that time, three of his mates were caught and detained by the Moroccan authorities; he never saw them again. He guessed that they’d been deported and returned to Ghana or, worse, killed.

Another of his mates had accepted an offer from an expat to come and stay with him as a houseboy. They’d each received such offers, and they’d understood that it was a sort of coded invitation to become a full-time servant and part-time boy toy. He and Mensah had refused, still hopeful that they could make it to Europe. Adama had refused several such offers but then, weary from life on the streets, finally accepted one.

“This way,” Adama had rationalized, “I can eat and have shelter and still save for a space on the boat.” Mensah and Owusu spotted him a few times in the medina, sporting a djellaba and a beard. Each time they’d called out to him, but Adama pretended not to hear them and immediately turned a corner and disappeared down one of the many small alleyways.

Owusu often thought about his band of brothers and how fate had separated them, given each his own destiny. He wanted to tell Abraham about them, about the journey they’d made, completely on foot, from the shores of Accra to the shores of Tangier. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but his lips felt too heavy to part. The last thing he remembered was Abraham’s smiling face looking down at him as he surrendered to the darkness all around him.

* * *

The baby on Angel’s back was asleep when they arrived home. At two years, little Kukua could sleep through an orchestra, once she was well fed. During the bus ride home, Angel had fed her Cerelac, and it had done the trick. Now, as she rushed to start preparing their evening meal, she could do it in peace. This child was indeed a blessing.

Angel and Joojo had endured a great deal in their marriage. When by the fifth year they still had no children, the couple visited several hospitals and churches and even the shrines of medicine men in hopes of a solution, yet none yielded the desired results. After Angel and her husband underwent a number of medical tests, the doctors finally offered a diagnosis: Joojo was sterile. The couple was devastated. What crushed Angel’s spirit even more was going to church and overhearing the worshippers gossiping about her, referring to her as a barren woman and wondering when Joojo would leave her for a new wife. She eventually stopped going to church and withdrew into herself. Joojo, distraught watching his beautiful wife wasting away over something that was his fault, decided to find a solution, no matter the cost.

One day Joojo brought home a newborn girl. Angel was both terrified and overjoyed. Joojo assured her that the baby had been abandoned. He said that one of his friends, who knew of their predicament, had found her. Angel wondered what her husband had to give this man in return, but he assured her there were no strings attached. She readily agreed to raise the baby as their own. How she wished she could share the good news with her brother, Susu. When they were children, they’d often imagined their futures. Susu was sure he could walk in Abrebrese’s footsteps and become an equally successful farmer. Angel would become a teacher, study to become a nurse. She would marry a doctor and have several children. She and Susu always envisioned themselves living on the same compound, their children being raised more like siblings than cousins. What a terrible blow their father’s death had been. To lose him was bad enough; to then lose their home and their financial security was quite painful. Never did she think she would lose her brother as well.

Angel felt a gentle tug of sorrow in her heart and, just then, Kukua started crying. It was a reminder to not take for granted all that was hers now. She had the best man in the world for a husband, and he had given her a daughter to call her own.

* * *

When Owusu regained consciousness, he was naked, lying on a bed in a dimly lit room. His hands and legs were bound with twine. His first thought was to bite the twine off his wrists, but there was a gag in his mouth that had been taped firmly in place. He was still groggy but knew he had been kidnapped. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him, not in his own country. He willed himself to remember. His mind was racing. What signs had he missed? Was the driver his captor, or had he also been kidnapped? What did they want, ransom? If it was about money, he had some in his bank accounts and all he would need was his Visa card, which they obviously had. He would happily give them his bank access code; his life was all that mattered. Suddenly, the silence of the night was broken by a voice heavy with terror.

“I beg you in the name of God, please don’t kill me,” a man sobbed. “My people will give you anything you want. Please, spare my life.”

He wasn’t alone. There was another prisoner. Could it be the driver? Owusu held his breath as he listened intently, praying. A bloodcurdling scream, like that of an animal being slaughtered, broke whatever hope he had of negotiating with his captors, and he began to weep like a baby. He had to escape. He calmed down and listened. Silence. He rolled himself off the bed onto the hard floor. He screamed from the pain but the gag did its job and muffled the noise.

Owusu proceeded to roll in the direction of the door. When he reached the end of the room, he propped himself against the wall and stood upright. He then hopped close to a window and, without pausing, drove both fists into the louver blades, cutting himself in the process and making a crashing noise that was amplified in the still of the night.

Footsteps outside the room rushed toward where he was. He did not waste a minute. He held his wrists to the jagged edge of the broken louver and cut through the twine. He untied his legs and braced himself to face his captors. It would only be a matter of seconds. Suddenly, bam, the lights went off. The room and entire compound were thrown into total darkness.

Dumsor! For years, Ghana had been suffering a debilitating power crisis. As it became increasingly industrialized and citizens continued developing the appetite of a new middle-income country, power became a crucial yet scarce commodity. All the air conditioners, microwaves, hot-water heaters, televisions, laptops, mobile phones, and other devices guzzled electricity faster than it could be generated. The systems were outdated. As a means of addressing the issue, the government introduced “load shedding,” a power-rationing program.

The outages were scheduled so each region in the nation would bear its share of weight and citizens would suffer only the slightest inconvenience. Unfortunately, outages also occurred at unscheduled times. This unreliability of power, derisively termed dumsor, was the bane of every Ghanaian’s existence, especially those who lived in urban areas. When the lights went out it was dum—“shut off”—and when they came back, it was sor—“turn on.”

The captors undoubtedly knew this, but dumsor was well after Owusu’s time. He assumed the lights had been switched off to disorient him and facilitate his capture. Owusu heard his abductors slow down, their steps now hesitant, uncertain. He heard the door to the room he was in open. In the absence of visibility, his other senses were heightened. He stood still, ready to spring on cue. In the pitch darkness, he could sense one of them, to his left, inching toward him. He knew this was his opportunity. He ran as he had many times before as a hungry thief in Accra, as a refugee and beggar on the streets of foreign lands. He ran knowing that his life depended on it, that it was either escape or death. He collided with one of the bodies standing close to the doorway. They both fell. Owusu quickly picked himself up and continued running until he was out of the yard and into the chilly night.

He saw no one. The area, secluded, seemed to hold no other houses. The moon was absent and there were no stars, uncharacteristic for an Accra sky. Without a thought about where he was headed, Owusu ran for over half an hour without slowing down, powered by the sheer force of fear. In his blind flight, he’d turned eastward, rather than westward, which would have led him straight to the Weija-Kasoa highway.

As it was, he ran crashing through tall bushes, and his path led him right to the banks of the Weija lagoon. Only then did Owusu pause to catch his breath. The cacophonous, insistent cries of the frogs and crickets seemed to be warning that the danger was not over. But he could not move. He now felt the intense burning from his steep fall onto the concrete floor, the cuts to his hands, lower torso, and soles, the pain magnified by the wetness of the marshy land he’d stumbled upon. Shivering, he slowly retraced his steps to higher ground. He mustered up the strength to half walk, half run, until he saw ahead of him a small house with what appeared to be light from a lantern flickering inside.

Thank you, God, he breathed a quick prayer of gratitude, and knocked at the door. A woman with an infant child on her back opened the door. Was he delirious? She bore a resemblance to his sister, Ama. He squinted, then opened his eyes as wide as possible to look at her again.

She screamed when she saw him, this grizzly-looking man, completely naked, before her. When he opened his eyes wide until the balls were almost rolling out of their sockets, as though he’d been possessed, she right away shut the door in his face and slid all bolts securely in place.

Owusu was desperate. He begged her to open the door and save him. There were some killers after him, he explained. He pleaded. He could feel himself getting weaker but used what little strength he had to plead some more.

As incredible as the man’s story sounded, Angel believed he was telling the truth. She couldn’t put a finger on it, but there was something familiar about his voice. Something inside of her trusted it. She opened the door to his shock but utter relief, and profuse gratitude. He quickly entered before she could have a chance to change her mind.

Angel immediately went to find a pair of trousers and a shirt belonging to Joojo and gave them to the man to wear. She explained that her husband had gone to work and would be returning soon. She served him food, which he devoured before falling into a deep and exhausted slumber on the couch. Not long after this the lights came back on.

* * *

Joojo bent down to take a closer look at the man on their couch. Now he knew exactly who he was. At least he thought he did. Joojo just had to put on a believable show for his wife. As he was leaning over, a wallet slipped out of Joojo’s breast pocket and fell on the floor. Angel bent down to pick it up, as well as the ID and cards that had fallen out. She looked at the ID and saw that the picture was of the man on their couch. Her eyes then scanned the name: John Owusu Teku.

Angel gasped. It was her brother, Susu. Only she had called him that, a corruption of Owusu, a name she’d found difficult to pronounce as a young child.

Angel’s eyes widened as all the pieces started falling into place: the long hours, random gifts, sudden influx of cash, the baby—oh God, the baby—the naked man, his voice, that sweet familiar voice, her brother, dead. He was dead.

When the truth finally hit her, Angel gasped again. She looked at her husband’s expressionless face in horror. She could see no remorse, no sorrow, no guilt. In fact, she couldn’t read him at all. Angel screamed. She screamed even louder as Joojo approached her, and then she collapsed.