TWENTY-ONE
February 17, Washington, DC
Three days after Gordon had left, Derek received an email from him.
Derek—
No doubt you’re worried sick about me. I wanted to let you know I’m doing okay—no, better than that because I met up with Helena and we’re having a wonderful time getting to know each other. Don’t have a picture yet, but I’ll send one soon! Don’t worry about anything. It’s working out fine. I’m at the Kempinski Hotel in Accra, which is first class. I’ve put you on WhatsApp, which everyone uses here, so download it and then we can send each other messages.
Dad
Gordon had included his phone number in Ghana. Unconvinced by his father’s anemic reassurance, Derek read the message again. The email glossed over the details, like varnish over blemished wood. A wonderful time getting to know each other? He didn’t have a picture “yet?”
Derek tried the phone number. It rang several times and cut off with a prim, British-accented woman letting Derek know that the number he was trying to reach was not available and he should please try again later.
Next, Derek called Cas, who didn’t answer but got back ten minutes later. “What’s going on?”
“Dad emailed me, said he was doing fine and had met the wonderful lady or whatever.”
“Oh, that’s great!” Cas said.
“I don’t believe it,” Derek said. “The message sounds fishy, like he hasn’t really met Helena and is either playing for time or too embarrassed to admit it.”
“Oh,” Cas said, with little inflection. “Well, can you send his WhatsApp contact number to me? I’ll try calling and texting him as well.”
“Thank you, Cas.”
Derek Googled “American in Ghana,” and “Gordon Tilson, Ghana,” checking for a chance news item. Nothing came up, but by serendipity, Derek found himself reading descriptions of the different types of online scams. A common theme chilled him: the number of otherwise intelligent, rational Americans and Europeans who fell for them. A retiree from Maryland spent almost all her life savings on a supposedly stranded Iraq war vet. A guy in New York fell for a scheme to buy gold ingots in Ghana, only to find himself robbed of his money and no gold to show for it.
Derek discovered something else: a bizarre phenomenon called sakawa—the use of magical powers to achieve high success in the con business. Sakawa involved going through an intermediary like a traditional priest who might prescribe bizarre, even revolting, rituals to achieve the desired goal. Derek’s lip curled as he read about the panoply of human and animal body parts used as sacrificial offerings to the gods, and in one case, a bloodstained rag from a traumatically penetrated virgin. Fucking crazy nonsense, Derek thought. At the same time, the claim that even normally smart, logical people could not resist the power of sakawa struck him. The irony was not lost because here was Gordon falling for something Derek would never have expected him to.
For five days, Derek heard nothing from his father. At night he slept fitfully, sometimes waking to turn on the light and sit wondering. On the sixth day, at around ten in the morning, Derek received the WhatsApp call he had been praying for.
“Hi, son,” Gordon said, his voice as taut as a stretched rubber band about to snap.
“Dad. Thank God. Are you okay? Where are you?”
“I’m fine. I’m still at the Kempinski Hotel in Accra. Nice place, five-star—all the trimmings.”
“Okay, that’s cool,” Derek said impatiently, “but what’s going on?”
His father took such a long time to respond that Derek thought the line had cut. “Hello?”
“I didn’t really meet Helena,” Gordon said. “I lied to you because I was so embarrassed. You were right, I was wrong. I called and texted her for days. The number’s a dud. I’ve been had.”
“Shit,” Derek said. “Jesus.”
“Right.”
“Dad, I’m sorry.” Gordon was silent, but Derek could sense the heaviness of his brooding. “Fuck. Dad, I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, ‘I told you so?’” Gordon said with resignation. “You might as well, since that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Dad. Come on. I’m not the enemy here.”
“I know, I know. Sorry. Cheap shot.”
“Don’t worry about it. So, what happened exactly when you arrived in Ghana?”
“Not a whole lot,” Gordon said with a bitter laugh. “No Helena at the airport, no Helena reachable by phone, WhatsApp, email, you name it. I waited for that message or phone call to come, but it never did. I feel like such a goddamn fool. I’ve been scammed. I’m one of those idiots who’s been duped by some fucking teenager sitting in front of a computer in some shitty Internet café. I don’t think I’ll ever live this down.”
“You can, and you will,” Derek said. “I’m here for you.”
“Thank you. Feels good to hear that.”
“Of course.”
“It’s weird. Every so often I feel this little glimmer of hope. That she’ll call. My mind clinging by its fingernails to a futile hope.”
“I imagine that’s a normal reaction,” Derek said. “You’re coming back home as soon as you can, right?”
“I’ll need to go to the Delta office in town to find out the earliest flight I can get back. Today’s Saturday and Monday is a national holiday here, so it’ll have to be Tuesday.”
“Okay,” Derek said. “Meanwhile, just relax at the hotel, take it easy. And don’t talk to anyone about this, either.”
Gordon grunted. “As if I would even want to. Have you spoken to Cas?”
“Last night. Just wanted to know if he’d heard any news.”
“I’ll call him. I know he’s been trying to reach me.”
“Yeah,” Derek said. “He’s been worried. He cares about you.”
“I know. But me . . . well, I’m an asshole.”
“If you don’t stop beating yourself up about this,” Derek said, “Imma beat the crap out of you.”
To their mutual relief, that flash of humor worked, and they had a laugh. “Okay, son,” Gordon said. “I guess I’ll hang up now. I’ll text you tomorrow.”
“Sure. Love you, Dad.”