FIFTY-SEVEN

May 28, Akosombo, Ghana

Zacharia and his son Solomon had paddled upriver in their sixteen-foot canoe. The Adome Bridge was straight ahead. Eleven in the morning, the sun was powerful but not yet at full strength. Solomon was at the stern steering while Zacharia at the bow was casting the net.

They were halfway between banks near a thicket of river weeds so dense it appeared solid. A few other canoes—single- and two-man—were out on the river at various distances.

The bright reflection off the water reduced visibility, but Solomon made out a grayish mound nestled in the weeds.

“Papa,” he said.

“Yes?” Zacharia answered, looking back.

Solomon pointed and his father followed his finger to the mound.

“Bola,” he concluded.

“No,” Solomon said, turning the canoe and paddling for the island.

“Agh,” Zacharia said with annoyance. “Where are you going?”

Solomon said nothing and sidled the canoe up to the bundle. When he poked it with a stick, it barely moved. They detected a stench now. A bag of dead fish? But that made no sense.

Solomon leaned over to tug at the object, which was heavier and larger than it seemed. Most of it was beneath the surface and appeared to be attached to the weed clump.

“We have to pull it to the shore,” Zacharia said, getting into the water.

He disappeared under the surface for a few seconds and struggled to free the object from the vegetation, which proved difficult. Solomon joined him in his efforts until the two men could finally secure their cast net around the mass, and then Zacharia got back in the canoe to help paddle it to the nearest available space onshore. Solomon jumped out and pushed the canoe securely onto land. Wincing from the odor, they rolled the thing up onto dry land. It was a coarse, sodden grayish-brown sack about three meters in length and swollen with its contents. They could make out the shape of rocks at one end, but the rest was a firm, unyielding, rubbery mass.

“It’s the man,” Zacharia said, breathing hard from their efforts. “The American they said was thrown in the river.”

Solomon looked back and forth between his father and the grisly find. Zacharia stared at it awhile, then took out his fish knife. He cut a long slit in the sack at its bulkier end and took a brief peek inside. The odor assaulted him so strongly that he recoiled as though jabbed with a spear. He’d seen enough, in any case.

“My phone,” he said to Solomon, who always safeguarded his father’s device. Solomon gave it to him and Zacharia squinted a little at the phone’s screen as he looked for Emma’s number. Finally, he found it. He took a deep breath and called.