Read Online Children of the Street by Kwei Quartey - Free Book Online
Authors: Kwei Quartey
Ads: Link
Gradually, it became quieter as they reached purely residential areas of both brick and wooden structures. Some alleys were paved; others were of red dirt only. The gutters were a flashback to those of Agbogbloshie—looking like them and smelling like them.
Akosua stopped and looked around.
“Lost?” Dawson asked her, aware of a silly spark of hope that she might not find the place.
She mopped her perspiring brow. “This way, I think,” she said, starting off again.
It happened she was taking a route straight through the prostitutes’ row called 4-4-1. It was inactive now but would spring to life in the evening. Akosua made another turn, but Dawson gently restrained her.
“You don’t want to go that way.”
They had come face-to-face with one of Nima’s addicts’ lanes, where four guys were using wee and cocaine. They looked like they hadn’t eaten in weeks, lifeless eye sockets in gaunt faces. Somewhere at the other end of the alley, where there was a squalid public toilet, a drug dealer could be selling to some well-heeled guy who had just driven up in an SUV, or maybe even to a policeman.
Akosua reversed her direction, getting her bearings back. Down an alley shaded on one side and sunlit on the other, as they passed a dreadlocked guy in a flaming skull T-shirt, Dawson’s heart sank. This was the way to the wee-smoking ex-thief, ex-convict Daramani Gushegu he knew. Make her turn, make her turn. Please . He was praying she would change direction, but she didn’t. Instead, Akosua stopped again.
“I don’t want him to see me,” she said to Dawson.
“Okay, no problem. Just tell me which house it is, then you can go back around the corner and wait for me.”
“Number three on the left. The yellow one.”
She disappeared. Dawson approached the house. Daramani’s place was incompletely painted—the yellow had apparently run out. There was a small window with fraying mosquito netting. An antenna was attached to the edge of the corrugated tin roof. It seemed Daramani now had a TV. He must be moving up in the world, despite his complaint that “life make too hard for Ghana nowadays.”
Dawson looked up and down the alley before knocking on the fragmenting wooden door. No one responded. Dawson tried it. Locked, although, quite frankly, he could have got in if he wanted to. No, you’re in enough trouble already .
He hesitated, then wrote a note asking Daramani to call him. He slipped it under the door.
10
Dawson asked Baidoo to drive to Agbogbloshie to drop Akosua off. On the way there, Dawson tried Wisdom again and got him this time, explaining the new development with Akosua and the picture on her friend’s mobile.
“I will email the photo to you,” Dawson told him.
“I need you to crop it to show Musa’s face by itself,” Dawson said, “and send it back.”
“Can we publish it after we’ve cropped and enhanced it?”
“As soon as we get DNA confirmation that the lagoon boy and Musa are the same person. Not before.”
“Where are the DNA samples going—South Africa?”
“No, we can get them done at Korle Bu.”
“Hmm, good luck.”
“Don’t be so cynical. Also, I need another favor from you.”
“Anything, my dear Inspector.”
“Please make a print of the uncropped photo—with Akosua in it—so I can give it to her to keep.”
“I can do that. Shoot the pic over.”
“Thank you, Wisdom.”
As he ended the call, Dawson asked Akosua how long she would be able to keep her friend’s mobile.
“I promised to take it to her this evening,” Akosua said.
Dawson thought about this for a moment. He might need to get back in touch with Akosua. He stole a look in his wallet and winced. He was down to almost nothing. He’d be lucky if he made it to the next paycheck.
“Stop at the Ecobank ATM up there,” he told Baidoo, “and then take us to the Vodafone shop near Nkrumah Circle.”
D awson bought the cheapest available bare-bones phone for GHC35, but since Akosua
Akosua stopped and looked around.
“Lost?” Dawson asked her, aware of a silly spark of hope that she might not find the place.
She mopped her perspiring brow. “This way, I think,” she said, starting off again.
It happened she was taking a route straight through the prostitutes’ row called 4-4-1. It was inactive now but would spring to life in the evening. Akosua made another turn, but Dawson gently restrained her.
“You don’t want to go that way.”
They had come face-to-face with one of Nima’s addicts’ lanes, where four guys were using wee and cocaine. They looked like they hadn’t eaten in weeks, lifeless eye sockets in gaunt faces. Somewhere at the other end of the alley, where there was a squalid public toilet, a drug dealer could be selling to some well-heeled guy who had just driven up in an SUV, or maybe even to a policeman.
Akosua reversed her direction, getting her bearings back. Down an alley shaded on one side and sunlit on the other, as they passed a dreadlocked guy in a flaming skull T-shirt, Dawson’s heart sank. This was the way to the wee-smoking ex-thief, ex-convict Daramani Gushegu he knew. Make her turn, make her turn. Please . He was praying she would change direction, but she didn’t. Instead, Akosua stopped again.
“I don’t want him to see me,” she said to Dawson.
“Okay, no problem. Just tell me which house it is, then you can go back around the corner and wait for me.”
“Number three on the left. The yellow one.”
She disappeared. Dawson approached the house. Daramani’s place was incompletely painted—the yellow had apparently run out. There was a small window with fraying mosquito netting. An antenna was attached to the edge of the corrugated tin roof. It seemed Daramani now had a TV. He must be moving up in the world, despite his complaint that “life make too hard for Ghana nowadays.”
Dawson looked up and down the alley before knocking on the fragmenting wooden door. No one responded. Dawson tried it. Locked, although, quite frankly, he could have got in if he wanted to. No, you’re in enough trouble already .
He hesitated, then wrote a note asking Daramani to call him. He slipped it under the door.
10
Dawson asked Baidoo to drive to Agbogbloshie to drop Akosua off. On the way there, Dawson tried Wisdom again and got him this time, explaining the new development with Akosua and the picture on her friend’s mobile.
“I will email the photo to you,” Dawson told him.
“I need you to crop it to show Musa’s face by itself,” Dawson said, “and send it back.”
“Can we publish it after we’ve cropped and enhanced it?”
“As soon as we get DNA confirmation that the lagoon boy and Musa are the same person. Not before.”
“Where are the DNA samples going—South Africa?”
“No, we can get them done at Korle Bu.”
“Hmm, good luck.”
“Don’t be so cynical. Also, I need another favor from you.”
“Anything, my dear Inspector.”
“Please make a print of the uncropped photo—with Akosua in it—so I can give it to her to keep.”
“I can do that. Shoot the pic over.”
“Thank you, Wisdom.”
As he ended the call, Dawson asked Akosua how long she would be able to keep her friend’s mobile.
“I promised to take it to her this evening,” Akosua said.
Dawson thought about this for a moment. He might need to get back in touch with Akosua. He stole a look in his wallet and winced. He was down to almost nothing. He’d be lucky if he made it to the next paycheck.
“Stop at the Ecobank ATM up there,” he told Baidoo, “and then take us to the Vodafone shop near Nkrumah Circle.”
D awson bought the cheapest available bare-bones phone for GHC35, but since Akosua
Similar Books
