Vultures in the Playground Read online

  “Hello?”

  In the background, he could hear what sounded like several TVs broadcasting news on different stations. A man coughed. The line clicked off.

  Archie got out of the cab and ran into the store. Melissa stood at the counter, counting out change for several bottles of Voltic mineral water.

  “Hi Arch. Oh look, they have chocolate! I love Bounty bars.”

  “Is everything alright?”

  “Yeah, sure. Everything’s fine.”

  “Someone called my cell. I thought it was you.”

  “Nope. You told me not to. That’s why we had to pull that maneuver with the taxi. I hope you don’t mind. I forgot to get water at the hotel. Need some?”

  “We need new SIMs. Do you have SIMs here?”

  The clerk shook her head. “There are some shops in Bolgatonga. MTN. Vodaphone. Tigo.”

  “Jeez. Why are they calling me? Are they tracking us?”

  “Oh, don’t fuss about it, Arch.” She handed over a bottle of Voltic. “Hey, does my driver know where we’re going? Because I sure don’t.”

  “Chicken Palace in Paga. Half a klik from the border crossing. You go there. Have some breakfast. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was looking through the papers and I have a new plan. I’m going to stop by the party headquarters in Bolgatonga and Navrongo. Appiah is scheduled to make stops in both places before lunch.”

  Melissa’s expression soured. She glanced at the other cab, then opened the door and climbed into the back next to Archie.

  “Melissa, what are you doing?”

  “You stinker. You were going to ditch me. That’s what these two taxis were about, wasn’t it?”

  “No. That’s not true. I planned to join you in Paga. Later. If things didn’t work out.”

  “And if things went wrong? If you were arrested or something? What then? Who’d be there to help you? How would I even know what happened?”

  “Melissa. I just thought it would be easier if I handled it myself.”

  “I wish you’d treat like an adult for a change. I’m getting tired of this, Archie. I’m the one who comes all the out here to help you and you just keep trying to shunt me away.”

  “It was just a last minute idea I had. I figured, we’re up here early. Why not?”

  “Without me?”

  “Melissa. There’s a reason for these precautions. It’s not like I haven’t thought this through.”

  “Fine. Let’s go.”

  “Your suitcase is in the other car. Shall I get it?”

  “You stay put. I don’t trust you.” She tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Daniel … can you please fetch my bag from the other taxi?”

  ***

  They pulled out of the petrol station and passed a series of mud-walled Talensi compounds with interconnected dwellings with mud roofs and parapets typical of northeastern Ghana. They looked like little fortresses for dwarves.

  Melissa chugged her cold and dewy liter bottle and gasped for air. “Have you noticed how different the houses are? Why don’t they thatch their roofs like they do down south?”

  “Not sure. All I know is that it gets pretty damn hot up here. People actually sleep outside on their roofs.”

  Melissa’s presence in the cab calmed him. It was nice knowing he wasn’t totally on his own for a change. But having her involved only doubled his worries. He would be a heck of a lot less nervous with only his own skin to worry about.

  “You know. I was thinking, Arch. You should let me approach this Appiah guy. I bet he’d find it a lot less intimidating having a nice black girl like me walk up to him.”

  “Yeah, but … would he take you seriously?”

  Melissa bristled. “What are you saying? Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Well, you’re a woman. And, this culture—”

  “Culture? And you say you know Ghana? This isn’t Afghanistan, mister. West African men listen to their women. Besides, I’m a different beast. I’m American. And I’ll have those papers to back me up.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Just stand behind me and look serious. You can be my gravitas. What do you think of that plan?”

  She did have a point. In her fancy jeans and blouse she could easily pass for an upper class Ghanaian, at least until she opened her mouth.

  “Mmm. Let’s see how it goes.”

  ***

  They weaved around potholes and pedestrians in the flat sprawl of concrete and zinc that was Bolgatonga town. Both taxis parked between the bus station and a central market. One of the drivers managed to locate a teen-aged boy willing to lead Archie and Melissa to the People’s Vision Party office. They didn’t have to walk far. It was just around the corner in one of the few brick and I-beam office buildings in Bolgatonga that was not also a bank.

  They stepped over the chain threaded through scarred blocks of concrete that kept any potential car bombers from parking too close to the façade. They passed into a dim and Spartan lobby where a man in a suit sat with a laptop behind a bulky mahogany desk. The creaky ceiling fan above his head seemed determined to shimmy out of its socket and fly away.

  The man seemed more dyspeptic or annoyed than curious about their presence.

  “How can I help you?”

  “We’re here to see Mr. Appiah,” said Melissa.

  His brow wrinkled, and he cocked his head askew. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Well, no. We just wanted to say hello and tell him about something very important.”

  “We do not accept solicitors. Did you not see the sign?”

  “Oh, we’re not selling anything,” said Melissa. “We just … found out about something that would be very helpful to him … and to you. Isn’t that right, Archie?”

  Archie wrung a smile from his weary face.

  “So? Can we just pop in and see him? It’ll only take a minute.”

  “Mister Appiah is not around.”

  “But he was scheduled to be in Bolgatonga, no?”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “We were … told.”

  The man took a sip of his tea. “He was here earlier this morning, but now he has gone.”

  “Where? Is he still in Bolgatonga?”

  “I’m sorry. Let me take your name. I can let him know that you wish to see him, if he comes back around.”

  “So, you’re expecting him back?”

  The man shrugged. “He is a busy man. So many people want to see him. May I ask, who am I speaking to?” said the receptionist.

  “Um, I’m Melissa Wray, and this is Archie Parsons, from Health Ventures International.”

  “NGO? I don’t know this one.”

  “Yeah, well. We’re not one of the big ones,” said Archie. “We’re small.”

  “I can take your name and number and maybe he can contact you if he has time.”

  “Oh no. That won’t do,” said Archie. “We need to see him in person.”

  “It is the best I can do.”

  “Where is he now? Has he gone to Navrongo?”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “Like Melissa said, we were told.”

  “Give me your name. I may need to do a background check before we schedule anything.”

  “I told you, I’m from Health Ven—”

  “Yes, yes, but it is basic security. You see, there are those who would like to see Mr. Appiah harmed.”

  Archie’s stomach bottomed out.

  “It is nothing personal,” said the man. “It is just the sad nature of politics.”

  “How long would that take? Could we see him today?”

  “He is not coming here today. He is Navrongo. Tomorrow he comes back, and then he goes to Kumasi. But it seems you already know this.”

  Archie nudged Melissa. “Let’s try our luck in Navrongo.” Archie wheeled and made his way back out into the dust and sun.

  ***

&nbs
p; Navrongo was a smaller town, only about twenty kliks up the road. Once they arrived, they found Simon Appiah’s face plastered over every wall and pole, but could find no sign of the man in the flesh.

  The PVP office was a humble shack of zinc and eucalyptus, identifiable only by an even denser collection of Simon Appiah covering it from curb to rafters. The place was closed. A man told them that Appiah had gone to visit some millet-growing villages on the outskirts.

  There seemed to be some kind of festival going on in the center of town. Pickups and flatbed trucks bore scads of people drumming and dancing, their bodies painted in the national colors of red, gold and green.

  “What’s all this?” said Archie. “A political rally?”

  “It is for the Black Stars,” said the driver. “We defeat Cameroon in football.” The driver’s phone sang a highlife chorus. He spoke briefly and then looked up into the rear view mirror. “Sir, it is Marcus, from the other taxi. He would like to know if it is okay for him to go back to Tamale.”

  “No. Not yet. You have him wait right here in town. I will pay for him to wait for us.”

  “Archie, we really don’t need that other cab.”

  “I’d rather we hang onto it. You never know.”

  Archie checked his watch. It was not even ten a.m.. He sighed. “What the heck. I’m tired of chasing this guy around. Let’s just go to the restaurant.”

  ***

  The last shanties of Navrongo trailed off into farmland. They passed into an area of irrigated millet fields and more family compounds with those mud walls and turrets that made them look like little castles. They soon caught up with a small and slow-moving motorcade of black cars with tinted windows, a white pickup with a loudspeaker, and a flatbed lorry crammed with standing people.

  “This has to be our man,” said Archie, sitting up taller in the seat. “Wouldn’t you think? I mean, who else could it be?”

  “If we had gone with your original plan, we could already be at that restaurant, waiting.” Melissa knocked her fist against his shoulder, playfully. “But no, you had to get all fancy pants.”

  Archie looked over the itinerary. “According to this, he’s not due in Paga till noon.”

  “Maybe he got hungry. Like me. Maybe this means we can finally get ourselves some breakfast. Er, brunch.”

  “If we can even get a table,” said Archie. “With all these people, I’m not so sure.”

  As the motorcade approached a checkpoint, a counterbalanced wooden pole swung high in the air, letting it pass through without pause. Their taxi snuck through as if it belonged with the rest of the group. As soon as they passed, the pole descended, blocking all following traffic.

  They passed down a long straightaway with a row of ponds to the left. Off in the distance was a series of squat cinder block buildings—the Burkina Faso border station.

  “Are these the crocodile ponds?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool!” Melissa pressed her face against the window. “I wish we could stop. Maybe after?”

  “Oh? Would you buy a chicken?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Didn’t you see the sign? They sell live chickens to tourists to feed to the crocodiles. They let you grab their tails and pose for pictures.”

  “Um, I’ll pass on that last part, thank you. I’m happy just to see a croc. If I’m gonna get a chicken, it’s gonna be for me. Grilled or fried. Do you suppose they have corn on the cob?”

  The taxi pulled into a cindered parking lot. The Chicken Palace was a hodgepodge of pavilions and cook shacks painted in primary colors. A giant hen of wood and straw perched on a faux thatched roof over tin that showed through the thin spots. The main, glassed in seating area overlooked a marshy pond.

  They sat in the taxi until the cars had from the motorcade had unloaded and most of the people had entered the restaurant. A small group of people waited near the door with placards. Supporters?

  “I think I saw him!” said Melissa.

  Archie slipped the papers back into the outer sleeve of the briefcase. “Let’s go.” They stepped out of the cab. Heat radiated off the dark cinders.

  Melissa touched his arm. “Archie, that briefcase is empty, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, sure. It’s just papers and photos. I got rid of that other stuff.”

  “Just checking.”

  As they approached the door, the people they thought were supporters turned to be a meek group of college kids, both men and women. Their placards read:

  “Respect your Ancestors, Conserve our Sacred Groves.”

  “Save Ghana from Fanatic and Evangelist.”

  A woman in traditional garb scolded them. “Why are you coming here for protest?” she said. “Simon is on your side. Have you never heard him speak? He is an environmentalist through and through.”

  Another woman in a dark skirt, perhaps the restaurant’s manager or proprietor, stood inside the door flanked by a pair of blue-bereted security guards. She greeted Archie with sharp eyes and a sharper smile. “I am sorry sir, but this restaurant is closed for a private function.”

  “Of course. We’re here … for that function,” said Archie. “We’ve come to meet with Mr. Appiah.”

  “Do you have an invitation?”

  “Well, no. But—”

  A youngish man, apparently an aide, came bustling over. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

  “Archie Parsons, Health Ventures International.”

  Melissa extended her hand. “And I’m Melissa Wray, his assistant.”

  “Is Simon expecting you?” The aide’s eyes were wary, but respectful.

  “It’s a personal matter. It’s critical that we see him. I promise it won’t take long. We’re not lobbying or protesting. I just need a minute to show him some papers.”

  “Give them to me. I will make sure he sees them.”

  “Um … actually, we need to explain this in person. The papers alone won’t mean anything. It’s very important that we get to speak to him.”

  “Archie, I thought you were going to let me—”

  “Shush!”

  “Shush? Don’t you dare shush me!”

  The aide glanced nervously at the long bank of tables that had been set up in the center of the dining room. Bottled beer and soft drinks were being distributed to a loud and boisterous party. A guard stood, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the crocodile pond.

  Archie spotted Simon Appiah—a roly-poly, bespectacled man sitting at the middle of the table, facing the door, like Jesus at the Last Supper, surrounded by His Apostles.

  “I’ll be right back.” The aide jogged over to the table and whispered into Mr. Appiah’s ear. The politician glanced to the door and his eyes found Archie’s. The politician nodded. The aide returned.

  “Mr. Appiah agrees to speak to you, but please make it brief.”

  The security guards came over and frisked them. One ran a wand over the briefcase. It warbled slightly.

  “Open it,” said the guard.

  “It’s … there’s nothing in here … just papers.”

  “Open.”

  Archie stomach squeezed into a knot. He took a deep breath. “I just want you to know in advance,” said Archie. “What’s inside, I can explain.”

  Archie undid the latches with his thumb. The lid lifted to reveal the foam cutouts of the three small revolvers that Archie had discarded at the Gariba Lodge.

  “Uh! Ah!” The guard slammed the briefcase shut and recoiled. “Guns! They have guns!”

  The restaurant owner shrieked and scuttled back in her heels. Chairs scraped and clattered. People exploded from the tables and rushed for the exits. The braver of the two guards came stalking after Archie with a billy club.

  “I can explain,” said Archie holding up his empty palms and backing away.

  A panicked man in a business suit stumbled and bowled into the guard, knocking him into a table. It overturned, taking with it a tray full of large bottles of Club an
d Star lager that a waiter had just brought. Green glass shattered. A tsunami of beer sizzled and foamed across the floor.

  A burly bodyguard wrapped his arm around Appiah and bustled him out a side door. Archie felt a tug on his wrist. “Come on.” Melissa yanked him towards the main entrance.

  They rushed out onto the lot. People shrank from them as if they were green mambas.

  A pair of men, shirt-tails flying, shoved Mr. Appiah into the back of one of the black Hondas and the car started rolling before the doors were even closed. It screamed out of the lot, kicking up cinders and dust, straight into the path of a twenty-two wheeler gearing up for the twelve hour haul to Accra. With a sickening crunch, steel crumpled, glass exploded across the blacktop. The Honda’s punctured fuel tank went off like a bomb.

  “Oh my God!” Melissa squeezed Archie’s hand and hid her face behind his shoulder as a wiry, bearded white man in a slouch hat sprinted towards them with fire in his eyes and a sidearm under his flapping vest.

  Chapter 16: Backup

  Archie stood transfixed like a jack-lighted frog. The man who had intercepted them in the parking lot had startling red hair and eyes that bore into him like twin blue lasers. His ruddy face was beaded with sweat.

  “Move,” he grunted.

  “Who the heck are you?” said Melissa.

  “Backup,” said the man, shoving Archie along. “Move! We only got a short window before the border police come down on our asses.”

  They followed the man around the back of the restaurant to a marshy strip separating two ponds. A crude path had been slashed through the tall reeds by machete. In rainy season it was likely a morass, but now, the dried mud made it passable.

  Archie glanced back to find Melissa stopped. She stared into the weeds.

  “Melissa, come on! Run!”

  “S-something splashed.”

  “Keep it moving,” grunted the man guiding them.

  “Melissa, don’t worry. Come on. It’s okay.”

  She set her gaze straight down the path and sprinted. Archie stepped aside and let her pass him. He trotted after her, bringing up the rear.

  The reeds grew thicker, the ground soggier. Something shaggy leaped out onto the path. Melissa screamed and flung up a karate kick that badly missed its mark.

  “He’s one of ours, ma’am. Calm down!”

  The shaggy creature was a man in a ghillie suit, and he was quickly joined by another man similarly attired. They both carried assault weapons wrapped and draped in strips of gauze and bits of string dyed to match the marsh reeds.