Children of the Street - [14]

“You really have to go right now?”

“Yes, I apologize.”

Christine didn’t look happy.

The email was waiting for Dawson on his laptop at home. He had bought the slightly used computer in multiple payments for a total of GHC450, which was a good bargain.

“Oh,” he said under his breath as he saw the images. “Outstanding.”

Yves Kirezi had created two black-and-white images, one showing the lagoon boy with a serious expression, the other showing him smiling to reveal the right upper missing canine tooth. “LB” ’s eyes were deep and energetic. His face was open and generous, the kind that makes people want to approach and chat. How had Yves captured that?

Dawson sent a reply to Wisdom thanking both him and Kirezi. He got on the phone to Chikata.

“Meet me in Agbogbloshie in two hours.”

Chikata almost choked. “What?”

“We have the sketch. I want to start showing it around.”

“Ah, Dawson. Sir. Today?”

“We’ve lost a week already. No more time to waste.”

“I know, but…”

“Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“Good. So see you in two hours.”

Dawson had a couple things to get done in those two hours. First he bought the cheapest possible ream of paper from a small store near Central Post Office. Next, laptop slung over his shoulder, he hotfooted it to Salaga Internet to print LB’s image and get a hundred copies made. At Salaga, bringing in his own paper dropped the price drastically, knowing the owner dropped it even more, which was a good thing, because Dawson was perilously low on cash. No one else in CID would spend his or her hard-earned wages on any part of an investigation in such a personal way. Dawson was either a saint or a fool. His colleagues would vote the latter.

Have you ever seen anyone, or do you know anyone, who looks like this boy?

That was the standard question Dawson and Chikata asked as they handed out the lagoon boy flyers. They split up, Chikata venturing into Agbogbloshie Market east of Abossey Okai Road to canvass the always-observant market women, while Dawson took Agbogbloshie west of the street.

He came across a group of six teenage boys languishing by a defunct kiosk in front of a puddle of water. Dawson greeted them as they sized him up. The biggest one stood. Introducing himself, Dawson shook hands. The boy’s name was Abdel, a name typical of northern Ghana. Chances were his native tongue was Hausa.

“Do you speak Twi?” he asked Abdel hopefully.

“Yes.”

Dawson handed him a flyer. “Do you know this boy?”

His companions crowded round the picture, leaning against one another with the casual intimacy of pals. There was an avid discussion in Hausa. Dawson understood snatches of it.

“We don’t know him,” Abdel said finally.

“But Abdel, my friend,” Dawson said, “I heard some of you say you might have seen him before.”

Abdel was surprised. “Do you hear our language?” he asked in Hausa.

“A little bit,” Dawson replied in kind.

The boys all smiled at him instantly, appreciating his effort.

“Why are you looking for him?” Abdel asked, returning to Twi for Dawson’s benefit.

“I’m not. He’s dead. I’m trying to find out who he is.”

Abdel translated again for his friends. They got shifty-eyed and uneasy, and one of them muttered “Police.” They were suspicious of Dawson, and even if one or more of them might have recognized the lagoon boy, their instincts were telling them that this was trouble.

“Okay,” Dawson said lightly, giving them a few more flyers. “Please ask some of your other friends, or your families, if they know this boy. If you hear something about this, please try to call the number there.”

He thanked them. “Nagode.”

But as he walked away, Dawson felt it was a lost cause. There was no chance these kids would call him. He prayed Chikata was having better luck.

9

Chikata hadn’t done any better. People were either evasive or just not that interested. He and Dawson called it a day.

Monday morning, Dawson was cautiously hopeful that things would begin to move in the right direction. LB’s image would be ready for the evening TV news broadcast. Dawson saw to it that the picture went up in all the waiting areas of the CID building, alongside the other Wanted and Missing Person posters.

Last night, he had read Wisdom’s well-crafted Sunday Graphic feature entitled DEATH IN THE LAGOON: IS THIS WHAT IT WILL TAKE? Rather than just reporting LB’s death as a crime, Wisdom had made it a sociological study of Korle Lagoon and its surrounding areas.

By Tuesday, Dawson was praying for some kind of lead-anything at all. By Wednesday he was telling himself to settle down to reality. Things never happen as quickly as one would like. It could be months before they got any leads. The case could go cold too. The piles of folders and papers on his desk were a reminder of that.

After lunch on Wednesday, just as it was beginning to seem like another routine day, Constable Simon, who worked on the second floor, came up to Dawson’s desk.

“Please, massa, can you come? We have a problem downstairs.”

“What is it?” Dawson asked, getting up.

“A certain girl came asking for you,” Simon said, “but there’s something wrong with her. While she was waiting, she just collapsed on the ground and started to cry.”