Accra Noir - Группа авторов Akashic Noir

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of my rented chamber and hall, I am greeted by the overpowering stench of sunbaked feces. I wrinkle my nose in disgust. Although I’ve been living here for the past three years, I refuse to accept the inhumane conditions that force tenants to empty their chamber pots directly onto the streets. I hopscotch around the dark puddles staining the red earth and turn westward into a narrow alley. I amble past rows of aging compound homes nearly identical to the one I just left. Same leaky corrugated-tin roofs; same adinkra symbols welded imperfectly onto rusting wrought-iron gates; same urine-splashed walls. I run my hands gently along their cool, grainy exterior in appreciation of their sturdiness despite the degradation they endure daily. These structures are probably no different from the people who inhabit them, devalued yet resilient. Many of them labor thanklessly as factory hands, petty traders, and mechanics, yet they persist, determined to make it.

      A thin piece of beached wood precariously balancing over a wide uncovered manhole grants me safe passage onto Kotobabi Main Road. I take a moment to savor the town’s unbridled energy.

      The bushy eyebrows of a kebab seller furrow as he carefully places his meat skewers on top of a scorching coal grill, the crackling fat shooting sparks into the air.

      A resounding “GOAL!” erupts from a cracked television propped in the doorway of an electronics repair shop where a group of men are gathered. The announcement is met with cheering and dancing from supporters of the winning team, mixed with objections, jeers, and curses from the sore losers. A fight will soon break out. I move on.

      Three young boys, dressed only in shorts made from repurposed flour sacks, zigzag between the legs of the stalls, squealing with excitement. Nearby, their mother molds fermented corn into kenkey, the embers from her coal pot casting a haunting glow on her worn face. I pause briefly here, hypnotized by the smoke dancing out of her crude kerosene lamp.

      This is Pig Farm.

      This neighborhood is an outcast’s haven, dating back to the days of the swineherds who inhabited the land before finding themselves on the wrong side of industrialization. Their livelihood threatened by the introduction of industrial abattoirs, they morphed into the backbone of Ghana’s burgeoning economy; making, selling, and fixing things. Today, migrants converge here from across the country to exploit its cheap rent and proximity to business hubs.

      A police truck roars past me, its side-view mirror grazing my elbow. I cry out, but it thunders onward, leaving in its wake a cloud of soot that triggers my cough again.

      I look up just as a street hawker sprints past me, yelling, “Hurry, hurry!” A crowd follows him, their interest piqued. I change course and join them.

      ⚜

      I must have dozed off. I quickly scan the hall. Everything appears as it was. The TV is still airing telenovela reruns. My screen door is still ajar to let in the harmattan breeze. On my coffee table lies an envelope stuffed with cash—enough to sustain me for another eighteen months. Each grimy note is intact. However, I can’t shake the feeling that I am not alone. In two determined strides, I’m standing outside my dark bedroom. Nothing looks out of place there either, but my intuition tells me otherwise. I enter.

      I smell her before I see her. Cocoa butter lotion mixed with CK One perfume. “Salome,” I utter in disbelief. At the sound of her name, she steps out of the shadows, where she had been camouflaged by the billowing tan curtains that frame the small window. I reach nervously for the light switch and flick it on. I drink her in. She stands still, an onyx idol. Her jumbo braids cascade neatly down the small of her back. She tucks one behind her ear, then speaks.

      “Hello, Saman.”

      Saman. Ghost. She’s the only one who calls me that. Upon hearing her voice, I free-fall head over heels into our past.

      ⚜

      The ride to the airport is uncharacteristically quiet. Normally, Salome would be reenacting outrageous scenes from our favorite Bollywood movies, complete with neck rolls and a Hindi accent; and I would be applauding and cackling, her constant cheerleader. But today, she just grips my fingers between hers, forehead creased. The taxi driver also says nothing, but from the rearview mirror he glares at the jezebels spooning in his backseat. We lock eyes, my defiance matching his revulsion. He looks away and concentrates on the pothole-ridden road.

      We enter the leafy suburb of Airport Residential Area. The smell of freshly cut grass wafts into the car. It reminds me of those brief yet painful days of my youth, when I sought rest atop their sharp blades. I roll up the window.

      “You don’t have to do this, you know,” Salome says.

      I tense up. This plan is Salome’s brainchild. It’s all she’s been raving about for the past month. This deal, she has explained, is a game changer for Oga, her big boss, an unseen but revered criminal mastermind.

      Then I understand.

      I pull her in closer. I, too, ache just thinking about us being apart. Salome found me a year ago and breathed new life into me. But this mission is too lucrative to pass up.

      “I want in,” I admit. “Besides,” I add, tracing her clenched jawline with my finger, “who else can you trust?”

      The taxi rolls to a stop. We’re here. Salome reluctantly peels herself off me. She retrieves the luggage from the boot. It’s an old black suitcase, secured by a brass padlock. Its plain appearance belies the intricate network of hidden compartments which we have dutifully filled with cocaine. She plants travel documents in my palm.

      “Our associate will contact you once you get to London.” We hug. She gives me a quick peck on the cheek and chews her lip. “You know what to do next.”

      This hurts, but I’m in too deep to change my mind now.

      “Hurry back, okay?” she sniffles. Then she is gone.

      I march into Kotoka International Airport, a massive rectangular ark.

      The departure hall is a madhouse, congested with people in motion.

      A woman with the brightest fire-engine red weave I’ve ever seen quarrels with an airline agent, shaking her meaty fist.

      A porter in an ill-fitting lime-green uniform pushes a trolley up a sloping walkway, the wheels squeaking with every strained step.

      And then there are the bᴐgas strutting around the terminal, reeking of cologne.

       I can’t pull this off.

      The air conditioner above me is on full blast, causing the back of my neck to break out in goose pimples; yet I fan myself madly with the plane ticket.

       I won’t get away with it.

      I can’t breathe. I claw at the collar of my dress shirt but can’t find the button. I feel my chest tightening. I am hyperventilating. I sink to the tiled floor, its black-and-white squares like a giant crossword puzzle swimming before my eyes.

       She’ll never forgive me.

      A white man with wispy auburn dreadlocks and scuffed hiking boots squats in front of me, his head cocked to the side. He speaks with a gentle baritone in a language I do not understand, then offers me a bottle of water with an outstretched tanned hand. I swat it away. He hesitates, then leaves.

       What am I doing?

      I rise.

      I exhale; pick up the suitcase.

      I exit the airport into the merciless Accra heat, pulling my bounty behind me.

      There’s no coming back from this.

      ⚜

      My eyes dart between the intruder and the rusty cutlass leaning against my dresser. Salome raises her hands in surrender. She’s trembling.

      “Please, Saman, I need your help.” She inches closer. “Oga wants me dead.”

      My body turns into lead. “But . . . but you are his best employee,” I sputter.

      “Was,”

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