‘‘Heeeelp!’’
Dusk was gradually taking away the day as the darkness busily
dropped her curtains to bid the declining Saturday farewell. It was time to end
my walk. Unexpectedly, I heard a shrill cry behind me. I turned there was no
one in sight. I took a careful look the second time; still, I could not find
anybody. I resumed my walk towards home carelessly; after all I was in Accra;
one of the safest cities in the world even if chaotic. I walked few paces on. Suddenly,
I felt two hands grab me from behind. I fought to release myself but my efforts
were too feeble to compete with the two powerful hands. My feet dangled in the
air but I struggled on to fight back. It was useless.
“Don’t just struggle get
a plan to free yourself, goddamn it!” I remained calm briefly and then with
all the energy I could gather tried to grabbed my assailant from behind. Incredibly,
there was no one there, instead, my hands hit a wooden object; the noise
reverberated in my ears-it was my wooden bed!
I
woke from the dream and sat on my bed panting not from the sensation in my
hands but from the struggle with my illusory assailant.
I
checked the time on the wall; it was 1.30 in the morning. I didn’t want to
sleep again, at least not immediately.
I
switched on the television, bless BBC World Service and whoever mooted the
idea, they were in my bedroom uninvited but I didn’t care; I needed company, a
good company.
They arrived flashing the face of my favourite newsmaker-
Hillary Clinton, America’s finest diplomat for a long time (My apologies to
General Powell, I thought he was the best till the tricksters played him to use his reputable voice
to give credence to their version of facts on Saddam’s weapons of mass destruction).
Hillary
is, in my estimation the finest diplomat this past decade except Kofi…
‘Huh?
Kofi Annan is from my country so what? Is he not the best among the best? Don’t
bring yourself. ‘
As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, I
attentively listened to the reporter who led the invasion into my bedroom and
for the first time since I knew Hillary (only in news don’t mistake me for “a
somebody”), she was yelling, as they say in her country.
The Republican gentleman was trying ruthlessly to dig for
dirt in her sterling career by pushing her to admit failure in the Benghazi
debacle.
I am
sure he had forgotten that the woman hates being pushed around, particularly,
when it’s done so crudely.
“What difference does it make at this point?” She screamed and went on to describe the pain
she had to endure as she watched with President Obama and the families of dead
diplomats concealed in caskets about to be buried into nothingness.
It moved me to prick my own mortality. Quickly, I shrugged it
off; it wasn’t a pleasant subject to contemplate. The news item changed, I was back
to the nightmarish dream; I tried to make sense of it.
Dreams are pictures of
waking thoughts- nothing mysterious. I remembered my first lesson in
school.
Nothing
registered as a probable pointer for the coming day. I slept again thanks to a
boring documentary my friends from BBC introduced.
And
oh what a contrast! But it was good; it put me to sleep. I was rudely woken when
I heard a knock on my door. It was 07.30.
Who the hell is that,
disturbing at this time?
It
was my housekeeper. She expected me to scream for breaking the norm and I was
ready to do just that till I was disarmed by the presence of a young woman of
about 17 years behind her and a young boy whose age I could not determine. He
looked haggard and bore a sad countenance.
For
a moment the animal instinct in me urged me to scream at them regardless, but
the pleading eyes of the youngsters helped me fight my demons.
“Never judge anyone till he’s heard.” I heard my dead old man’s
voice hidden in the recess of my memory admonish.
‘Please
come with me.’ I told the youngsters differentially and led the way to my study
where I usually take visitors.
I saw on the young woman’s face pure determination steeled in
her will, for what; I could not tell.
Her face was familiar and yet I could not tell who she was.
‘Do you want something to drink?’ I asked them and regretted
when they shook their heads to say no. I should just have offered them the
drinks.
‘So how can I help you?’
I asked kindly employing my choirboy manners. (I couldn’t remember the
last time I had used it)
‘You can’t make us out eh?’ The young woman said with some
sadness in her voice. I squinted as if that was a magic spell to help me to remember.
‘My name is Adjoa Sefa, my father was Dr. Enoch Sefa.’
I got up from my seat at once as if I had been shot and for a
long moment I could not respond to the children. I resumed my seat and exhaled
loudly. My brain refused to configure. I
was to blame if anything had happened to the two children before me. Their
father was my best friend, a brother and a confidant. We were mates in school
in a far away country. He returned home and I stayed on dreaming in someone’s
country. We however kept in touch till suddenly, I heard the most horrid story
of my life.
My friend and his wife were visiting their daughter, Adjoa,
(the young woman before me) in school on a Saturday. In the drive, a truck from
the opposite direction suddenly took over their lane smashing their car. My
friend managed to drive the smashed car away from the truck. Unfortunately, the
car clogged on the edge of a cliff; waiting to roll over.
He nevertheless
managed to open the door behind for his son to get out. His wife at the time
was unconscious at the passenger seat precariously threatened, as any attempt
by my friend to get out would tip the car over into the valley.
Carefully,
he opened his side of the doors hoping to get out and help his wife. The car
did tip over and rolled several times before it landed far away in the abyss
and immediately triggered fire.
The
fire augmented by gasoline incinerated my friend and his wife to ashes as the
little boy watched his parents helplessly burn to cinders.
I
heard the story much later on my return and searched for his children
everywhere I couldn’t locate them till this morning.
‘How did you know who I am?’ It was a stupid question to ask.
Adjoa
did not answer, instead, she went into a small handbag to produce a note or a
wish letter if you will, and gave it to me.
It
was a hand written note by her father addressed to her mother with my
coordinates in foreign land and directions of where to find me in Accra in the
event that something tragic happened to him. There was an old photograph of my
friend and I stapled to the note. I looked at the photograph silently and had
to bite hard to silence emotions.
‘How long have you had this note?’ I asked her.
‘Last night.’
‘I don’t understand who gave it to you?’
‘I was looking for something else; a lawyer’s information and
came across this.’
‘What do you need a lawyer for?’
‘To sue the government.’
She said simply and innocently.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘She repeated herself this time with emphasis and squared me
up, eyeball to eyeball.
I thought I should let the issue rest for a while and so
changed the subject.
‘Your house is empty, I have been there several times,
there’s hardly anybody in there?’
‘My aunty put the house up for rent.’
‘So where is home right now for you?’
‘We live with her in Labadi.’
‘Does she know where you are right now?’
‘No, she doesn’t have to know.’
I nodded and paused. Several questions flooded my mind. It
was obvious she was not happy in the Aunty’s home or probably a dispute with
her aunty about something.
Thread carefully, I
told myself.
Fortunately,
I have vacant rooms available in my house and a housekeeper to take care of us
all. My sense of guilt was beginning to atone. I said nothing about what I was
thinking to them.
Before
I go into that I have to make them feel at home. I called the housekeeper to
set breakfast for us. I knew she wasn’t prepared for that; I hardly eat
breakfast on Sunday mornings. I changed the topic from domestic quibbles to a
dance in the courtroom with wolfs.
‘Now tell me, why you
want to sue the government?’
‘It’s because of him,’ she pointed to her brother, ‘he’s
unable to use the road to school unless I blindfold him whenever we travel the
road.’
‘How… I mean why?’
‘He thinks he’s going to be crashed; he screams at the least excitement.’
She explained.
‘He needs a doctor, a psychiatrist; he’s traumatised that’s
why.’ I said with authority.
‘I know, he’s been to see two of them. He gets well after a
period of treatment only to relapse when we meet any scary driving,
particularly, during the morning and evening rush hours.’
‘I see, but don’t they have boarding facility in the school?’
‘It was the school that asked me to come for him because he
screams unbearably in the night.’ Adjoa offered with pain.
I was quiet and the reason for it was simple, I suffer no
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder – PTSD as my young friend before me, but on
several occasions I questioned my sanity for returning to my country whenever I
drove on the road.
It’s
so very intimidating to drive in Accra; there are no rules or regulations,
there are no laws governing civil motoring, it’s simply the law of the jungle-
survival of the fittest.
Don’t get me wrong; we have all the rules and regulations and
laws in our statutes as it is in any developed country on the planet. The
difference here is, no one enforces the laws and any law that is not enforced
is no law at all as far as I am concerned.
Law, as I understand it rests on its efficiency to regulate
behaviour in societies, not in our country- religion regulates us.
‘You
don’t need to get into such a fight with the government. It costs a lot of
money to start with and also I don’t see how you’re going to win such a battle.
I will speak with your aunty you can come and live with me here. I will find means
to send him to school if it means driving him in the morning…”
‘And in the evening too?’
‘We will see how we handle that…’ I responded to tell her I
was aware of the obligations.
‘How about when you travel…?’ She interrupted me before I
could finish and went on. ‘When you’re no longer available and I am also not present?
We nearly died last week when he screamed in a taxi because another car was
coming towards us dangerously. It confused our taxi driver who momentarily lost
control of his car. My brother can’t remain at home forever neither does he
have to die because of a non-performing system. It’s the government’s
responsibility to provide him with security!’
She charmed me with her intelligence and insight and she was
right; what would happen to the young boy when any of us was not present to
assist him?
My
mind swiftly registered a rerun of David and Goliath and I was caught in the centre of the yet to be inaugurated battle.
But first, I need to understand what’s going on with law
enforcement before I speak to a lawyer. I have a police officer friend; he has
18 years of experience in the service. He’s currently a Chief Superintendent at
the Motor Traffic Unit (MTU) of the police service; if anyone can help me he’s
the man.
Wish me luck as I go to seek for Heeelp to assist a mighty
17-year-old orphan to sue a humble Ghanaian government.
Stay
tuned.
