When The Lanes of Genius Collide — an independence story
The events that follow have been described to me by the character I write about and exactly as they happened. I have however decided that for the purpose of writing and to foster greater understanding, my narration will be from the angle of myself as this character.
The last gust of wind had succeeded in knocking down my bedside alarm clock and set it off ringing. It was four o’clock in the morning and already daylight. This was quite unusual even at this time of year, but then this particular year had not been like any other. I strained to hear my mother scream from her room upstairs. I waited. No screams came. My mother had a habit of screaming my name whenever my alarm clock went off. I had gotten accustomed to its sound, but nobody else had.
This was the Gold Coast in 1965, a now pale shadow of the country we had cheered on at Independence a few years ago. The more perceptive of us had predicted this outcome eventually, yet not at this rate of decline -that had shocked us. I had decided to spend my last summer vacation from University here in the Gold Coast and was slowly beginning to enjoy it despite the obvious lack of entertainment. Home cooking was as usual a delight to taste again, but then I missed London. That was where true fun was.
I stepped into the long hallway and proceeded to the living area. I was careful not to awaken our many guests as I tiptoed past each door- something I would later learn was of no need. The chimes of my alarm that morning had rattled the entire house. Our home was always brimming with guests; distant relatives, friends of friends, long lost acquaintances and the like. Some of these guests had quickly come to recognize me as the son of the President, although I do not believe my acquaintance with them had gone past the occasional hellos we exchanged at dining or in the hallways. It was evident they saw our home as refuge; from an unseen foe.
In the course of time I was to become quite familiar with one of the younger guests, and this acquaintance would undoubtedly determine the future of the Gold Coast. Yes, we were to be catalysts to great change; inevitable great change you’d soon see.
As was customary of such big households, notwithstanding how they came to be assembled, our mornings were met with well-garnished spreads of delightful breakfast delicacies. Sister Mary, as we affectionately referred to her, had served the family as cook for many years, bringing joy to the tummies of all who had partaken of our table.
This particular morning, I soon entered into casual banter with Iddrisu, Mary’s assistant. I enjoyed his dismal attempts to communicate in English. It was far from perfect, yet he persisted daily. Northerners can be relentless.
“Willie, ma mommi dey sick oo”.
He was at his usual complaints and whining. I slithered away as soon as he got distracted. This was my vacation time, and nobody would ruin it — not even sick mothers.
I wandered about the backyard for a while, occasionally touching the petals of flowers I fancied as I brushed past. My mother still kept a garden in the backyard. I found no need for this. It was evident the effects of her aristocratic upbringing still lingered. In the far corner of the yard, the gardener sat in the lonesome, his back to me. He jumped in fright when our gazes met so I suspected he was up to something. I was right. I peeped him struggling to snuff out what remained of his cigarette, I presume. I smiled and walked on.
Once outside, I was met with the dead silence that our new Gold Coast had come to know — an immediately perceptible air of fear. The once cheerful people now walked about in gloom. Something surely had forcibly sucked out life from within them. As I gazed on, wondering, I felt a nudge on my shoulder. It was Iddrisu.
“Master Willie”, he began, “you shabi the pipos dem make sad sad eh? Ebi problem oo”
I only nodded.
“This Kwame Nkrumah”, he continued, now clearly whispering, “ebi bressing or na cur…”
I gestured him quiet. There approaching from beyond our cul-de-sac was a police patrol car. The popular Datsun 460. These ‘poor man’s BMWs’ littered all across the city were distinctively noticeable in their bright blue paint. One of the policemen waved when the car was close enough to make us out. It was Captain Amoah, a small, elderly man, always smartly dressed in uniform, with an exceptionally bushy moustache. He was a nice fellow and had accompanied my father’s entourage on many official events.
“Junior, you’re back so soon!”
He shouted and waved. I waved back. He alone called me Junior. I never bothered to correct him. You see, I had been named William Nana Agyei-Addo (The William I would later discard), but my father was Edward Agyei-Addo, at one time a part of the legendary Big Six. Everyone held him in high esteem. It came as no surprise when he was appointed President.
“Dis pipos them no be good, today yes sar, yes sar, tomorrow thems arrested you”, Iddrisu continued in broken English. Before I could reply, he was gone.
“Master Willie, adey go inside. Mary is not happy I keeps long”
I was amused. His English was improving. I watched his long white apron disappear as the trap door slammed shut.
At that moment, a black car suddenly swerved in from the side of our house, at an uncomfortable speed, screeching to an almost immediate halt, as the brakes were suddenly jammed upon. I stepped backwards in fright, extremely oblivious of how the next few minutes would ultimately alter my vacation plans. I glanced sharply around; the street was now completely deserted, a deafening silence hollowing in its place. I hadn’t noticed when the police car had disappeared.
In a twinkling, as the car doors swung open, three muscular men in identical black suits charged forth, towards me. I heard a dog bark in the distant. One of the men momentarily distracted pulled out a silver object from his waistline. It appeared to be a gun. As the leader nodded, three quick shots were fired leaving the dog in a pool of blood. I looked about wistfully, suddenly light-headed and disoriented, unable even to scream. The leader, now close enough, yelled as he reached for me:
“Don’t do anything stupid, boy!”
I made out his accent to be American. I was knocked out cold with fright before I could respond.
I woke up to a jet of icy water, hollering in pain and shock as the spraying stopped. Almost immediately, one of the men, now unmasked, signaled for the other. They speak to each other in stifled voices. This was futile, since I made out their dialogue. They seemed to be awaiting the presence of another, a greater authority of a sort.
“Why did you come to the Gold Coast this summer, if I may ask?” The water-blaster inquired of me. To my surprise, he introduced himself. “I’m Agent Swansea — Sean Swansea, I work for American Intelligence. Forgive our mean tactics, a product of rigorous training I must say” His apology drowned midway.
Sean struck me at once, as being both cautious and really, quite accommodating.
What did American Intelligence want with me? I thought. I struggled to make words from beyond my water drenched face but, in its place, tears streamed down my cheeks.
In my fear, I began to realize that many of the items in the room where I was bound wrists and ankles to a chair, appeared to be new. It seemed to have been specially prepared for this meeting. The furnishing was unmistakably American, the room liberally decorated with a faint smell of spring. It reminded me of London. My fear slowly left me. The familiar aura brought in a refreshing. I looked up at my assailants;
“Who’s coming to meet us?”, I enquired. Sean walked up to me, “The Director”, he said.
Before I continue with this account, fear, I should let you know, is a crippling force that renders lifeless any iota of living faith. The most fearful and timid person only need be inundated with faith and they will open up like the morning sun.
“Can you please untie me?” I sought of Sean as he stood directly over me.
He pretended to reach into his jacket, my eyes briefly catching sight of the similar silver barrel in his waistline as he passed.
It was obvious he was not letting me lose.
Soon, a sharp rapping on the door sent all the men jolting into position. Now erect, the other agent let open the door. Heavy footsteps approached from behind; giving light to the stature of this new presence in the room.
He must be a tree, I thought.
Before long, a man with neat, oily hair and a visible potbelly underneath his finely-tailored business suit faced us now,
“Am I to understand that this is the young man to aid in the operation?”
“Yes sir”, Sean replied boldly.
My throat tightened. For a moment, my breath ceased.
Sean looked back to me. He said ominously:
“You’re now going to be officially interviewed”
Suddenly, the Director and I were alone. He leaned into me, pulling my chair closer to his as the door closed behind the others.
“Nana Agyei-Addo, you must understand that you haven’t done anything wrong. You see, when the very fabric of civilization is threatened by barbaric dictates of men made monsters, true humanity must be saved. Indeed, that is what America stands for. So, understand today that you will be the savior of the Gold Coast’
In the course of our lengthy talk, He would disclose how American Intelligence had monitored keenly my life at school, referring explicitly to remarks uttered against segregated classes, even to my open disapproval of Nkrumah’s single-party policy. His admiration of my stance, I found exceedingly flattering.
It was dark when I stepped out of the taxi at my home. Ironically, the taxi driver had earlier on vehemently refused to take me all the way home. He was, like the rest of the country, afraid, or so I thought. But also, I must say, he had struck me as being, truly in fear of something: Something impending.
He had not been taken aback by my request to be dropped at the Presidential Villa, yet here he was glancing almost eternally at his dashboard clock. I was sure he was certainly in on all this weirdness.
In a moment, my memories turned back onto the events of the evening. This premature intermission in the course of my day had left me, dazed and perplexed — a state I would remain in throughout the next morning. Had fate in its mysterious reliable fashion once again arranged this for the citizenry?
Was the Gold Coast really in need of this madness, as the Director had said? On my bed, my thoughts faded into sleep’s nothingness.
The next day, I realized that many of our house guests began to take unusual interest in me. It seemed my every act was being observed, probably even monitored. The eyes and smiles were always the same. They were vain, pretentiously warm, and insistently fearful. Even my dear comrade, Iddrisu seemed too nice, but I believe it was always his pleasure to be that way with me.
‘Master Willie’, he began, ‘this dawn nite, you come late, wey you talking plenty. Evlytin is ok?’
I stopped walking. Iddrisu drew nearer. He was quite smart, by the way, the most open-minded Northerner I had ever encountered. I enquired of him in fearful anticipation,
‘What time did I get home Iddrisu, and what exactly did I say?’
Iddrisu worked six days each week, four in the morning until just after midnight, and he never ate with the family. He alone must have been truly aware of my coming.
“Is like 2 o’crock…”
I suppressed my laughter at the images of crocodiles that sprung up almost simultaneously.
“two o croc you say?”
“Yes…and you say you no like America pipos plenty plenty times”, he continued to say.
Suddenly, he burst out in a giggle. A few nosy heads turned in our direction.
“Iddrisu, what is funny this time?” I demanded sharply, my eyes darting around at the eavesdroppers.
‘You evens hav wee wee on your troza’, his hand clasping his mouth as he stifled his laughter.
On occasions such as these, I would have been greatly offended by his indiscretion, today however I couldn’t. Weightier matters troubled me.
So often, the whereabouts of my father were unknown to all of us. Every few months, himself and Prime Minister Nkrumah, known then by all as the Osagyefo, arrived in the country from visiting another to review the outcome of their travels and prepare for another. This was also when I met Collins, a young Sierra-Leonean journalist -the young guest I mentioned earlier. (He would come to be a major part of our story.)
A moment later, a loud shout from upstairs terrified everyone. It was my mothers. I jolted upstairs in haste. I won’t soon forget the look on my mother’s face. She looked deeply distraught and, above all terrified. She lay in the hallway, reaching for the emptiness… something beyond her hand. Her gaze was fixed, at the door of my father’s study. She never went in there. None of us did. Nobody dared.
I, myself, had never set foot inside that room before. It was almost always locked. I understood very little about the objects that presented themselves in that room that day, but, eventually, I came to recognize: This was not new to Africa; for when the lives of great men are in jeopardy, such men seek protection beyond the realms of the physical -venomous snakes of varying size and hue entangled about what appeared to be the decaying remains of pregnant albino woman of glistering white skin, sat completely submerged in a tank of red fluid in one corner of the room. A shrine of some sort. The most disturbing of sights.
Iddrisu and I helped my mother to her feet, Collins assisting as we led her to her room. At the top of the stairwell, we discovered many of the guests, the ladies of course, all stiffened white in fright. Their gazes pierced even deeper now, as though to convey a message to me. Sister Mary phoned the doctor.
Back in my room, later in the day, I waited desperately for the night. The doctor, before his departure, had handed me a list of strange medicines to be bought for mother, which I had sent promptly for. However, in the tunneling echelons of my young mind, already scarred by the horrifying ‘distastefuls’ witnessed only that morning, I was consumed in thought, by the tenacity of the task bestowed upon me by the American Intelligence director.
Apparently, absent of my knowledge, was the fact that in the time when I was away in London for the purpose of schooling, the Osaegyefo while in the fray of many, had been the target of three unsuccessful assassination attempts, one of which had resulted in the death of his fondest bodyguard. The identities of these shooters were yet to be known.
I glanced at my wristwatch; half seven. It was time to sneak out. I was fortunate, the events of the day had forced early retirement of almost all our guests. I snuck out of my room, alerting no one of my presence, and proceeded by way of the back yard outside. But I was not alone.
‘I thought you’d never come down, Nana’
I knew this all familiar voice. It was Collins. He was dressed all in black, contrasting my light green shirt.
‘The Americans are waiting, let’s hurry now’ he continued.
I froze in my tracks. He was in on this too? Soon, I learned not only was this Collins a greatly skilled American Intelligence marksman, he was solely responsible for all three failed assassination attempts.
I nodded on in silence, following him into the dim-lit street. Our mission to be disclosed that night would ultimately spell the new direction of our Gold Coast and the inevitable peril of the Osaegyefo. A black taxi pulled up just as we neared the main Presidential Drive. Collins’ eyes glistened in the light. I could see he was crying.
‘Are you ok, Collins?’ I whispered. The taxi was at this point signaling for us, its headlamps flashing repeatedly to indicate our need for haste.
“You see, I never speak of this, because even at the thought of it, I’m unable to control my emotions, Nana”
He continued, “You see, you have come to save us all, Nana”. The second time I would be referred to as savior and Nana, not William. I sought to discard the William altogether after that night.
The taxi driver turned to me; I recognized him from the earlier night.
‘Nana, it’s good to see you again. Forgive the antics of last night. I required confirmation of your indulgence’ he said.
We drove on in silence, being waved on at every police checkpoint along the entire journey, only once were we stopped by a young constable, but even then, only for a few minutes. We sped on towards our destination inside Osu.
Collins and I were welcomed at the door, and ushered into the meeting area by Sean, now less formally dressed. The room was very well lit. Collins immediately received a peculiar slip of note from Sean: detailing a large sum of money paid into a foreign account bearing my name — this he passed to me.
Major Akwasi Afrifa sat across the room in civilian clothes, unflustered by my constant stares. He was flanked on both sides by two men, of sturdy build; soldiers no doubt -their haircuts giving away their poorly orchestrated disguises.
Sprawled across the table, were three large keys, quite unusual in size. Apparently, I was to leave that meeting with them, heralding the beginning of my mission.
While the precise terms of Afrifa’s negotiation with the Americans had never been announced, the results were undeniably an open secret: Just like us, his life was to take a complete turn-around. The money that had been paid into my account a clear reference for what he may have received.
The deliberation, conniving and planning lasted all night. Afrifa was to stage a coup during the Osaagyefo’s trip to Guinea, a month away- he had the unwavering support of the Armed Forces and the local backing of the Police.
‘What would become of my father the President?’ I mustered courage to ask. It was quite forward of me and slightly out of taste, but then I felt obliged to know.
‘He would be spared. He is as much a puppet of the madman like we were’, Afrifa spoke for the first time all night. His rich voice echoed instant command and fear, introducing an immediate hush. I looked away from his gaze.
The very next minute, the meeting was drawn to a close as though my question had been holding back its concluding all along. Collins pulled me up immediately and handed me the large keys as we made for the exit; an army of eyes traced my path out of the room.
It was eternally dark and deafening quiet when our taxi halted outside my home.
As a result of this eerie quiet, I leapt out of the vehicle in a hurry, ignoring the car door’s attempt to latch onto my shirt sleeve. Just as the taxi driver pulled away, his tyres screeching loudly as he did, we perceived at the far end of the street (or so I thought), beyond recognition, a dark figure, lurking behind the bushes alone. He had in his hand what appeared to be a lit cigarette.
‘Do you see that suspicious fellow’, I inquired of Collins. To my utmost surprise, no response came. I turned around just enough to catch the door shut. I was alone. Collins was already gone inside.
I looked to the stranger in the darkness. He was now obviously staring at me too, conscious now of our lone presence in the street. The tension and fear in the country had famously made many quite apprehensive — yet, I was determined to know who the suspicious character was. The events of the last two days had emboldened me for anything. I could tell the stranger’s gaze was still fixed on me. He took a generous pull of smoke, dropped the light, and immediately proceeded towards me, crushing underfoot the smothering stub.
I clutched unto the cold railing of the front porch while my heart thumped away, somewhat frightened but undeterred. As he neared, the figure hesitated and whispered, reverently:
‘ya man, William-boy, cud dat be ya presence, mi son?’
I scoffed, drawing in a deep breath. Irritated yet relieved. It was Jafara, my mother’s gardener I had caught in the garden a few days before. Jafara was a nimble, yet significantly odd looking man; possibly in his late fifties. His garments, clearly out of fashion, ever reeked of smoke. He was a very reserved fellow; extremely solitary. Until then as a result of his weirdness, I had never been pressed, nor required, even to engage him in any form of conversation.
‘What have you been smoking, Jafar, it’s Jafar right? I inquired of him.
‘Naa, mi yonging, respact da name, yeah… Jafara, is da name of ancient rulers yeah’
He spoke with an irritating slur. He did smell drunk too. what a mess, I thought. I expect he was not well paid.
‘ok, J-A-F-A-R-A’, deliberately stressing his name, ‘… good night’.
I turned to leave.
‘Hol, up, yong blod,’ his cold fingers grabbed my arm, ‘ waguan for your arena?… why yu do nite patrol dese a few days yeah? Whatta ya up to so late?
‘What do you mean, Jafar?’ interjecting him fiercely, my voice had become reasonably louder. Jafara hesitated in a strange way. He looked around as though not sure where the voice came from.
‘kiddo, free thy mind, yeah…,
He straightened up and said again, a bit more formally,
‘Me needs no fearing thang, yonging… me see what me see, yeah!
I freed my arm from within his grip in an instant, my keys rattling in the process. The large keys I had clearly forgotten of.
‘why dem shackles, ring sooo loud, mi boy, Jafara persisted, resuming his interrogation.
I indulged Jafara, “Will you help me Jafara?
His interest spiked immediately.
‘Talk to me… freely, me yonging? His irritating slur swallowing up every last word. He seemed to be genuinely interested, and so I proceeded, drawing out the keys.
Collins would later tell me, how he had keenly observed us both from his window upstairs. His essential gaze keeping watch constantly for foul play.
“Jafar, seen any keyholes this big?
The identity of the keys was a mystery to Jafar too. With his drunk look now completely disappearing he observed the keys with great interest.
‘By jah, me never sees this bombo key thang… but we’s find it, blud …we mo-find it’.
It was a disorienting shame; I had hoped for some headway. Jafar was the oldest staff of our establishment. If he didn’t know, who dared?
‘We certainly must. ’. I said.
‘Me loving ya spirit, yeah, ..willie-boy’… Com over me bockayard de moro! We most talk,yeah’ his icy voice trailed on and on. I waved him bye.
I was determined, now indoors to seek out Iddrisu. Once the two, himself and Jafara, knew of the secret search for a keyhole for the keys, they would bring the clues to me.
My mind was a battlefield now; Collins and I were highly agitated as the coup day neared but were unable to find the keyholes. Amidst the hubbub of fidgety restlessness, it would be a good two weeks, of numerous searching escapades, and even more false findings, before any leads were discovered:
Jafara would summon me briskly that evening, away from dinning, to the backyard. He nodded and pointed, studying carefully a set of black stones in the soil, and said in a gravely serious, urgent whisper,
‘Willie man, tonight be-faar the nighttime is a draw deeper, we dig inna dis place, yeah.’
I hesitated slightly, speculating in disbelief, ‘you think it’s down, there right?’
‘yeaah man! Jah say, hope izz allya need, mi lickle buoy’ He was indifferent, in a patronizing, reassuring way.
That night, all four of us; Collins, Iddrissu, Jafar and I, consumed in an almost diabolical trance, would dig our hearts and hands sore taking turns every few minutes. It was quite a thing, the labour that night wrought from within us.
Unkwown to us, at that exact hour, far across town along Labadi’s most isolated lands, a fierce shoot out was engaging between junior officers loyal to the Osaegyefo, and Afrifa’s gang of defaulters. A discreet note, bearing the coup plans had been intercepted by Lt. Moses Yeboah, who led the junior reconnaissance regiment. Afrifa would be killed that night, victim of a carbine rifle’s projectile.
Maintaining silence, to a fault, we scooped out the earth over what appeared to be a metal door of enormous measurements, several feet below the garden. A succession of varying key holes announced the severity of what was shut away, and frankly, filled me instantly with fear.
It was Jafara who would eventually break the silence, in his usual sermon fashion:
‘By Jah, mi boy,.. Nana, whatta ye gots os inna to, yeah?… bring forth dem shackles righta now’
Collins and I conferred rapidly at a whisper. ‘do we wait and inform Sean first?’ I asked
Collins refused, ‘There’s certainly no room for errors, Nana. We must be thorough’
Hesitantly, I let the keys fly in the direction of Jafara’s. He lunged forward and grabbed the keys- inserting the largest key into the largest orifice. The garden was dark, yet light from the open backyard shed provided ample luminance.
With a loudly ticking dischord of creeks, the big iron doors gave way. Jafara stopped and gasped, turned to me and nodded saying.
‘Shall we, mon fellows, advance yeah… to purg-a-to-ry…haha’
Even in the shadows, watching discreetly, I noticed Collins and Iddrisu slightly revolted by Jafar’s antics. Iddrisu, who had been unusually quiet all night took the first step in procession, with great surety.
We followed, escorted through a red-plum door, down a narrow dark service-corridor, and into a small chamber muralled with images of the Osaagyefo everywhere. I couldn’t believe all these were hidden beneath our home.
The door behind us swung loudly shut, and Iddrisu, now fully armed with what appeared to be a revolver, bellowed:
‘All of you, handz op!… Yes, you master Willie too!
I looked, perplexed, to Collins, who had already flown past me, pushing aside Jafara in the process armed with a short knife, of course. It saw Collins’ but he was too late: Iddrisu fired twice splattering his brains on the wall.
‘Hey, master willie, you na Jafara, asey handz op! ‘ Iddrisu roared, with anger. He was by all indications in no mood to be smoothed over with negotiation.
Visibly shaken, I signaled to Jafara, who was already prostrate, to refrain from any heroic attempts. Jafara grumbled in approval.
‘Iddrisu, whats gotten into.. you?,.. who are you.. give.. give… me the gun’, my voice shook as I spoke. Collins lay dead at my feet.
‘Shut up, and give me the keys, foolish boy!’ he shouted.
‘You think you can stop the Osaagyefo eh!..’, he spoke quite fluently as he fired the gun.
As the gun echoed, I felt my world vanish long before the bullet would hit me in the abdomen, leaving my body limp, and significantly losing blood. I would sustain the illusion of trying to crawl out of that cave just a few minutes before passing out.
Iddrisu fled, never to be found nor heard of again. Captain Amoah’s men later reported seeing him get into a taxi, parked in wait for him just at the main entrance of the residence. He escaped, still in possession of the keys. I doubt he ever returned to the Gold Coast.
I was in comma for another 3 weeks, having been hospitalized at the military hospital, before my father was alerted. Jafara, was always at my bedside — my mother would tell me when I came by, how he sung softly to me in a foreign language. This enchanting, sweet old man. But when I awoke, he was already gone. I would never see him again for many days.
The Osagyefo instructed my father that I be flown to Paris, insisting that I was not to be bothered with interrogation on the incident, on account of my health, I suppose.
About a year later in London, on a cold evening, while sitting at a grand restaurant, one of the last remaining guests in the open hall, a waiter would come up to my table and whisper:
‘Hello, fine sir, you be from the Gold Coast, yeah?’
Hesitantly, I looked up, squealing in delight, at the face of a significantly older Jafara. In the end he recounted how, he had managed to slip out of sight of Iddrisu that night, to get help, escaping a ricochet of bullets that poured after him. I was very happy to see him.
Unknown to us, in the distance the deep male voice of a British Broadcasting Corporation radio presenter conveyed in an uncanny sadness, the breaking news from one of its post-colonial nations:
‘In a sudden news report, confirmation from our reporters say, The Prime Minister Kwame Nkrumah, of the Gold Coast has been assassinated, shot in the head, dead, as he prepared to board the Presidential jet to neighbouring Nigeria!’,
Nobody cared. It was not necessary to us now, but I imagine that somewhere atop the clouds, Collins cheered from his heavenly abode. He had traded a potentially great life in exchange for this moment.
