Webnovel Series by A Amankwaa
©2026 A Amankwaa. All rights reserved.
The salt from Adusei’s tears had dried tight on his cheeks by the time he pulled himself back to the desk. In the quiet of the Forensic Science Laboratory in Accra, he watched the progress bar on the monitor screen reach one hundred percent. With a single, decisive click, he dispatched the DNA profiles through the secure police portal. The data surged toward the Oda Divisional Headquarters and the CID offices in the capital.
Adusei leaned back, the blue light of the screen reflecting in his spectacles. He picked up his personal handset and typed a short, cryptic message to Dr Nhyira: “The ghosts have names now. The file is in the system.”
Back in Oda, DS Ntim stood by the duty desk. When the notification chimed on the station’s main terminal, he felt a swell of heat in his chest. He had been the one to carry the kit, a small act of defiance that had bypassed the rot at the top. He caught the eye of Agya Adom, who was mopping the corridor nearby. Ntim gave a short, sharp nod, a silent acknowledgement of the cleaner’s role in submitting the kit.
Ntim did not wait for an invitation. He marched to DCS Brako’s office and stood at the door. He presented the printed report like a weapon.
“The results are back, Chief,” Ntim said, his voice steady. “Every set of remains is a match for Kwabena’s family. The evidence is undeniable. I am prepared to reopen the docket immediately and notify the kin.”
Brako clenched his jaw, fighting to contain the frustration swelling in his chest. A bead of sweat trickled from his armpit, dampening his starch-stiffened shirt. He reached up and loosened his shirt. “Proceed, Ntim. We have to tread cautiously. Ensure you report every single development to me first.”
When the door clicked shut, Brako slammed the desk. He stood up, and kicked the bin so hard he sheared the stitching of his boots.
“This is too much! It was for a good cause. Yɛ de nam na eyi nam,” he whispered to the empty room. “But this is trouble. Real trouble.”
He fumbled for his secure handset and dialled a number that never appeared in the official logs.
“Sir, I am very sorry. I messed up. The DNA is out of our hands,” Brako said, his voice cracking. “I am prepared to do the needful for you. I know you need the gold money to secure your 7th December ambition. I don’t want to ruin this. I know your good heart, and this sacrifice is worth it for the greater good of the country.”
“Kofi, you are thinking too much,” the voice of John crackled through the receiver, calm and terrifyingly detached. “Stay calm. I am in charge. Things will always resolve by themselves. I am heading for the rally in the North. Take care of yourself and don’t do anything silly. Just play along.”
Back in Accra, the sterile scent of methylated spirit and industrial bleach clung to the walls of the Royal Prince Hospital ward. Akyere lay pinned to the thin mattress, her world reduced to the square of peeling ceiling paint above her. Her face was a heavy mask of surgical gauze and medical tape, hiding the jagged reminders of the accident. She tried to shift, but the command from her brain stopped at her waist. Below the navel, there was only a vast, terrifying void. She felt like a statue carved from the hips down.
Nana Ako sat by the bed, her fingers worrying a set of wooden prayer beads. Beside her, Prophet Ayensu stood tall, his white robe shimmering under the harsh fluorescent lights. He waved a fly-whisk over Akyere, his voice rising in a booming chant that filled the cramped room. He called upon fire and thunder to break the yoke of infirmity.
Akyere’s chest heaved. The Prophet’s words felt like stones being dropped into a deep well. She reached out, her fingers clawing at the stiff hospital sheets until her knuckles turned white.
“Stop it,” she rasped, the sound tearing through her dry throat.
The Prophet did not pause. He closed his eyes, his voice reaching a crescendo as he commanded her legs to walk in the name of the Lord Jesus.
“I said stop!” Akyere screamed, the force of it vibrating against her facial bandages. She looked at the Prophet, her eyes wide and wet with a fierce, feral anger. “Where was your God when the car crushed my bones? Where is He now, while I rot in this bed? Do not pray for my legs. They are dead. Ask Him why He let this happen… swallowing my family instead. Where is God when it hurts?”
Two days passed and the briefing room at the Oda headquarters felt smaller than usual. DCS Brako sat at the head of the table, his uniform crisp, his expression a mask of professional concern. Across from him, Dr Nhyira sat with her hands clasped tightly under the table. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Every time Brako spoke, she heard the distorted, gravelly voice of the man who had kidnapped her. She remembered the zero balance on her mortgage statement and felt the weight of the ploy in her soul.
“The discovery of a familial link changes the scope of our work,” Brako announced, his voice smooth and authoritative. “Dr Nhyira, we will need you to lead the forensic strategy for the second phase. We must be thorough.”
Nhyira felt the bile rise in her throat. She was being invited to hunt the very men who had bought her silence. She looked at Ntim, who was pinning a new map of the mining site to the corkboard.
Ntim did not look at the commanders. He looked at the list of names in his notebook: Abudu, the Overseer, and the foreign nationals currently in the cells.
“I have drafted the interrogation schedule,” Ntim said, his eyes fixed on the map. “We start with Abudu. He was there when the mine collapsed, and supervised the children,… the labourers. This time, we do not ask for a confession. We let the DNA do the talking.”
Back in Akim Nkunim, Nana Ako’s small courtyard was saturated with the scent of fresh palm wine and the palpable smell of deep sorrow. Ntim sat on a low stool, his cap resting on his knee. He delivered the news in a low, sombre tone. He did not use the word skeletons. He spoke of the lost and the found loved ones.
Nana Ako did not scream. She let out a long, shuddering breath that seemed to deflate her small frame. She leaned into the shoulder of her sister, her tears carving silent tracks through the dust on her cheeks. The courtyard, usually filled with the chatter of the neighbourhood, fell into a heavy, respectful hush.
Abusua panyin Kumi, the family head, stood by the gnarled neem tree in the corner. He gestured for Ntim to join him in the shadows near the gate. Kumi’s face was a map of deep lines, his eyes hard as flint.
“We thank the police for bringing the truth,” Kumi whispered, his voice like dry leaves. “But the truth… this news… hmmm… is a heavy burden for the heart. We need to bring our children home from the police mortuary. Tell me…. the procedure to reclaim the remains. We must begin the rites of our ancestors as tradition demands. The family is restless until we provide a befitting rest to our loved ones.”
Ntim detailed the procedure to Opanyin Kumi and called the hospital to organise the paperwork.
Three days later, Abudu was brought in for further questioning. The interrogation room was an echo of anxiety and Abudu’s heart hammered against his ribs like a man cornered by a hungry lion. Ntim sat across from Abudu, the man’s face a mask of scarred indifference. Beside Abudu, a sharp-eyed solicitor sat with a yellow legal pad, his pen poised but motionless.
Behind the two-way mirror, Ntim knew Brako was watching. He could almost feel the DCS’s heavy, shallow breathing against the glass.
Ntim did not start with a shout. He placed the DNA report on the metal table with the quiet precision of an assassin unsheathing a knife. Abudu flinched. Ntim slid the folder forward until the edge of the paper brushed against the Abudu’s cuffed wrists.
“The lab in Accra has finished its work,” Ntim said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly register. “The science does not care about oaths or silence, Abudu. We have established that the remains under the tree belong to Kwabena, the man you called Ziggy, along with his wife and their three children. The DNA matches are absolute.”
Abudu’s eyes remained fixed on the folder. A single bead of sweat formed at his hairline, tracking a slow path through the dust on his temple. He did not blink.
“We know the history,” Ntim continued, leaning into the man’s personal space. “We know you worked with Ziggy at the galamsey site. We know the children were on that site. While you sit here in silence, Ziggy’s mother is wasting away from the grief. His sister, Akyere, is pinned to a hospital bed, her legs useless, her face shattered.”
Ntim stood up, the chair legs scraping harshly against the concrete floor. He placed both hands on the table and leaned down until he could see the tiny, broken veins in Abudu’s eyes.
“For the sake of a mother who cannot sleep, and for a family that deserves to put their kin to rest, tell us what happened in that clearing. What really happened to Ziggy and those children… his wife?”
Ntim held the gaze, his own pulse thumping in his throat. Silence stretched across the room, thick and suffocating. Abudu’s jaw tightened, the muscle bunching beneath his skin like a coiled snake.
Outside, in the observation room, the only sound was the faint hum of the overhead lights.
Scientect 