Webnovel Series by A Amankwaa
©2026 A Amankwaa. All rights reserved.
“Speak to Ato,” Abudu muttered in Hausa, his forehead pressed into his calloused palms. “Ato has the answers.”
Ntim stepped back, studying Abudu’s reactions in the heavy silence of the room. In the shadowed observation gallery, Brako’s fingers curled into white-knuckled fists. He glared through the reinforced glass, his chest heaving as he willed the man to shut up.
“Where is he?” Ntim leaned forward, his voice a low, deep hum.
Before Abudu could answer, his solicitor interjected. “My client would like to take a break now, Inspector.”
Abudu remained motionless for a long beat before shaking his head. “I don’t know.” He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, clinging to the fading hope that Ato had already crossed the border into the safety of the unknown.
Ntim didn’t push. He stood up, logged the end of the interview with a sharp click of his pen, and signalled for the duty officer to take Abudu back to the cells.
Brako drew a long, steadying breath. He met Ntim at the door, his face now a mask of professional composure. “You have to find and search the home of Ato at Akim Ntɛm,” he stated, his voice devoid of the tremor from moments before. “We have to peel off this layer and find the maggots.”
An hour later, Ntim’s team was racing towards Akim Ntɛm. At the compound house, one could taste the aroma of peanut soup amidst the suspicious glares of neighbours. Nana Fameye stood by the black water barrel, the surface of the metal rough and textured by years of maintenance with coal tar.
“He left two months ago,” Fameye muttered in Twi, gesturing vaguely toward the dusty road. “Packed a small bag and left as usual… galamsey boys.”
Ato’s rented room was a tomb of red dust and thick cobwebs. The sharp, skunky stench of stale cannabis clung to the peeling walls. CSI Josh, clad in a stifling white scene suit, moved systematically, searching the room. He swept a range of forensic lights across the floorboards, the blue and purple hues dancing over the grime. When he angled an infrared camera beneath the rusted bed frame, the screen flared.
A dark mass sat tucked against the far wall. Josh reached in, retrieving a black polythene bag that crinkled loudly in the silence. Inside lay a crumpled t-shirt. Even without the lights, the brownish-red crusting on the fabric was unmistakable.
Josh felt his mouth go bone-dry. He applied a presumptive test to a small corner of the stain; the instant colour change suggested the possible presence of blood. Sweat stung his eyes as he carefully logged the item and sealed it in a brown paper bag.
Outside, Ntim rapped his knuckles against the adjacent door. It creaked open to reveal Esi Kumi. Her eyes widened, her hands fluttering nervously to her throat at the sight of the uniforms.
”Do you know where Ato went?” Ntim asked in Twi.
“Me? I… I don’t know anything,” Esi stammered, her voice thin and brittle. “I was away travelling. When I returned… he was gone. The landlord mentioned he was heading back to his hometown, somewhere near Cape Coast. That is all I heard.” She looked at the sealed brown bag in the green box, her face paling. “What has he done?”
“We just want to ask him some questions,” Ntim replied, his tone neutral as he scribbled in his notepad. “Have you observed anything strange about Ato over the last couple of months? Anything out of the ordinary? Visitors?”
“Ehm… apart from that SHS girl, I do not think… his friends, Abudu and Ntow, were often here. I saw him with a police officer once, but that was like one or two months ago. I do not remember well. Is he missing?”
Ntim stopped writing. He looked at her in long pause before handing her a card. “We are looking for him for some assistance. In case he returns, call this number immediately.”
At the Paga border, the humid air hummed with the sound of idling engines and shouting hawkers. The immigration officer flipped through a dog-eared passport, his eyes darting between the photo and the trembling young man in front of him.
”Purpose of travel?” the officer barked.
“I am going to visit my brother in Ouagadougou, sir,” Ato replied.
He tried to keep his hands still, but his fingers drummed a frantic, involuntary rhythm against his thighs. His throat felt dry, so he began to hum the melody of “Obra ne woara bɔ,” the notes shaky and thin. He was trying to anchor himself to the lyrics, the idea that his life was still his to shape, but the immigration officer was already leaning over the counter, eyes narrowing at the forced tune.
”Open the bag.”
The officer rummaged through the contents: heavy bags of gari, sugar, milk powder, and jars of roasted peanuts. He pulled out containers of shito, sardines, and corned beef. He looked up, his expression hardening.
“Why do you need all this for a simple visit to your brother?” the officer asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Ahmed!” he called to his colleague. “Come see another survival kit.”
The officer leaned over the counter, locking eyes with Ato. “You want to go through Libya, do you not?”
He whistled to another colleague. “Young man, we need to verify your identity. That is a dangerous route for criminals to take.”
Locked in a stifling detention room, the Ghana flag fluttering outside the window became a blur as Ato’s mind drifted back to that morning at the Big Tree.
”Don’t kill me, please, sir,” Ziggy’s wife had sobbed, her knees sinking into the damp earth.
Brako had looked at her, his face a mask of cold indifference. “I am sorry. You have seen too much,” he whispered, turning his back.
Abudu didn’t hesitate. He raised the pistol and fired. The crack of the gunshot still echoed in Ato’s nightmares. A single tear traced a path through the dust on his cheek. He thought of his older brother, lost to a mangled wreck on the Accra-Cape Coast road, and the university degree he had abandoned to keep his parents fed. Pino had promised him a way out; he had introduced him to Abudu, the ‘Gold Mallam’. Now, there was no way back.
The door creaked open. An immigration officer tapped him on the shoulder, his face grim. “Why are you crying?”
Ato didn’t answer.
“We’ve just had an alert. You are wanted by the police in Akim Oda,” the officer stated, his voice echoing in the small room. “Ato, you are under arrest on suspicion of involvement in the murder of Kwabena Addo.”
Ato fell on the floor, and muttered in Fante “Awurade, fa m’ bɔne kyɛ m’.” He was carried away in the police pick up truck.
Six days later, the chaos of the investigation felt worlds away. Brako sat on a shaded veranda at Afi Island Gardens, the tranquil waters of the Volta Lake lapping at the shore.
”Kofi, we need to talk,” Akosua said, staring out at the horizon.
”What is it now? We are here to relax,” Brako replied, leaning back in his chair.
”What are we doing? I am not comfortable with this… our relationship,” she explained, her voice low. “People are whispering. With my new position, it is too risky.”
Brako’s relaxed posture vanished. He set his drink down with a sharp thud. “So that’s it? After I placed you in that seat, now you are uncomfortable? You have no idea the sacrifices I made to get you there.”
”I know, but John is demanding so much from me, Kofi. Why are you so loyal to him?”
Brako leaned in, his voice a harsh whisper. “When my mother was diagnosed with cancer, who paid for the flight and the treatment abroad? The house in Kumasi… who do you think is funding the construction? You think a police officer’s salary builds mansions? Without him, we are finished. We are nothing. Please, be humble o…”
Akosua sighed, the tension leaving her shoulders as she reached for a small bowl. “Hmmm, it is… I was just… anyway, I brought the atadwe and kube mix for you. Ei, Nana nie!”
Brako gave a short, jagged laugh, the tension breaking as he reached for the glass of tiger nut drink. “You worry too much, Honourable Minister. After all, are we not here for atɔdwɛ?”
Their laughter was sudden and boisterous, a loud, jarring sound that drifted across the manicured lawns and echoed all the way to the receptionist’s desk. As they toasted to their survival, the sun dipped below the Volta Lake, casting long, black shadows over the water.
Meanwhile, 712 kilometres away in a stifling Paga cell, the young man who had helped them build their empire sat with his head in his hands, humming a shaky melody about a life he no longer owned.
Scientect 