she stops.
She yanks my head back and watches me with mild amusement.
And with one flick of her wrist, Salome slits my throat. Blood squirts out of my severed windpipe. The Nigerian releases me, and I land on the soiled carpet with a loud thud. Before everything fades to black, I watch the queenpin pick up Latif’s money and strut toward the door.
As I take my final protracted breath, the Nigerian speaks up: “Oga, wetin make I do plus the bodies?”
“Leave them to rot,” she snaps, then pauses. “Wait. As for the girl, there’s a gutter near the market. Dump her there.”
Suro nnipa na gyae saman.
(Fear man, not ghosts.)
—Paapa Yankson
Moon over Aburi
by Kwame Dawes
Aburi
1
A Man, a Woman, and a Boy
—Is it always damp like this?
—You haven’t been here before?
—No. Funny, eh? I always said I would visit . . . I would pass it all the time. Everybody at school used to come here. This is where the girls would meet the boys.
—Oh, so you are an Achimota boy.
—It is not the only school here.
—You look like an Achimota boy.
—Well, you should know.
—So you live in Accra, yes?
—I do.
—And never came before . . .
—Never had cause. I am sure . . .
—What?
—No, it is fine. Do you have fish?
—Oh finish what you were saying.
—I don’t want to keep you from your work.
—You mean my thriving business.
—Well, when it stops raining.
—Oh no, it is Tuesday. The crowd has come and gone. One or two might come, but we are not expecting anybody. If you buy some fish now, then we will have done well . . .
—So you won’t close up?
—One or two might come.
—Right, of course, like me . . .
—Like you. How far in did you go?
—I drove around. I walked a little. The air is so wet—heavy.
—Rain forest.
—Yes, but everything is thick, green. The leaves, the grass.
—Late in the night, if you stop and listen, it is as if the world has arrived here as it always has been.
—Hey.
—I am a poet, eh?
—I know things about you, but not that.
—You know things about me?
—I am a prophet.
—Oh, is that right? I knew you looked like a minister.
—I do?
—So what kind of minister?
—A hungry one. You have fish, fried fish?
—No, just red-red.
—With gari?
—I think there is some. But no plantain. So Baptist, Pentecostal, Anglican? I know you are not a Catholic . . .
—How do you know that?
—Well, you carry your piety like a badge of honor. Catholics are casual about it.
—Maybe that is an insult.
—No, no, just a fact. I think you speak in tongues.
—You can tell that by looking at me?
—Perhaps.
—Anyway, I want red-red, but I need it with plantain.
—You can have it without plantain.
—But how can that work?
—It is finished. So what can I do?
—I can’t eat it without plantain.
—Are you a chief? Your stomach makes demands like that.
—I am a prophet.
—That is right. Okay. Wait. Kwaku? Kwaku!
—Yes, Ma?
—Go down to the road and get some kelewele. Plenty. And run and come back now.
—Yes, Ma.
—But you didn’t have to do that.
—Well, I read my Bible. You might be an angel, not so?
—No, no, no. But you didn’t have to, I was teasing you.
—Oh, you will pay for it now.
—Of course, of course I will pay. I will pay extra. So is that your son?
—What if it is?
—Oh, why are you so touchy? I was just asking . . .
—I can tell what kind of minister you are. It is like you are trained by police. You know, the kind who will ask you questions and you don’t even know they are asking you questions, and then the next thing you know, they are telling you things you have already said but didn’t know you had said, and next thing you are confessing and thinking, But only God could have told this man these things about me, and you fall down and shake and say hallelujah. Salvation. That is the kind of minister you are now, isn’t it?
—I don’t know if you know police more or preacher more.
—I don’t know either. I am a cook. I cook and I feed you.
—But you were not always a cook, now.
—Who
