men exploited Ken’s freshman rank, one of them usually disappearing for hours from whatever checkpoint they were assigned, or cutting him out of whatever “something small” they coaxed from midnight drivers.
How he longed to report them. But he knew retaliation would be swift. The old guard viewed any attempt at reform by younger officers as a “breach of discipline.”
There were forty-four breaches listed in the Ghana Police Service handbook, but only two were consistently punished. The first: “Disobedience of a lawful order given him by his senior in rank, whether verbally or in writing, or by authorized signal on parade.” The second: “Communicating to any unauthorized person matters connected with the Service without permission from the Senior Police Officer under whom he serves.”
Ken was not so naive that he hadn’t expected some form of hazing on the job. His uncle, now a chief inspector, had prepared him with tales of his first-year constable days. But even if he hadn’t, Ken knew his people. Ghanaians acquired power three ways: money, position, and age. And when they had it, they wielded it with a hammer’s blunt force.
Fitting his helmet over his head, he seated himself behind Duah on the senior officer’s motorcycle. Taking advantage of the relatively open, pre–rush hour Nsawam Road, Duah zipped to their Munhwɛ assignment at Mal’ Atta Market.
When they arrived, Duah stayed on the bike. “I’m coming, eh.”
With gritted teeth, Ken watched Duah rev away, reminding himself that when the new class of academy graduates entered, he would move up a rung. He had received high commendations from his senior officers, and his uncle was friendly with the inspector general of police. He had hope that he would be considered for early promotion. Advancing from constable to lance corporal would mean a little more power and a little less abuse.
He yawned, wiping away a tear of exhaustion as he strode past the sign announcing Mallam Atta Market. Located in Kokomlemle, the central Accra neighborhood built in the early 1950s to accommodate the city’s population spike, Mal’ Atta served 1,800 customers daily, including workers in the now mostly commercial district and residents in neighboring New Town. From fresh vegetables to hair-braiding services, one could find almost anything among the stalls and stands spread across the market’s 57,499 square yards. Stepping over a slim gutter, Ken braced himself as he passed through the entry partition between Mal’ Atta’s cement walls.
When Ken was a child, his mother sold cloth in Kumasi’s Kejetia market. Growing up, he’d felt claustrophobic in the stadium-size crush laureled as West Africa’s largest open-air bazaar. His childhood had been populated by men wielding crates and sacks filled with everything from water sachets to ground millet, and women stationed behind tables topped with pyramids of tomatoes, student math sets, or pans brimming with all manner of powdered condiments—all incessantly haggling.
When he reached his teens, and his mother made him roam the market for customers, balancing folded fabric stacks on his head, his aversion to market hustle hardened. He couldn’t remember a happier day than when his uncle offered to pay his way through the police academy. Now, as he followed the traffic ambling toward the blaring Munhwɛ TV speakers, he resented his first-year rank all the more.
Mal’ Atta attacked with a slew of sensory assaults. While the morning sun overexposed Vodafone-red and MTN-yellow umbrellas, massive wooden sheds roofed with corrugated-iron sheets made shadowy figures of those transacting inside. Between the sheds and umbrellas, the narrow paths were choked. Suppliers squeezed through, carting boxes or plastic containers. Preachers outfitted with microphones and portable speakers admonished anyone within earshot. Itinerant chickens avoided children free from their caretakers’ backs who were chasing each other in dusty circles, urinating, or shitting within spitting distance of guardians skinning oranges or hacking sugarcane stalks. Patrons punctuated the chaos, rushing, dawdling, picking, poking, bargaining.
Threading through it all: the kayayei.
The mostly teenage kaya girls either balanced on their heads metal “China” pans coated in chipping plastic, weighted with the purchases of patrons they were muling for, or scanned for customers with pouncing eyes. Some worked with babies strapped to their backs with faded cloth. Ken noticed AMA inspectors chatting some kayayei up, grazing them, patting them, blocking their paths.
Maneuvering through the walkways like the reluctant market boy he once was, Ken found the Munhwɛ setup with relative ease. Four rows of pink plastic chairs faced a wooden stage, and the clipboard-wielding woman on it was directing a camera crew into position. Ken moved behind the platform, hoping to find a supervisor to note his punctuality.
He quickened his gait when he saw Inspector Quarcoo. The senior officer was engaged in what looked like a serious discussion with another uniform. Ken slowed his steps, surprised to see Duah with him, holding a pair of boots.
“I found someone on the roadside trying to sell them,” Duah said. He placed the boots on a table and peeled back one tongue, revealing Charles’s name.
“Maybe he gave them to the seller?” Ken said. “Charles is too big for someone to steal them off his feet.” He turned to Inspector Quarcoo to see if he agreed.
“Look at them,” Duah said.
Then Ken saw the blood.
* * *
Returning to her stall after a brief walk down the row, Muni dabbed her trickling hairline. A musky odor was aloft, and she knew Asana was now in the tight confines of the storeroom. She used her Munhwɛ flyer to wave away the smell, then dipped her nose in her handbag, inhaling the mingled notes of used perfumed strips.
“You’ve been using the deodorant I gave you?”
Asana looked up from the pan she was hurriedly filling with water sachets. “Yes, Auntie Muni.”
Then why your foul smell? Muni didn’t ask because she wanted to know instead if Asana had entertained Ibrahim in her stall. With impatience, she squinted at her employee and tenant. “Your pan will be too heavy.”
The girl, still packing on her knees, looked up again. “Sorry?”
“Asana, did you have someone in my shop overnight?”
Muni watched Asana spread her arms, fasten each hand on either side of the pan, and raise it to her head in one motion.
“Never, Auntie Muni,” she said almost too coolly. “Please, can I go? I saw that the Munhwɛ people brought bottled water for the crowd, but the sun is growing hot. People will need more.”
“You cleaned this place very well, Asana. You used a different soap. Where did you get it?”
“Mr. Selifu.”
“The butcher? Or one of his assistants?”
“I knew the AMA people would be here this morning so I couldn’t just sweep. I had to scrub. But the Dettol was finished. I’m always seeing Mr. Selifu’s boy scrubbing, so I asked him for some cleaning solution.”
“Which boy?”
Asana’s eyes bored into Muni’s. “Jonathan.”
Muni watched her kaya girl stagger slightly under the weight of the pan as she reached for the bottle.
“I’ll take it back to him.”
“You
