Chapters (109)
- Part One
- ONE
- One day earlier
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- PART TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EIGHTY-FIVE
- EIGHTY-SIX
- EIGHTY-SEVEN
- EIGHTY-EIGHT
- EIGHTY-NINE
- NINETY
- NINETY-ONE
- NINETY-TWO
- NINETY-THREE
- NINETY-FOUR
- NINETY-FIVE
- NINETY-SIX
- NINETY-SEVEN
- NINETY-EIGHT
- NINETY-NINE
- GLOSSARY
- Acknowledgments
- Continue reading
- Part One
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
“Then I have to break the glass door,” Ismael said, grabbing a metal patio chair from the pergola. By the time the other two men reached the terrace, Ismael was attacking the door with the legs of the chair. It splintered open on his second attempt, and he reached inside and pulled down the door handle. The other two men were right behind Ismael as he pushed the door open.
“Awurade,” he said. “Oh, Jesus.”
Shades of white and cream were the color scheme of the room. The copious scarlet of the spattered blood on the carpet and bed was a jarring contrast. A bloody duvet covered Lady Araba’s body up to her neck. She was lying on her back and might have simply been asleep, save that her face was bloated and gray. Her eyes, now milky white, were still open. So was her mouth. The pillow on which her head rested had a wide halo of dried blood.
Peter and Ismael stood staring, frozen. They heard a loud wailing sound and turned to see Kweku-Sam weeping as he rushed inside. Calling out his boss’s name, he lurched toward the bed, but Peter grabbed him and held him back.
“Kweku,” he said quietly, then more emphatically, “Kweku, there’s nothing you can do. Madam is dead.”
TWO
TWO
Twenty years before
Araba had learned to sew by the time she was thirteen years old. Her Auntie Dele Tetteyfio was a seamstress who patiently taught her how to put together blouses, skirts, and dresses from scratch. Araba preferred the company of her doting aunt to that of her parents, Fifi and Miriam. Reverend Fifi Tagoe was a priest at the All Saints Anglican Church in Accra and an extreme disciplinarian apparently obsessed with the sin of fornication. Every other sermon of his seemed concerned with its evils.
In her early teens, Araba had only the foggiest notion what fornication meant. Was it having a boyfriend, or just hanging around boys? It might also mean having sex when you weren’t supposed to. If that was the case, then Araba was not a fornicator. She didn’t like boys much then, and certainly not enough to have a boyfriend. Boys were silly, empty-headed.
Reverend Tagoe wasn’t a loving man in any demonstrable way. He didn’t hug his children, and they had never seen him embrace or kiss his wife. Tagoe was a believer in the maxim, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” He kept a cane in his bedroom in case Oko needed a whipping, but rarely did he use it on his daughter.
Leaning against Dele’s chair, Araba watched her aunt hem a sleeve on her sewing machine, her fingers deft and precise while her feet pumped the pedal.
“Auntie?” Araba said. “What is fornication?”