Bruno chewed the inside of his lip. “I want to meet Godfather.”

“You have to be one of the best sakawa to do that. Only Kweku Ponsu can decide if you are good enough.”

“Okay, then I will impress Ponsu.”

Nii smirked and said, “It’s just not that easy.”

TWENTY-NINE

April 20, Washington, DC

Ambassador Herbert Opare held a Meet the Press event at his residence, a chance for Ghanaian and American journalism students in both the US and Ghana to rub shoulders with the likes of writers and editors at the Washington Observer and the Baltimore Sun and perhaps look into career opportunities as well.

Herbert and Madam Ambassador Angelina Opare relished these intercultural exchanges and excelled at hosting them. Circulating waiters served hors d’oeuvres and wine to the mingling guests, a nicely balanced group of white and black, American and Ghanaian. Angelina, eloquent and elegant, floated from group to group chatting and engaging in deft repartee.

Herbert caught up with Marc Samuels, chief editor at the Washington Observer. He was sipping wine with Casper Guttenberg. This was convenient because the ambassador wanted to speak to them both.

“Would you join me for brandy later on in the Sun Room?” he invited them.

“We’d love to,” Marc said, looking pleasantly flushed already.

“Excellent,” Herbert said. “I’ll find you once most of the guests have departed.”

Once the room was buzzing with a comfortable rhythm, Herbert made his welcoming remarks: how Ghana was as committed to democracy and freedom of the press as the United States, and how political debate was alive and well in both countries. Yet both had their failings, and that was why it was vital that journalists from both sides meet to exchange ideas.

Then it was the turn of Marc and his counterpart at the Baltimore Sun to address guests briefly, after which a young American and Ghanaian journalist each spoke. By 8 p.m., the gathering was winding down and Herbert was saying goodbyes. He slipped away, allowing Angelina to close out the evening, and found Marc and Cas.

“How do you think it went?” Herbert said as he ushered them into the Sun Room, named for the skylight that conveyed an ice crystal illumination to the space during springtime. The rust-colored carpet was plush, accenting the espresso of the wood floor and the pale olive upholstery of the armchairs.

“I thought it was excellent,” Marc said. “These young men and women have fire in the belly. It’s gratifying.”

“I agree,” Herbert said, gesturing his guests to sit. “What can I offer you?”

Marc wasn’t one to turn down some good brandy, and he’d shared several fine bottles with Herbert before. One might have guessed from Marc’s corpulent frame that he liked good food and drink, and one would be correct. Casper, a smoker and coffee addict, was Marc’s physical opposite. He was Marc’s designated driver tonight, so there would be no brandy for him.

The three men settled in to talk, Herbert steering the conversation to the Washington Observer, where digital subscriptions were on the rise and had surpassed the one-million mark—still well behind The New York Times, though.