“Oh, really,” Derek said, looking at Emma with interest.

“Perhaps I should have asked you much earlier,” Sowah said to Derek, “but how did you find us, sir?”

“Once I figured out I wasn’t getting anything with DI Damptey,” Derek said, “I searched online to see if there were any private detectives who could help and came across the International Association of Private Investigators website. They listed you and your agency as one of only two in Accra that’s fully licensed and vetted. That’s how I found you.”

Sowah smiled. “Thank you. Yes, the IAPI often sends us referrals. Derek, I would prefer to believe this conundrum will have a happy, reasonable conclusion, but we must be realistic and hope for the best while preparing for the worst.”

Derek nodded, his jaw hardening and his eyes downcast. For his sake, Emma sent up a silent prayer.

THIRTY-ONE

May 17

Sunday afternoon after church, Emma took a couple of tro-tros to reach the Autism Center at the junction of Barnes Road and William Tubman Avenue. She was in a huff because the driver’s mate on the tro-tro had been slow—deliberately in Emma’s mind—about rendering the correct change. But once she arrived at the Center, she forgot the trivialities of Accra travel.

It was a modest place, but still far better off than the other autism institutions in the country. The rectangular brick building on the left was a small, converted home with a playroom, classroom, and an administrative office-cum-staff lounge/meeting room. The courtyard had a pair of swings, a slide, a climbing net, and two mini soccer goals on each side of the yard. The sky was darkening with rain clouds, so everyone was inside.

“Auntie” Rose Clarkson, the owner and director of the center, was a hands-on woman who didn’t mind working the weekends. She had only one staff member on with her on Sundays. Speech, art, and music therapy made up much of the activity during the week, but it was on the relatively unstructured Sunday when many of the permanent staff were off that Auntie Rose needed more volunteer help.

Rose’s own eighteen-year-old son, Timothy, had autism. When he was born, Rose was living in Connecticut with her then husband, whom she later divorced. But at the time, Rose was thrown into the turbulence of learning how to manage an autistic child, and it wasn’t easy. When Rose had to return to Ghana some ten years ago to care for her own mother, she faced the harsh reality that there wasn’t a single institution that would care for Timothy at the level he had enjoyed in the US. On top of that, the stigma facing parents—especially a single mother like Rose—was severe. Rose knew she wasn’t the only mother suffering. There were others like her. That’s why she founded the Accra Autism Center.

“Glad you’re here,” Rose said as Emma came in. “Kojo needs you.”

Emma had a rapport with thirteen-year-old Kojo, officially the Center’s first autistic child (after Timothy) to register. Kojo’s mother, Abena, was Emma’s best friend and the conduit through which Emma had been introduced to autism and the Center. Thereafter, Emma became a regular volunteer. This afternoon, he was rocking, flapping his hands, wiggling his fingers, and grimacing, which meant he was in a moderately agitated state that might—or might not—deteriorate into a sensory meltdown.