Chasing his meal with Alvaro pineapple soda, Nii came away from the junction and drove farther on to find a parking space next to the Adome Hotel. After alighting, he followed the would-be sidewalk bordering the southward road for about four hundred meters, then turned right up a steep hill through a space between two houses. Most of the flatlands east of the road near the Volta Lake were already built up, so everyone was constructing on the hill now. People at the top had the most money, of course, including Kweku Ponsu. Three separate, low-slung buildings with long verandahs, one of them still in construction, comprised the sprawling property. Parked in front were six of Ponsu’s vehicles, a mix of SUVs and sedans. In addition to this Atimpoku location, Ponsu had a practice in Accra. Unlike the frenetic Atimpoku junction, it was quiet here with the only sounds being those of goats and sheep bleating, chickens clucking, and kids playing.

Two women were doing laundry on the verandah of the center building, one bucket for the wash, one for the rinse. They looked up as Nii appeared.

“Good afternoon,” he said in bad Twi. As a Ga, he spoke Twi with an awful accent. “Nii Kwei,” said the older one with a smile, “how are you?”

“I’m fine, and you? Please, is Mr. Ponsu in?”

She got up, wiping her hands in the fold of the cloth around her waist. “I’m coming, eh?” She went briefly inside the house, reemerging to beckon to Nii. “Mr. Ponsu says you can come.” It took Nii’s eyes a few seconds to adjust to the room’s dimness. Ponsu, swaddled in yards of resplendent kente cloth, sat in the corner on a traditional wooden stool as he texted on his smartphone. A violent gas lamp explosion when he was a child had scarred his face and chest for life, but he had undergone restorative plastic surgery in the United States recently, and his blotchy, tight skin had improved considerably.

Ponsu eschewed the term, “fetish priest.” It was the white man’s language and had always had a derogatory connotation. He preferred “traditional priest,” a fitting name considering Ponsu repeatedly rattled Ghana’s conservative clergy and the Pentecostal ministers by accusing them of fraud and false prophecy. People either hated Ponsu’s guts or believed in him with all their heart. To Nii Kwei, Ponsu was like a father who commanded fear, respect, and sometimes even love.

“Good afternoon, Papa boss,” Nii said, touching his forehead in salute.

“How are you?” Ponsu’s tone was nasal, as though his vocal cords were placed in the back of his nose.

“I’m good, please.”

“Sit,” Ponsu said, indicating a stool opposite him. “How are you faring?”

Nii cleared his throat. “Not so bad.”

“What have you brought me?”

Nii took out a bulging, folded envelope from his pocket, stood up, and gave it to Ponsu, who took out the cedi bills and counted them. He looked up for an explanation. “This is all?” he asked, his tenor flat and disapproving.