Murder at Cape Three Points by Kwei Quartey Page A

coming with the boys to stay at the lodge for the weekend. Putting down some extra bedding would not be a problem.
    “Thank you, Abe,” Dawson said.
    “Don’t thank me. You’re flesh and blood, remember?”
    That oddly reminded Dawson of the inscription in the old pocket watch. Blood runs deep.
    In the afternoon, having reached Forjoe by phone, Abraham took Dawson on a trip to Sekondi Harbor along the coastal road. Dawson gazed at the seawall of large boulders along the route. Glancing farther out to sea, he saw the dark, squat shape on the horizon.
    “Is that an oil rig?” he asked.
    Abraham glanced over. “No, it’s an accommodation barge for temporary workers who don’t need to stay on the rig.”
    On their left, rows of faded old buildings appeared. Going up an incline, they entered downtown old Sekondi with its haggard British colonial buildings, including an ancient but still functioning post office. In the shadow of the seventeenth-century Fort Orange at the hill’s pinnacle, the fishing harbor came into view with large and small canoes adorned with colorful flags and religious declarations painted on their hulls.
    They parked near the marketplace and walked downhill through the maze of market stalls and over pocked, rocky terrain. Women and men carried pungent loads of fish on their heads in heavy, metal basins. To prevent an accident of equilibrium, they had to keep theirforward momentum, knocking to the side anyone who was unfortunate enough to be in the way. Calling out “pure water” in a singsong voice, other women head-carried bins of iced drinking water in plastic sachets that were a major source of the trash casually tossed into the gutters of Ghana’s cities.
    Under a long shaded structure with open sides, both men and women sorted through the fishermen’s catches and displayed some of the largest fish Dawson had ever seen. Abraham pointed out different ones as they walked along—grouper, swordfish, tuna, and red snapper.
    Just beyond that was the wharf where large trawlers were moored and crowds of fishermen carried on a brisk and noisy business with market women. Some of the women carted off their purchases on their own heads, while others used a professional porter.
    “See that guy?” Abraham said, pointing to a compact older man who was moving off with a punishingly heavy bin full of fish on his head. “He’s about sixty years old—been doing this since he was a teenager.”
    And all of it in the harsh sun , Dawson thought, wiping his drenched forehead.
    Abraham led the way to a quieter part of the harbor, weaving in between shacks where mechanics were repairing outboard motors and carpenters were building new trawlers. Compared to the area they had just left, the vessels here were canoes of different sizes pulled up on the shore or moored in shallow water with makeshift cloth canopies for shade.
    One of the fishermen, a densely muscular man of thirty-ish, was darning his fishing net, a portion of it hooked over his big toe to keep the net’s tension as he deftly repaired holes and tears with a large needle. His deeply black skin glistened in the sun.
    “Clay!” Abraham called out.
    The man looked up and grinned as he saw them approaching. He put down the net and skipped out of the canoe.
    “Abe, my brother! How are you?”
    Abraham introduced Dawson as his cousin and asked Clay if Forjoe was around.
    “I haven’t seen him today,” Clay said.
    He called out to three fishermen on an adjacent canoe, asking them if they knew where Forjoe was.
    “I think he went to the house,” one of them replied.
    Abe thanked them and went on with Dawson. At the top of the incline not far from where they had parked, they crossed the street to a ramshackle group of houses around a small compound. A teenage boy was washing clothes in a wide metal pan, and a woman was hanging them out to dry on the line.
    “Good afternoon,” Abraham greeted her. “Have you seen Forjoe?”
    “He’s inside,”