Frozen Lips

CHAPTER ONE

He had barely thirty-five minutes to reach the check-in counters at

the newly crowned swankiest airport terminal in the world: Heathrow’s

Terminal Five. He jumped from the Piccadilly Line, a train he boarded

at Finsbury Park in the early hours of the morning. Terminal Five was

the last stop for the train so there was no need for him to rush out, but

time was against him so he ran towards the shiny double doors of the

elevators. The red lights were blinking, a signal that the machine was

about to depart.

A sympathetic woman already in the lift pressed a knob to hold the

machine in check till he got in. He thanked his benefactor profusely as

he tried to remain calm, but the darting eyes regularly on his wristwatch

prompted unsolicited compassion from the fellow passenger in the lift.

‘I am sure you will make it, try to stay calm,’ the woman encouraged

smilingly. For the first time, he looked at the woman’s face with a smile

in return.

‘You are very kind, thank you . . .’

A ding-dong bell sounded to announce the departure lounge to the

two travellers. Quickly, he wheeled his two heavy bags, a traditional

mark of African travellers, out of the lift and momentarily lost his

bearings when one of the wheels got trapped. He managed to release

the entrapped wheel, cursing for allowing himself to be loaded with that

many parcels from friends to relations back home, but he also knew he

couldn’t have refused to accept any of them. Rapidly, he wheeled them

to the new spacious and ritzy lounge.

The surroundings seemed different and thought he did not see that

much beauty when he passed through the previous week. He ran to the

check-in lounge to one of the monitors with departure schedules and

scanned the list of flights.

His destination was missing!

He went through the list again, this time with a thorough comb, and

still could not find his flight schedule.

How is that possible, he queried himself and walked briskly to one of

the check-in attendants, to a tall beautiful lady whose face was plastered

with perpetual disarming smiles.

‘Excuse me Madam, please where is the counter for Accra? I checked

the monitors but I couldn’t find it.’

‘May I see your ticket, please?’ The lady requested still smiling.

The traveller dipped his hands into his breast pocket and quickly

produced his ticket to the attendant.

The lady went to one of the computers and punched the keyboards

furiously with skilful fingers, moments later she turned to look at the

traveller. This time the smile was not so disarming, but plastic and

meaningless; widened lips with no delight.

‘Your flight is at Terminal Four sir. This is Terminal Five; go out and

turn right.’ She pointed to the gates ahead. ‘There are coaches shuttling

between here and Terminal Four every ten minutes.’ She looked at her

watch as she spoke. ‘The gate for your flight will close in fifteen minutes;’

she warned with finality.

The traveller ran outside to find a young woman shivering in the

uncompromising cold weather with a fag between her two fingers as

she inhaled the noxious fumes with relish.

Ironically, where she stood had a “No Smoking” sign boldly written.

So much for the law-conscious Britain, he thought.

‘Please, where can I find the buses to Terminal Four?’ He asked the

lady. When the woman turned to him, he saw she was an official of the

airport authority; the top left of her uniform had the BAA logo.

‘Here,’ she said curtly, and resumed her romance with the fumes.

The traveller released his grip on the luggage for the wait and stood

in the murderous British cold weather perspiring. A couple walked

in leisurely to join him but his thoughts were not in London and his

immediate environs and so did not hear when they greeted him. He had

to be in Accra at all costs. He thought of other possibilities of getting

to Accra, should he miss his flight. Could he fly to Lagos, then what?

He dismissed that idea immediately. Even if he should fly to Lagos,

the probability of getting another flight to Accra that very night was

doubtful.

The all-important interview was at 9:30 in the morning for his

show: At the kitchen of public conscience, the program that earned him

many enemies and few friends.

He couldn’t and should not miss the opportunity; he reminded

himself to be in Accra at all cost.

For weeks, he had rehearsed a strategy to confront the man who

potentially could be the next president of his country.

The political party the candidate was representing had done a good

job in marketing him as the best there was. What many didn’t know, or

knew and turned a blind eye for various reasons, was his job as the host

of that program to bring to the fore for national discourse. He had made

it his duty to inform the electorate before they made a choice.

It was his style of uncompromising confrontation and dissecting

guests on that program, which earned him many enemies and few

friends.

‘That’s your bus,’ the BAA lady who had finished dating the

groom-smoke brought him back to London and pointed to an

approaching coach rolling slowly on the corridor in front of him. It

was exactly three minutes wait, but perhaps there never was any three

minutes that long in history. He pushed the two heavy leather bags

towards the coach. As he did so, the lady driver who had just jumped

down and who he assumed was a Caribbean, came to his rescue and

lifted the two bags effortlessly; one in each hand to the booths. The

performance of the driver prompted him to resume his work-out

routine when he was back in Accra.

He jumped to the seat behind the coach driver as if the front seat

would get him to Terminal Four faster. When the coach began to roll

slowly, he decided not to look at his watch any longer. It changes nothing

anyway except to heighten the palpitating throbs of the body clock known

as the heart, he thought.

How could I have made such a damned mistake? He questioned

himself when the coach took off and blamed his predicament on BBC

World Service Radio broadcasting in Accra.

Prior to his departure from Accra, the network bombarded his

eardrums incessantly on “catastrophic aviation errors” at Terminal Five,

insisting that the new terminal was specifically for all British Airways

flights. He assumed wrongly that it included flights from Accra, which

was not the case.

Ghana, being HIPC— “Highly Indebted Poor Country,” the new

label designed by rich economies for poor nations seeking for support,

had not sufficiently upgraded herself to enjoy such a swish display

of British affluence. He rebuked the president of his country for that

singular decision he indulged himself.

When finally the coach rolled to a stop, he quickly jumped down

closely after the lady driver who looked at him quizzically, but all he

needed was his bags.

‘This is the last call for flight BA 081 to Accra,’ He heard the speakers

at the airport announcing.

Laboriously, he slugged one of the bags over his shoulders and

wheeled the other and made his way towards the check-in counter

where the long snaking queue had no head or tail. He approached one

of the gentlemen conducting the queue.

‘I am sorry sir, my flight is about to depart; could you please . . . ?’

‘Mr. Yaw Asante . . . Mr. Yaw Asante travelling to Accra, you are

delaying the flight; this is the last effort to reach you. Mr. Asante

travelling on flight BA 081 to Accra you are delaying the flight . . .’ The

speakers interrupted his pleadings.

‘That’s me,’ he pointed out excitedly to the official, his voice an

octave higher than he had intended.

‘Have you checked in already?’

‘Yes I have,’ he replied promptly.

‘Come with me,’ the officer announced.

He followed him avoiding the winding queue to the counter. ‘Drop

your bags in here,’ the officer said.

When he dropped the bags they were over-weight but the officer

only looked at him with a silent warning.

‘Let’s go,’ said the officer. They went through the security checks

to the last end and he thought he was going to have his way through

security with the officer leading the way, but no!

‘Remove your jacket, belt and shoes for me, please,’ an Indian

security officer announced. He looked at him and felt like throwing

a punch at the officer but he also knew that even an argument would

eat away the precious seconds he didn’t have. He removed his shoes,

belt and jacket and threw them on the conveyor and run through the

scanner machine. The sensitive machine triggered off an alarm; there

were leftover British coins in his pockets, he took them out as another

bulky security officer came over to frizzle him thoroughly. When it was

finally over, he collected his clothing hurriedly and ran towards gate

E5, with his belt, shoes, and jacket in hand. Passengers with time to kill

looked at him improbably, but he kept on running till he got to gate E5

which was already closed.

Desperately, he banged on the steel doors while strange looks

still stared at him, obliviously, he continued banging till the door was

eventually opened by a wide eyed security buff.

‘Yaw Asante,’ he shouted breathlessly as he panted.

The obviously irritated security officer managed a dry smile and

inched aside for the passenger. Quickly, he ran through the long passage

to the aircraft. As he did so, he heard the security operative announcing

him on his communication gadget in a cracking voice.

Once in the aircraft, he sat droopily on his seat, his brain blank as

he watched the polluted grey clouds delivering and swallowing “huge

man-made metal birds” beyond his optics to the unknown.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are waiting for traffic control to clear us,

there seems to be a little bit of traffic ahead of us.’ The smooth voice of

the pilot sounded through the aircraft speakers.

Fortunately for the exhausted passenger, the seat next to him

was empty. He adjusted the bulk of his weight to one side, his head

to the other and was gone so fast that he did not notice when they

were airborne. When he came around, he had already done almost

three hours of sleep, but his metabolism did not go to sleep. He felt the

familiar sensation he knew was hunger; he was also aware that he had

missed the meals already.

Well, I paid for it, so it is only fair that they give me something to eat,

he reasoned and buzzed a button on the left armrest of his seat.

Soon, another smiling hostess came over. Do they look for people

who could smile this easy to employ or what? He wondered.

‘I am sorry to bother you madam,’ he began, ‘I know you have

already served lunch but I was asleep and I am starving . . .’

‘No problem sir, you will be served,’ the lady cut in before he could

finish and walked away. He smiled nostalgically and felt lucky for having

so many cheerful ladies attending to him on such an eventful day.

The traveller attacked the meal ravenously when the lady served

him. This reminded him of his dead father, who, always insisted that

the only genuine love that ever existed is “the love for food”. A sudden

smile cracked on his face but not enough to halt his attack, he continued

the assault on the defenceless chicken and had taken the third or fourth

morsel when he felt a soft tap on his shoulders. He turned to look at

a towering figure in the isles smiling at him. He thought the man was

rude but managed to smile back at the stranger.

He had to be polite even if the man was discourteous. In his

profession he had the misfortune of meeting so many people that, it

was difficult to keep up with the art of recognition.

He judged the man towering over him to be in his late thirties. His

bearings created the impression of an athlete in a previous life and wore

a smartly tailored suit that he thought was handsome.

‘Mr. Asante, may I sit down while you work on this?’ The stranger

asked and pointed to the food before the traveller.

Yaw Asante appraised him and before he could reply, the man had

taken the vacant seat, uninvited.

‘You must be very tired,’ the man said in his bid to be solicitous.

Yaw Asante noticed that the man was American from his accent

and continued eating, ignoring the question from the invader.

‘My name is Jim . . . Jim Moses.’ Yaw lifted his eyes and looked at the

rude intruder again as he swallowed the morsel in his mouth.

‘And how may I help you sir?’

‘In many ways Mr. Asante, but I’d rather you finish your food first,

and sorry for the rude invasion.’ He said with a smile, but the smile

prompted a pause from Yaw Asante when he noticed the stranger’s

dental formula and thought he had seen that smile somewhere before;

not in the long distance.

‘Have we met?’ He asked the man who called himself Jim Moses.

‘Yes we have, but that is another matter.’ He paused as if he was

looking for the right phraseology for his next delivery. ‘I believe you

have been receiving materials through a courier from me!’

Yaw Asante nearly choked on the food in his mouth as he lifted his

eyes to look at the uninvited guest again. Someone had been sending

packets of documents through a courier service to him regularly for the

past two months, initially the materials came through e-mails and when

he ignored them, the fellow began sending hard copies to his house

through courier services.

It was an emerging craze in the social fabric in Accra, which started

when the government introduced what she called the “Whistle Blower’s

Act—WBA” ; designed for individuals to expose corrupt practices and

malfeasances in public and civil service. Since then, those with personal

vendettas at work places against perceived or real enemies cooked up

stories through the media instead of the channels instituted by the

government. A colleague journalist who carelessly followed one of such

trails eventually had to box his way out of a muddy corner, which left

ugly bruises on his face.

He, Yaw Asante, wasn’t going to be anybody’s whipping boy and

refused to be enticed.

When later the materials started coming to the house through

courier, he still ignored them but the inquisitive modern daughter of

Eve—Fafa, his girlfriend, began reading the materials and would come

to talk to him about the subject.

Eventually, he read part of the materials, and not only were they

serious allegations, they were also outrageous, which could potentially

land him in deeper troubles than he was prepared for.

The organisation and the people the writer sought to malign were

society’s untouchables. Not only were they well connected, they also

had impeccable records and profiles with what they did.

No sir, I want no part of it; he had told himself and never replied any

of the mails.

Now, suddenly, at thirty-seven thousand feet above sea level in the

blue skies, this time not through electronic mails or courier service but

physically invading his thoughts, time and meal, was the same accuser

of society’s ‘faithfuls.’ He dropped the plastic cutlery in the plastic bowl

and looked at the man, not hiding his astonishment.

‘How did you know who I am?’ He asked the intruder called Jim

Moses as his temper welled up within.

‘Is there another Yaw Asante in Ghana?’ The man countered with

his own question and went on.

‘Listen Mr. Asante, please let me impress on you to take a second

look at the materials before you completely close your mind . . .’

‘Impress me?’ Yaw Asante interrupted him distastefully. ‘You did the

opposite; you are not doing a good job if you thought of impressing me;

you rather succeeded in confirming my earlier estimation of you . . .’

‘Which is what?’ The man asked coolly.

‘I thought of you as someone who is used to having people do his

bidding; always in control to get things done his way.’ Yaw Asante mildly

responded, muting his real feelings. ‘Therefore, it is difficult for you to

accept the fact that I am not interested in your project . . .’

‘Mr. Asante, you are very dismissive and I can understand that, in

your trade you get lots of hoax and that means to be a sceptic . . .’

‘Mr . . . what’s your name again?’ Asante asked the man.

‘Call me Jim,’ the man calmly responded.

‘Okay Jim, why haven’t you gone to the police?’

‘The police?’ He asked in astonishment, ‘this is not a matter for the

police and also I don’t trust the police.’

Yaw Asante exploded in anger on the single statement ‘I don’t trust

the police,’ but he fought himself to stay calm. ‘Be civil; be civil,’ he kept

repeating to himself.

Nothing in Africa is good or respected by these arrogant westerners,

almost all the social institutions on the continent from the days of old

when the missionaries brought their Bible to the present day, everything;

music, religion, clothing, language, politics and governance . . . everything

was either heathen, fetish, backward or some derogatory fanciful labels

were employed as a tag. He kept quiet for some time to bring civility to

his language and when he thought he had lifted himself above such foul

sentiments he asked, ‘Do you trust the police in your country?’

‘What country?’ Jim Moses asked wearing confusion in his

demeanour.

‘In the United States, where you come from.’

‘I am not American.’

‘Canadian?’

‘No, Mr Asante I am not a Canadian either, I am a Ghanaian just

like you.’

Asante looked at the man again, not with surprise but disdain;

a minor part of Africans who live part of their lives abroad are even

worse than the westerners. They copy blindly and when they are back to

Africa, they want everyone to bow down to their wishes, and who would

blame them? This is a continent where the national psyche is eroded

to the lowest denominator, that anything and everything authentic is

considered inferior, particularly in his country, Ghana. It is the only

country he knew on God’s earth, where the colonial master’s mistakes in

pronunciations are accepted and authenticated to replace the pristine.

In that country, a trace of foreign accent in speech making is

supposed to win an instant respect to the extent that those who dare

speak mother tongues in pure idiomatic forms are looked on as

“villagers” or “uncouth”—okuraseni, to the extent that people who have

not been to neighbouring Republic of Togo, fake foreign accents to attract

respect, and this is not the preserve of the young and exuberant alone.

People who should know better are even worse offenders—politicians,

lecturers, and the new breed of radio broadcasters all fake accent on the

airwaves. He looked at the Jim guy one more time.

The undaunted Jim Moses had opened his brief case and had taken

a white envelope containing several 4" x 8" colour photographs and gave

them to Yaw Asante, who took them reluctantly. He looked at the back

of the prints and saw dates on each of them with descriptions of where

they were taken. The backgrounds were very dark, they were obviously

taken in the night from the impressions the images presented.

‘Do you carry these pictures with you everywhere you go?’ Yaw

Asante asked him.

‘No, just on this trip.’ He answered.

‘Who else knows about this . . . your project?’

‘No one sir, but you.’

‘How about the reason for bringing the pictures on this trip?’

‘Mr. Asante, you are the reason I made this trip.’

‘What . . . !’