‘Thank you. You have been very busy on my behalf. I really do appreciate what you are doing for me.’
‘Let’s not count our chickens yet, Mr Harvie. You will be driven to the airport on Monday night but unfortunately, a Russian flight will have landed shortly before you take off. We can expect some of your former colleagues to be around at that time.’
‘Oh dear, that could prove difficult.’
‘Of course, it will. However, we have arranged for that too.’
He lifted his telephone and moments later I was being driven up the hill to Kuku Hill for a weekend in nerve-wracking detention.
Chapter 25
Kuku Hill, Accra
The church and its buildings were in a walled compound. The entrance had a mesh gate and a Muslim night watchman in a flowing gown prepared for his evening prayers while keeping a watchful lookout. I was impressed that the church had prepared a wudu room for cleansing preparations for him.
My room was sparse. It had light green painted walls, a mosquito net over the open window and a single bed. There was no shade on the light. I shared the room with several moths. I flopped down on the solid bed and promptly fell asleep.
It was dark when I woke. I turned on the light, but rather than flying to it, my friendly moths seemed to have flown away. I had the surreal thought that the moths had flown to the Russian embassy and informed my former handlers where I was staying. I grinned at my stupidity. But I was far from being at ease.
I heard a bell ring. It seemed to come from the far end of the building. I went out on to the balcony of what was the Victorian Basle mission house. From the darkness, I heard a woman call out.
‘Mr Clark, your supper is ready.’
I came down to the ground floor and made my way to the dining room. There was one man engaged in his meal, dipping his right hand into the fufu and gathering some palm nut soup. As he did so, he made a slurping noise. I acknowledged him with a nod, which made him point to the chair opposite him. I sat down.
‘Are you a new missionary?’ he asked.
I hesitated, looking at my approaching meal.
‘No, not the church.’
‘Funny that. I saw you as a pastor, an agriculturalist, a doctor or a teacher perhaps, a missionary anyway.’
‘I must have that common look then,’ I said.
‘Then you’re a spy.’
I looked at his face. He remained fixed on his plate of fufu.
‘Good heavens, no. What made you think of that?’ I asked with a disarming smile, hiding my anxiety. How could he have known?
‘I met a white man here in Accra, a Spaniard. He said his friend was murdered in the north. Talk was that he was a spy, even more so, when he was murdered.’
‘Murdered? I didn’t hear about that.’ I hoped I was convincing.
‘You could not have been in Ghana at that time. It was all over the papers.’
‘I guess it would be. So this Spaniard, was he a spy or a missionary?’ I asked.
‘I don’t really know what he did. I never asked him.’
On Saturday morning I managed to wash some clothes. I thought they’d dry quickly in the sun, but it was so very humid that day that they took longer than I expected. In the afternoon I heard shouting coming in waves over the compound. I made an enquiry and the maid laughed.
‘It’s from the El Wak stadium. Oly Dade is playing Accra’s Hearts of Oak.’
‘Oly Dade?’
‘Great Olympics Accra football team. We call them Oly Dade. They are playing Accra Hearts of Oak sporting club.’
‘I see. They make a lot of noise.’
‘You can hear the game on the radio. Have you got one?’
‘A radio? No.’
‘Then I bring one to your room.’
And within a few minutes, she was as true as her word. I
listened to the end of the first half and got the whole of the second. Oly Dade lost 4-3 in what must have been a very exciting match. Perhaps the goalkeepers were the weak links in each team.
Night fell between 6 p.m. and half-past six. It varied no more than that all year as Accra on the coast is just 4 degrees north of the equator.
As lights flickered on, over the compound wall I heard a car approach. I caught a fleeting glimpse of it as it parked on the far side of the building, but no more.
I heard some footsteps on the wooden staircase to the landing of my room and went out to see who was approaching. It was a Ghanaian with a large box. The man behind him put my mind at rest.
‘Mr Clark, a visitor for you.’
‘Ah, Mr Owen, I’m afraid I’ve no hospitality to offer you here.’
‘Call me Ralph, we seem to know each other pretty well by now.’
‘We certainly do, Ralph. So what’s with this box? I won’t fit into that,’ I said laughing.
‘It’s not to get into. Let’s see what’s in it. This is Christian by the way. Can we come in?’
They entered my room and Christian opened the box and laid out some suits, ties, and shoes.
‘Here’s a suitcase for all your current clothes.’
I opened it and agreed it would take all I managed to bring with me. ‘A red tie is out of the question for a start.’
‘Good point,’ Ralph said rolling up the tie in his hands. ‘It’s more a matter of what fits. The icing on the cake is still to come.’ A wicked smile came over his face.
‘Am I getting my passport back yet?’ I asked.
‘Not just yet, Robert. You will see why in a moment.’
It was plain that he was not ready to tell me everything.
I tried on the shirts with a 14-inch collar. I laid out two ties which seemed to match like cup and saucer. A pair of size eight brown shoes fitted like gloves—I was pleased with my new outfit.
‘So where’s the icing?’
‘Okay take off your shirt and come through to the bathroom.’
Christian had filled the sink with lukewarm water and placed a stool in front of it. In his hand, he had a bottle.
I bent over the sink and closed my eyes. His hands rubbed my scalp as if he were vigorously scratching a dog. It was pleasant—the first time I had had my hair washed by anyone since I was a small boy. When he had finished I opened my eyes to see the water as black as coal. He wiped my face clean and I stood in front of the mirror. My fair hair was as black as the night. He asked me to sit down once more.
‘I brought Christian along because he is a barber.’
He cut my hair and gave me a central parting. Now my face in the mirror was unrecognisable – even to me. Goodness knows what Morag would think.
A close-up photo was taken. In fact, three were taken. I realised why.
‘You guys are very thorough. I bet you have done this before.’
It was a somewhat rhetorical question and it deserved the lack of a reply it got.
They stayed a further half hour, making sure I had made no other arrangements and that I would be ready at 6 p.m. on Monday evening to be driven to the airport, two hours before departure. I’d get my passport back then. Indeed it would show me with black hair and a somewhat comical central parting. At least that was how I saw it.
On Sunday it was far from quiet. Church bells woke me and the voices of choirs seemed to be everywhere. I found myself kneeling beside my bed. It was a prayer I felt I had to make, to help secure my return home without incident and to give me a sense of calm courage.
I could not eat breakfast. My stomach was in a spin. So I walked around the compound boundary wall like a caged prisoner waiting for his execution.
That afternoon, I slept like a newborn chimp but with no mother’s breast to cling to. When I awoke, the afternoon light was beginning to fade. My final preparations to leave Ghana were underway.