“It’s okay, Dawson,” came Chikata’s cheerful voice from across the channel. “We’ve got him.”
53
“How are you, Obi?”
“Please, I’m fine,” he said as Dawson and Chikata sat down opposite him. This time, he was in CID’s only official interview room, for his capture had indeed achieved the status of “national importance.”
Dawson studied Obi for a while. “What do you feel right now?”
He seemed puzzled. “I feel a little hungry.”
Dawson grunted. “I see. You remember Akosua, the girl last night?”
“Akosua? She told me her name was Jasmine.”
“Jasmine, then. What did you plan to do to her?”
“First to brand her with the hot iron grate of the stove. Then after that, I stick my knife in her back. One stab only, sir. Always just one stab.”
“Why is that so important?”
“Everything has to be neat. Have you ever seen anything at the doctor’s house that looks basabasa? Never. Everything I do is neat and clean.”
“But you never scrub the blood off the floor of your killing place.”
Obi frowned. “Blood itself is purifying, Inspector Dawson. It is not untidy, it is a pure thing.”
“When you kill, what do you feel?”
“Joy.”
“Like the joy of the Lord?”
“Yes. He guides me in all things.”
“He spoke to you and told you to kill Jasmine?”
“Yes.”
“He also told you to kill Musa Zakari?”
“Yes, please.”
“And Ebenezer Sarpong.”
“Yes, please.”
“Comfort Mahama.”
“Yes, please. She too.”
“Why do you believe God wants you to kill people?”
“Not people, Inspector. Certain people.”
“Street children.”
“Certain street children.”
“Teenagers?”
“Teenage children of the street are a visitation of Satan and a pox on us.”
“Why them in particular and not the young ones?”
“The small ones come with innocence. They have a chance to return to their villages, where they belong. Those that return will be blessed by God.” Obi’s face clouded over. “But those that stay have made a pact with the devil to do evil things. Fornication and prostitution, lying, cheating, and stealing. Worst of all, when they come of age, they begin to mate, producing offspring. Some of those offspring too will become fornicators, prostitutes, cheats, and thieves as they come of age. Look at the shame and filth they bring. Look at the venereal diseases. Have you not visited CMB and Agbogbloshie? They defecate like animals wherever they like, these people. They are dirty. No one wants to cleanse the city of them, so I have to. They are crowding our streets.”
“But the doctor who you admire so much does not seem to agree with you about the street children,” Dawson said. “He cares about them, does he not?”
“The doctor is a good man, but sometimes I feel sad about what he is doing. He is trying to cleanse the children by showing them a new way of living. But, you see, Inspector, it is too late. If you put a new cloth on a dirty bed, the bed is still dirty.”
“Were you a child of the street?”
Obi stared at Dawson. “Please, the Lord blessed me when I was young and He took me out of the street. And He blessed me again and brought me to Dr. Botswe.”
“Why can’t you feel sympathy for street children when you were one yourself?”
There was a sudden flash of anger. Obi’s voice rose and cracked. “You don’t call me that!”
He stood up, and Chikata, at the ready, did the same.
“Sit down, Obi,” Dawson said.
Obi did, hyperventilating. “Sorry, sir.”
“It’s okay. You say you sometimes feel sad about what Dr. Botswe is doing. You mean bringing the children to his home?”
Obi gripped the edge of the table so hard his nail beds turned bloodred. “Iniquity, sinfulness, and dirtiness defile such a home.” His chin and bottom lip were quivering with emotion. “Have you seen the doctor’s house? Have you seen how I clean it, how I make it more beautiful than even the best Lighthouse church? It is as a temple, Inspector.
“And then he brings this filth, this refuse from the streets to sleep in the spotless sheets I wash with my own hands. No. Those children do not belong here. They belong in the gutter or the latrine. That is all they are worth. Let them be there, let them roll in the Korle Lagoon and eat from it like the pigs.”
Dawson shook his head slowly. “If there is a hell, that’s where you are going. Dr. Botswe in heaven will never lay eyes on you there.”
Obi inclined his head. “Dear Inspector, my heart is troubled for you. You know not of what you speak. Have you committed yourself to the Lord? Do you go to church?”
Dawson curled his lip. “You think any of this redemption nonsense is fooling me? You are a psychopathic killer pure and simple, Obi. All this religious speech you’re making? False. Bogus. ‘Commit yourself to the Lord.’ You don’t believe a word of it. You’re a liar, just like any other psychopath. You dress up your murder in fancy language, but it’s not even that complicated. You enjoy killing. Teenagers are the people you like to kill because they trigger the murder machinery in your soul.”
They stared at each other across the table, neither of them blinking.
“They are so easy to get, these children,” Obi said softly. “Just walk around the Novotel Lorry Park, or on Tudu Road, or around the old UTC building. You can find them there by the hundreds. Just pick one and go to him and ask, ‘Do you want to make some money? Come and clean my house.’ They are so poor, so desperate, and they will come with you. Even, you can just offer them a ride in a beautiful car.”
“Don’t you fear someone will see you take a child?”
“And so what?” Obi laughed hard. “Please, Inspector Dawson, let me tell you something you should know by now. Accra is a perfect place for murder. It is so dark and so quiet at night. Street people are sleeping everywhere. Who knows they are there, and who cares about them? Who will report anything? Everyone fears you, the police. They say if you go to report something to the police, you are the one who they will arrest. I could kill one of these rubbish children around the corner from where the other ones sleep and I could walk away without worrying. No one will care.”
Dawson shook his head. He didn’t want that to be true.
“When I throw such a person into the lagoon, or into the latrine or the rubbish pile or the gutter,” Obi continued, “I can do it without any concern whatsoever. I go back to my bed and sleep without any problem. You think a policeman is going to come and get me? Ha.”
Dawson leaned across the table and brought his face so close to Obi’s that the man drew back.
“But Obi, my fool,” he whispered, “that is exactly what I did. I came in and I fished you out.”
Obi swallowed.
“It was you who was reading Dr. Botswe’s book of proverbs and taking your cue from them,” Dawson said. “Sankofa, the bird whose head is turned backward, so that’s what you did to Ebenezer. ‘The knee does not wear the hat when the head is available.’ That was for Comfort, so you gouged her knees out. Musa: ‘We must count one before we can count two,’ so you chopped all his fingers off except the index. Right?”
Obi averted his gaze.
Dawson moved back again. “And last, ‘No one spits on the ground and then licks up the spittle with his tongue.’ You cut out Ofosu’s tongue. A sweet boy who loved to talk and joke around. And you, cold-blooded, and vicious.”