“Thank you, Mr. Cardiman. I think I’ve seen all I need.”
As they drove back, the three men were silent until Cardiman said, “I’m concerned about something. I didn’t express it before, but a thought has crossed my mind more than once. Could one or more fishermen in Akwidaa have committed the murder? Maybe they didn’t want the village to be moved to another site, especially since it’s sacred ground to them. Perhaps they would want to get rid of Charles for that reason.”
It was interesting that Cardiman was expressing the same suspicion that Eileen had. On the other hand, maybe Cardiman was trying to shift suspicion away from himself, Dawson reasoned. But he admitted that he did not suspect the resort owner of lying.
He went with Cardiman’s idea to see where it would go. “What do you suggest?”
“Let’s pay a visit to the Nana of Akwidaa,” Cardiman said. “I have a bottle of gin in the back. He’ll expect something from you.”
***
CARDIMAN HAD TO switch to four-wheel drive to climb a steep hill, and when they reached the crest, the beach again appeared in the distance.
“If you go up that way,” he said, pointing to another branch in the road, “you’ll reach the lighthouse, where there’s a splendid view. If you have some time, I highly recommend a visit before you leave Cape Three Points.”
“How far is it?”
“Just fifteen minutes or so from Ezile.”
He coasted down to the village and stopped at its edge in a swirl of dust.
To Dawson, born and bred in a frenetic city, village life seemed to move at a snail’s pace, or to not move at all. It was peaceful, but how did the residents live without electricity and running water? Not that Accra didn’t regularly have power and water failures, he thought wryly. That was almost worse, in a way. These villagers didn’t worry about electricity cuts because there was no electricity to be had. No expectations, no disappointments.
As they entered the village, about a dozen children ranging in age from two to eight came running out to greet them jubilantly. “Mr. Cardiman!” they shouted, dancing around him, tugging at his clothes and putting their arms around him.
“Hi, kids!” he said, beaming and ruffling their heads.
“How are you?” several of them asked repeatedly, practicing their limited English.
“I’m fine, thank you,” he said. “Now line up, come on, come on, you know the drill.” Cardiman winked at Dawson and Chikata. “Got them trained.”
Giggling and jostling, the children got into the semblance of a line, and Cardiman gave each of them a handful of sweets from the plastic bag he was carrying. They took off shrieking with delight, and Cardiman and his two companions continued through the village toward the shore. Some of the houses were of brick, others were wood frames filled in with mud. Dogs, goats, sheep, and chickens wandered freely. They didn’t bother anyone, and no one bothered them. Everyone knew Cardiman it seemed, acknowledging him as he passed by. He took care to greet each of them.
