The Patriot

by Samuel Cobby Grant

EPISODE 5

THE NEXT DAY

The President called for an emergency briefing on the whereabouts of Issah Musah. The Press had gotten wind of the issue and had been putting pressure on the Government for explanations.

All sorts of theories were being propounded by the local and the international press thereby making the Government look bad.

There was this particular theory being bandied around that the President had had the security capo murdered for threatening to expose him for a supposed unconstitutional sleigh of hands.

The pressure mounted on President Awuku and his government was so much that the cedi began to suffer on the international market. When hitherto, it was $3:00 to ¢1:00, it was now $2:50 to ¢1:00.

The President had roped in his Veep to be part of the briefing and immediately regretted making him part of it as soon as the man put in an appearance. He looked dishevelled and disoriented. And he reeked of alcohol too.

The briefing revealed nothing new. Issah Musah seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth.

The President stayed in his office, with his thinking cap on long after he had ended the meeting.

After much thought, he decided to look for the one man who could get the necessary results he was seeking.

Even when he was playing with the idea in his mind, he already knew the one who was best suited for the job. He sighed and made the call.

“I knew you were going to call sooner or later,” a rich baritone voice said at the other end of the phone even before the President had stated the reason for the call.

Would you take the job?” the President asked, knowing deep down that he was the only man for the job and was going to go to all lengths to get him to take the job.

“Yes, I will but I report to only you.”

“Of course,” he replied quickly.

“I need a key that opens all doors; a carte blanche pass to everywhere and anywhere.”

“Done, and more. I will give you access to all military barracks and installations.”

“Ok. Where and when do we meet for a briefing.”

“I will meet you in person but not at the Gold House.”

The President met Squadron Leader Kofi Frimpong in a very dark alley disguised as a drunk and agreed to all the terms and conditions expressed by the Squadron Leader in a desperate attempt to solve the mystery in the shortest possible time. He was ever ready to allocate enough resources to make the operation a success.

His choice of Kofi Frimpong to him was the best. He was an air force pilot who liked doing things his way, regardless of the rules. He used to be in Military Intelligence and had served his country in various capacities. Kofi Frimpong had been in many foreign lands as an intelligence operative and had embarked on numerous covert operations chalking successes in all. He had even been on most peacekeeping missions, gathering a lot of intelligence for his beloved Ghana’s benefit.

As per the executive order issued by President Aaron Awuku, the Ghana Aircraft Manufacturing Company made the manufacturing of the Choppers a top priority for the Tro Tro Shuttle project.

And they had done that in record time.

He had gone ahead with the project despite accusations that he was being over ambitious and with the 50 helicopters that rolled out of the production line, he set the date for the grand opening.

Despite the setbacks brought about by numerous challenges, including the Video Virus pandemic which continued to wreak havoc on the world, he proudly cut the tape to make his dream come true.

His Vice, on the appointed day, stood by his side with Chairman Siriboe and all other dignitaries. Members of the diplomatic corps were also there in their numbers to admire with awe and wonder, with some wondering about how far Ghana could go on in development. Already, its citizens were the most comfortable in the world.

It was a multiple launch.

After the main opening ceremony at the Kantamanto Chopper Terminal, he had ridden in one to Chorkor where he had cut the tape to open the terminal there, and he had taken another ride from there to Madina and after the opening ceremony there he had ridden in another to Kwabenya, and then to Kaneshie and Korle Gonno and then to Kasoa. It was a marathon session and it wasn’t until it was quite late in the evening that he got done with the 1st phase of the launch of the novelty Helicopter Tro Tro Project.

He headed back home, smiling at the excitement he had seen on the faces of the populace. He remembered then of the note in his pocket which someone had slipped into his hand at Korle Gonno when people fought each other to shake his hand.

“I would readily give my one arm to know the reason behind the sombre dispositions of both your Vice President and your Party’s Chairman, Akpakye.”

Akpakye was the name both he and Kofi Frimpong had agreed to be the name to use in any written communication between them.

The President had in fact noticed that the Vice President wasn’t himself but he hasn’t thought much about it. He flipped the note over absent-mindedly and saw another message.

“Look for my former Batman and make him your driver. He’s a good kunfu fighter too, Akpakye,” it said.

The reason why both the Veep and the Chairman weren’t smiling even among smiling faces was due to the enormous stress they were under due to the sex tapes and also the fact that Abena Dompey was dead and if their tapes were to be leaked out, they would have a hell of a time explaining themselves. She had been strangled and the efficient CID of the Ghana Police Service were conducting investigations into the murder.

Though they had nothing to do with her death, the sex tapes could make them seem guilty. The fact that she had died barely 24 hours after t having sexual intercourse with her was bad enough and to Chairman Siriboe, his saving grace was that Vice President Abeiku Sosa had no idea that he had had sex with her but if the video was to find its way into the public domain, he could find himself on the wrong side of the only ally he had in his beef with the President, and he was prepared to go to all lengths to ensure that he never found out.

Already, the autopsy report had shown that she had been raped several times before she was strangled.

It was exactly one month after Issah Musah was abducted, and all the various Security Apparatus were no nearer to solving the affair than when it first occurred. No one knew whether he was dead or alive. And some people still insisted that he had been killed as a result of his supposed fall out with the President. As to what the fall out might have been, there were several theories pertaining to that. Notable amongst them was that he was threatening to expose the President for siphoning funds meant for development projects into his offshore accounts without giving him his cuts.

Others were also of the view that the nation’s enemies were responsible for his disappearance.

Though the President was aware of those fake theories, he pretended to be unaware of them. He’d rather use the energy he had in finding him.

“I am like a dead goat to these rumours,” he said quietly to himself quoting from the words of a long-forgotten predecessor.

“Ghanaians have tried me and I’m going to show to the world that I am the best President suited for the nation at this point in  time.”

He called his secretary on the intercom and commanded him to look for Corporal Adu for him.

“Ask him to report to me first thing in the morning,” he said, his face set with determination, but on the other hand, he marvelled at the fact that his secretary was as usual cool and calm after being at post for close to twelve hours.

“Where at all is Issah Musah?” he said with exasperation.

David Muller, the German FantiGa interpreter lay in his comfortable bed as he perused about his life in Ghana.

He was lucky indeed to have been posted to the country’s Consulate in Accra. The country was so advanced that he didn’t know how he had coped in his native Hamburg.

Accra indeed was a comfortable place to live in. No traffic jams, no pickpockets and indeed, no hassles.

The helicopter Tro Tro was unmatched anywhere in the world. It was the envy of many countries and a marvel to world leaders.

“I am a lucky chap indeed,” he mused as his mind went off in another direction. It was about Ataa Adjoa. He really didn’t know what her interest in him amounted to. He was confused about whether her interest in him was platonic or amorous.  She had made it a point to see to his comfort and enjoyment in Ghana. She had taken him to almost every place of interest in the city and beyond. She didn’t seem to mind that he was a foreigner from a less developed country.

“She’s so beautiful. I have to do something about her and fast before any cantankerous man comes out of hiding to spoil my plans,” he said to himself.

And she was a good catch too. She had footed all the bills anytime they went out, brushing away his half-hearted attempts to settle some bills, he shouldn’t use the meagre salary the Germans paid him for chilling but for a rainy day. She had said it in jest but both of them knew that a German interpreter’s monthly salary was less than that of a common labourer in Ghana.

“What a lucky man I am to be associated with such a powerful lady,” he said as he continued to lie in bed.

He had had absolutely no idea that he was going to be posted to Ghana when he chose to enter the School of Ghana Languages at the University of Hamburg. He had gone on to read his Master’s in FantiGa, the official Ghanaian language.

One main thing he had found out about Ghanaians was that though they were ultra-modern in everything, they still did some things the old way. They loved their hand-pounded fufu, their koobi, ampesi and other local cuisines other than processed foods.

It was a Saturday and he stayed in bed long after his usual waking up time. He was scheduled to have a weekend rendezvous with Miss Ataa Adjoa at a beach house and he was looking forward to it with bated breath

“Maybe this time, we’ll go beyond mere pecks on cheeks to something deep,” he said, but not ready to take the first step.

 “I don’t want to be presumptuous.”

This story is an AREWAH WRITING CONTEST 2022 entry. Remember to drop your comments and share the links widely.

 [stextbox id=”info” caption=”LIKE MY FACEBOOK PAGE“]

https://www.facebook.com/Aaron.Ansah.A/

 AREWAH WRITING CONTEST 2022

https://aaron-ansah-agyeman.com/2022/02/15/arewah-writing-contest-2022/