Gordon Tilson, an American widower who is all too familiar with Ghana, has finally found the love of his dreams, beautiful Helena. However, when Helena needs financial support, Gordon jumps into the plane to travel to Ghana, and it is there he disappears, plunging his only son, Derek, into a tangled mystery that will end up in either life or death.
Emma Djan is a woman working for local police, but it is not the job she loves, for she desires to follow in her father's footsteps in becoming a homicide detective. However that road is blocked when she refuses to obey her interviewer, and in the end she has no choice but to work as a private detective, and her first case is to solve the mysterious disappearance of Gordon Tilson.
This is the first time I've read a mystery that takes place in the continent of Africa, in Ghana in particular, and I sincerely hope it won't be my last time because THE MISSING AMERICAN by Kwei Quartey truly kept me riveted and spellbound throughout the pages that detail the scams as well as what's behind them, in addition to details about Ghana's culture, and I have to say that its a horrifying experience in multiple ways because the scams are a lot more closer to reality than other mysteries I have had a chance to read.
What I loved about THE MISSING AMERICAN are the details about Ghana that author includes, from food to music to how the society works as well as sakawa boys and the fetish priests, although I wanted more explanations on how fetish priests help sakawa boys. Aside from that, I am eager to come back to Emma Djan's world and learn more about Ghana.
If you are seeking a read that takes place somewhere outside of Europe or America and that helps a reader travel to Africa as well as gives more details about those infamous scams, then THE MISSING AMERICAN by Kwei Quartey will be the perfect guide as well as an eye opening read that will long be remembered.
Accra private investigator Emma Djan's first missing persons case will lead her to the darkest depths of the email scams and fetish priests in Ghana, the world's Internet capital.
When her dreams of rising through the Accra police ranks like her late father crash around her, 26-year-old Emma Djan is unsure what will become of her career. Through a sympathetic former colleague, Emma gets an interview with a private detective agency that takes on cases of missing persons, theft, and infidelity. It’s not the future she imagined, but it’s her best option.
Meanwhile, Gordon Tilson, a middle-aged widower in Washington, DC, has found solace in an online community after his wife’s passing. Through the support group, he’s even met a young Ghanaian widow he’s come to care about. When her sister gets into a car accident, he sends her thousands of dollars to cover the hospital bill—to the horror of his only son, Derek. Then Gordon decides to surprise his new love by paying her a visit—and disappears. Fearing for his father’s life, Derek follows him across the world to Ghana, Internet capital of the world, where he and Emma will find themselves deep in a world of sakawa scams, fetish priests, and those willing to kill to protect their secrets.
Excerpt
ONE
January 4, Sekondi-Takoradi, Ghana
Lying f lat with the stock of the long-range rifle pressed firmly against his shoulder, the assassin positioned himself on the gable roof of the UT Bank building off Shippers Council Road. His legs were stretched straight out in a V on either side of the roof’s ridge. He would have preferred a flat surface, but the advantages of this location easily outweighed any drawbacks. From this angle, he had an unobstructed view of the road through the Zeiss scope.
He waited. When the moment arrived, he would place the pad of his right index finger on the trigger rather than the crease between the first and second joints. That could result in a sideways torque on squeezing the trigger. So too could wrapping the thumb around the buttstock. Leave the thumb straight on the stock pointing forward toward the end of the barrel—that was what he had learned in his first days as an officer in the Ghana Police Service’s SWAT Panther Unit. Now, two years later, he was one of the best marksmen among his peers. Unfortunately, GPS talk was cheap, and they never put their money where their mouth was. Only the sniper’s freelance work, like this assignment, bought him the good life—a nice car, good clothes, new furniture. And women, of course.
•••
Pol itical rall ies in Ghana are a serious business. There’s blaring music, dancing troupes, and handkerchief-waving groups of women in matching outfits. Gangs of ferocious biker youths careen erratically through the streets, sometimes colliding with cars and each other, but these excitable young men, their bodies soused with adrenaline, leap right back up and keep riding.
So it was for Bernard Evans-Aidoo campaigning in the city of Sekondi-Takoradi against incumbent President Bannerman. Big, charismatic, and dressed flamboyantly in his signature red, black, white, and green—the colors of the National Democratic Congress party, the NDC. Evans-Aidoo stood out of the sunroof of his black Benz and waved to the thrilled crowds lining Shippers Council Road. A full brass band, rocking and high-stepping in rhythmic unison, preceded the slow-moving vehicle, and behind the car was a bunch of random kids and teenagers whirling and jumping up and down with unspecified exuberance. Every so often, the Benz paused and Evans-Aidoo got out with surprising agility to press palms with his fans. He saw the worshipping, idolizing expression in their eyes as they stretched out their hands to be blessed by his touch.
It was the candidate’s third stop for the day: Axim, Tarkwa, and now Sekondi-Takoradi. There had been the inevitable delays at the two prior rallies and Evans-Aidoo and the entourage were late. Even though they had started the parade before dusk, darkness had descended quickly around 6 p.m., as it always does at the equator. But that was no impediment. The campaign had a vehicle with a generator and bright lights that traveled at the head of the procession, sharply spotlighting the popular man who had set the youth on fire with his promises. He had pledged first, to sack every single corrupt official in the Bannerman government; second, to shunt away some of Ghana’s petroleum and natural gas revenue into programs that would benefit the ordinary men and women, particularly the largely unemployed youth. It was a classic taking from the rich to give to the poor. These young people so hungry for a livelihood truly loved Evans-Aidoo, and they had waited for him for hours in the ferocious sun. Now he was here, and he didn’t disappoint as he put on this dazzling show. He was larger than life physically and symbolically.
The cacophony from the cheering crowds, the band, and the noisy mobile generator prevented anyone from hearing a distinct gunshot. Evans-Aidoo’s body dropped so suddenly from view that few people grasped that anything was wrong.
But inside the Benz, terror unfolded. Evans-Aidoo had collapsed like a sack of yams into the lap of his campaign manager, who let out a high-pitched scream as the minister’s blood sprayed her and the tan leather seats. The bodyguard in the front scrambled into the back seat to shield his boss.
The chauffeur craned to look behind. “What happened? What happened?”
“Drive forward!” the bodyguard shouted. “Drive!”
The Benz shot forward and crossed the street’s center line. Tires squealing, it skirted the generator vehicle and kept going. People at the roadside were screaming, but it was not jubilation anymore. It was panic. Something bad had happened, but no one knew exactly what.
The manager in the Benz was shrieking, her head turned away from the sight of Evans- Aidoo limp and half wedged behind the passenger seat. The bodyguard tried to lift his boss’s head, but it was slick with blood and brain matter and it slipped from his hands.
Hyperventilating and gripping the steering wheel like death itself, the chauffeur said, “Where? Where?”
“Takoradi Hospital,” the bodyguard stammered. He was close to weeping. “Hurry!”
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