****
The room was still dark. Or was it that he had no eyes? Jason Arthur-Beck felt around his cramped cell like he had done for the past nine months, wondering where he was, why he was there and when he’d be able to get out and go home. As always, there was no help and the only contact he had was through the open slit of a hatch that was carved into the cemented wall from which food and water were delivered twice a day.
The first few days had been physically draining as he tried to push at the walls, screaming and yelling at the top of his voice. The next few weeks were soul-draining as he questioned his very existence. What had he done to deserve this? Was it divine retribution for all the fornicating he’d done? The absurd drinking? The often, loud protestations of the invalidity of God? The…the…the…
This must be how POW’s felt after being captured by the enemy but in his case, why was he the enemy? An enemy of whom? All he was, was a beer guzzling Canadian dude, barely out of college, trying to pay back his loans by working hard. What was wrong with that? By the end of the second month, he was patently aware he’d gotten mixed up in some pretty bad stuff but what was it? It had to be oil but he’d not been involved in any low or high level talks. It wasn’t as if he was in charge of dispensing contracts or signing them so why was he the fall guy? He lost count of the days around the fourth month, and just decided to focus on keeping his limbs moving in the six by eight foot cell. It didn’t help that the ceilings were probably just 7 ft high and he was easily six feet tall. Day after day, he prayed for deliverance, eating the yam, cassava, hot pepper, anything they would deliver, while defecating in an aluminum bucket that he tried to push into the cement wall.
Every week, someone would come, unlock the barred door, point to the feces and Jason would have to pick up the bucket. He would be led out to a huge cesspit into which he’d have to pour the contents and without being allowed to rinse out the bucket, be led back to his cell to start the process all over again. Any thoughts of escaping were dismissed when he’d see the six, armed guards that were required to carry out the process. Their heads were covered so he never got to give anyone eye contact and in the first few months, none of his questions were met with answers so he stopped talking. Back in his cell, he’d pretend Araba was sitting beside him, and while inhaling the offensive odors of his own waste, he’d repeat some of his favourite poems. Last month was as far back as he remembered in terms of what his favourite was: Wordsworth’s “I wandered lonely as a cloud”
“I wandered lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd
A host of dancing Daffodils;
Along the Lake, beneath the trees,
Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: --
A poet could not but be gay
In such a laughing company:
I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils
By this time, he’d have fallen fast asleep with his hands in his pants. Although he’d lost much feeling in most of his extremities, he still remembered being sexually alive and that sweet smell of perfume he remembered in his last sexual encounter, albeit in a dream. He wondered what everyone was up to: Philip, dear Phillip – was he still alive? Sarah, Margaret, Araba, Gerry…why had no one come for him? Did they know where he was? He knew Auntie Maggie would move heaven and earth to find him but his isolation ensured that he didn’t know what had happened to anyone else but himself.
On the eighteenth day of the ninth month of his captivity, he heard jocular voices walking towards his cell. He perked up and attempted to hold his bony shoulders up. He had lost so much weight and looked sickly, huge pockmarks on his face, sunken eyes and a receding hairline; he looked closer to sixty. Two large men holding their noses came into the cell and dragged him out. With them were two other men who looked like they were also in the Military.
He was taken into a large room with bright light streaming through the windows. He had not seen the sun for the entire duration of his captivity and instinctively held up one arm to shield himself from its powerful gaze. They led him to a bathroom and for a moment, he didn’t know what to do. So long had he been without a shower that he had no idea how to get started. It took him all of an hour – and the men were patient – and when he walked out, he felt like a new man. He was cleaner and his hair was darker but inside his head was a steely-ness that had been borne out of the depths of hell. The young man who got down off the plane at Kotoka International Airport almost a year ago was dead. In his place was a battle weary mature man who had had a lot of time to do a whole lot of thinking. And things were beginning to take shape in his very clever head.
He was led to a smaller room and seated behind a large wooden table. In front of him was a note pad and a pen. Across from him sat a beefy officer, clean-shaven and professional in his army uniform. He also had writing utensils ready to go. Standing behind him were two armed guards. He wished he could tell them there was no need. Although he knew they were going to interrogate him, he also planned to do some of his own; he was definitely not about to leave now.
“Can you state your name for the record?”
He wanted to say he couldn’t remember. Wasn’t that the point of solitary confinement?
“Jason Arthur-Beck.”
“And where do you live Mr. Arthur Beck?”
“In Ghana or Canada…my HOMETOWN?” He gently eased into facetiousness and was pleased it sounded so good. Clearly the brain exercises had kept him from succumbing to solitary confinement madness. He would continue playing this game to test his intellect.
“Ghana,” replied the soldier with severely controlled patience.
“In Takoradi, House Number B 123/9 at Market Circle.”
“Thank you. And in Canada?”
“My HOMETOWN? 76 Grapevine Crescent, Mississauga, Ontario.”
The soldier let it slide.
“And how long have you been in Ghana?”
“A little over two years.”
“And what has your mission been in Ghana?”
“Mission? I’m not sure I’d call it that. I’ve been here working for KM Gas, a company headquartered in Calgary, Alberta. I’ve been managing their work on the ground, liaising with local chiefs to ensure our corporate responsibility and managing our gas workers in Takoradi, Elmina and the Cape Three points area.”
“Thank you Mr. Arthur Beck.”
“You’re welcome. Now can I ask some questions?”
The soldier got up, walked to the door, opened it and stepped out. Jason was left with his mouth open. Was that it? He tried to get up and was immediately pushed down by the two men. As he sat fuming, the interrogator walked in again. He sat down and thrust a couple of photographs across at Jason.
“Do you know this man?”
Staring at him, with his unmistaken grin was Gerry. Why was Gerry’s photo here?
“Should I know this man?” he answered petulantly.
“Mr. Arthur-Beck, I – am - asking the questions so could you do both of us a favour and answer them?”
Jason shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t want Gerry to go through what he’d been through and his confinement was indication that the Ghana Secret Service had no idea what they were doing.
“No, I don’t know who he is,” he responded.
“That’s very interesting Mr. Arthur-Beck, because he knows you very well.”
Jason tried to keep his fingers from tapping harder on the table where he’d initially placed them. He wasn’t going to let this man intimidate h
im, he kept reminding himself. But this new assertion was disturbing him.
“Really?” he still had a sarcastic stream to his tone.
“Yes, really.”
“Well, you know how it is. If you’ve watched Jerry Springer, you know that jail birds get the most chicks…You get to be so popular even though you’re holed underground for nine months and presto, everyone wants to be your friend!”
The soldier did not laugh and with a steely tone in his voice, he continued.
“Mr. Gerry Carruthers has been working for the CIA for almost ten years. His code name is Ocho Cinco and his work on behalf of CRIDA is a cover for his real work undermining Ghanaian interests on the ground. You spent a lot of time with him and our investigations have led us to believe that during that time, you divulged certain pieces of information to him that were in turn communicated to his handlers”.
Jason urinated on himself. He couldn’t help it; pieces started falling into place. Gerry’s license plate was GER 85858 and Ocho Cinco was 85 in Spanish. Yes, they’d talked a lot about the work Jason was doing but…yes, he remembered telling him a lot about the conversations with Kwasi Prah, the Minister for Energy. But how many times was that? Many, he ruefully admitted. When he wasn’t in Accra at the Ankrah’s, he was with Gerry and Araba. Araba?
He looked at the soldier, a question on his face.
“Araba is an agent for the Ghana Secret Service. She informed us that both the Chinese and the Americans were watching you. Araba speaks Mandarin and Cantonese…she picked them up while working with Mr. Huang, which you must admit, came in very handy. Arresting you at the airport was the only way to protect you since the Ghana government was about to enact some drastic measures to keep the country from spiraling into civil war.”
“WHAT?”
Jason couldn’t keep his emotions in check anymore.
“YOU KEPT ME IN THAT HOLE FOR THAT LONG TO PROTECT ME? MADE ME STARE AT MY OWN FECES DAY IN AND DAY OUT, MADE ME THINK I’D LOST MY EYESIGHT, KEPT ME AWAY FROM MY LOVED ONES, TO PROTECT ME? WHAT THE HELL!”
Tears started streaming down his face as he sought to control his ribs breaking from all the grief. He cried like a baby, using his shirtsleeves to wipe the tears while sniffling to control the mucus that was coming down through his nose. He didn’t care anymore, he had not one ounce of dignity left.
“Mr. Arthur-Beck, it’s unfortunate what happened to you but at least you are alive. Our keeping you locked up in solitary confinement ensured that no one – especially the Chinese or the Americans would find you. In the past few months, several officials high up in the Ghana government have been sentenced to maximum jail terms for fraud and intent to commit fraud; they had been consistently accepting bribes from various foreign groups for access to our most important documents and state secrets especially with regards to the Freedom Oil Fields. As we speak, Ghana has halted all further exploration until a time that we can almost safely be assured of protecting our citizens from dubious interests in and out of the country. The Chinese are out and so are the Americans, Russians and Canadians. We have your passport ready as well as a ticket for you out of the country…should you wish to leave.”
Jason barely managed an ugly chuckle.
“Of course I want to leave! This isn’t the country I came to just two years ago!”
“We understand your frustration Mr. Arthur-Beck.”
“Really? Oh Really?”
The soldier watched the poor man as he struggled to find words to describe the sadness he felt at his inability to protect the people he cared about, a country he had grown to love and possibly the plight of humanity in the midst of oil greed.
“We also lament what is happening to our country Mr. Arthur-Beck, most likely more than you. We’ve been here longer so I’m sure you understand. On the one hand is our need to use what we have – you would probably call it exploiting – to make our roads better, our factories functional, our schools equipped and needless to say, stop our energy needs from crippling economic growth. Somehow, it’s not working too well – each way we turn, someone is trying to make money off our resources, Ghanaians included. Sometimes, we wonder if we’d be better off without finding oil.”
Jason hung his head in sadness. No one spoke for a whole minute. It seemed they were holding a moment of silence for all poor countries that suddenly found themselves cursed with the find of oil. As if on cue, Jason pushed his chair back, ready to leave. This was too much for him and he yearned to be back in Canada where it seemed like the biggest news story was that the conservative government was cutting funding to the Arts.
“I have one question for you.”
“I’d be glad to answer it…if I can”, answered the soldier.
“Where is Araba?”
There was a deep silence during which time the soldier looked like he was carefully formulating his words. Jason used the opportunity to brace himself.
“We believe she has died in the line of duty.”
Jason felt the tears well up in his eyes and struggled to keep them from falling.
“What happened to her?”
“We’re still not sure but our sources inform us that she was seen entering Mr. Huang’s store and she never came back out again. All our preferred modes of communicating with her have come up short and in fact, we only knew of your arrival in Accra because she spoke to us the day before you returned, stressing that we needed to be at the airport to get you. I’m sorry….”
Jason got up from the chair.
“What’s today’s date?”
“July 6th, 2011”
“Interesting,” he said under his breath.
“Pardon?” asked the soldier.
When no explanation was forthcoming, the soldier passed a pouch over to Jason. It contained a cell phone loaded with twenty cedis worth of units, five hundred Ghana Cedis, the documents he needed for travel along with a set of clothes and together with the two other bodyguards, Jason Arthur-Beck was led out into the humid Ghanaian afternoon.