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Shape-Shifters

by Adjoa Twum

Pig Farm

The hawker points wildly toward a crowd forming on the other side of the road. Intrigued, I find myself joining the throngs of people from the night market who have abandoned their stations to investigate the source of the commotion. I elbow my way through the sea of onlookers, too entranced by the hum of suspense to protest. I end up at the entrance of a large storm drain. Children love rummaging through the sewage for discarded tires to play with, more often emerging with used condoms that they gleefully blow up like balloons.

In the belly of the drain, two uniformed men intensely dig through its rotten contents. They heave something out of its crevices and deposit it gracelessly onto the road. The crowd steps back, permitting the headlights of a passing car to illuminate the object—a corpse. Its throat has been slashed, the blood coagulated around its neck like a grotesque pendant. Its coarse hair shrouds its face. Its body is bloated from marinating in the dank water. Some spectators clasp their hands on their heads and wail. Others kneel in prayer against whatever evil is responsible.

I disengage. I cautiously approach the body. I nudge its shoulder with my toe, the force causing it to roll back slightly, exposing its face.

“No . . . no . . . no . . .” I moan softly, recoiling from those familiar vacant eyes. I let out a guttural cry. I scream until I’m hoarse, until I have no air left to form another sound. “Help! Somebody help me, please!”

No one does.

⚜

A firework rocket announces its launch, rousing me from a violent sleep. I sit up, perspiration binding my thick coils to my forehead. I do not recall my dream, but the terror lingers. Disoriented, I tilt my head toward the dusty screened window. Outside, the starless sky bursts in breathtaking hues of crimson, sapphire, and gold. A typical Pig Farm New Year’s Eve celebration rages on. Melodic highlife music blares from one of the many open-air bars. From the raucous laughter and effusive banter that occasionally cut through the musician’s nasal vibrato, I can tell that libations are flowing. A prophet clangs a bell up and down the street. His voice quaking with urgency, he warns of the end of days and calls for all to repent. His premonitions are met with indifference by people too consumed with the night’s shenanigans to worry about the Rapture.

I know how it feels to be unacknowledged. I have gotten used to reintroducing myself to people I have already met. I no longer take it personally. My own parents admit they did not enroll me in nursery school on time because they had simply forgotten. This particular transgression broke my heart. These days, I use my lack of presence to study people intimately in plain sight; their fears and inspirations. I come alive when I embody their greatest desires.

I have parlayed this skill into a career as a “good-time girl.” But like all other mistresses, sycophants, and bottom-feeders, during the holidays I am without purpose. I spend most days languishing on my mattress, comforted only by the scent of past lovers trapped within its fibers.

A sudden coughing fit breaks my sober reflections. I wheeze until my throat is raw. I decide to stop by the local drugstore.

As soon as I cross the threshold of my rented chamber and hall, I am greeted by the overpowering stench of sunbaked feces. I wrinkle my nose in disgust. Although I’ve been living here for the past three years, I refuse to accept the inhumane conditions that force tenants to empty their chamber pots directly onto the streets. I hopscotch around the dark puddles staining the red earth and turn westward into a narrow alley. I amble past rows of aging compound homes nearly identical to the one I just left. Same leaky corrugated-tin roofs; same adinkra symbols welded imperfectly onto rusting wrought-iron gates; same urine-splashed walls. I run my hands gently along their cool, grainy exterior in appreciation of their sturdiness despite the degradation they endure daily. These structures are probably no different from the people who inhabit them, devalued yet resilient. Many of them labor thanklessly as factory hands, petty traders, and mechanics, yet they persist, determined to make it.

A thin piece of beached wood precariously balancing over a wide uncovered manhole grants me safe passage onto Kotobabi Main Road. I take a moment to savor the town’s unbridled energy.

The bushy eyebrows of a kebab seller furrow as he carefully places his meat skewers on top of a scorching coal grill, the crackling fat shooting sparks into the air.

A resounding “GOAL!” erupts from a cracked television propped in the doorway of an electronics repair shop where a group of men are gathered. The announcement is met with cheering and dancing from supporters of the winning team, mixed with objections, jeers, and curses from the sore losers. A fight will soon break out. I move on.

Three young boys, dressed only in shorts made from repurposed flour sacks, zigzag between the legs of the stalls, squealing with excitement. Nearby, their mother molds fermented corn into kenkey, the embers from her coal pot casting a haunting glow on her worn face. I pause briefly here, hypnotized by the smoke dancing out of her crude kerosene lamp.

This is Pig Farm.

This neighborhood is an outcast’s haven, dating back to the days of the swineherds who inhabited the land before finding themselves on the wrong side of industrialization. Their livelihood threatened by the introduction of industrial abattoirs, they morphed into the backbone of Ghana’s burgeoning economy; making, selling, and fixing things. Today, migrants converge here from across the country to exploit its cheap rent and proximity to business hubs.

A police truck roars past me, its side-view mirror grazing my elbow. I cry out, but it thunders onward, leaving in its wake a cloud of soot that triggers my cough again.

I look up just as a street hawker sprints past me, yelling, “Hurry, hurry!” A crowd follows him, their interest piqued. I change course and join them.

⚜

I must have dozed off. I quickly scan the hall. Everything appears as it was. The TV is still airing telenovela reruns. My screen door is still ajar to let in the harmattan breeze. On my coffee table lies an envelope stuffed with cash—enough to sustain me for another eighteen months. Each grimy note is intact. However, I can’t shake the feeling that I am not alone. In two determined strides, I’m standing outside my dark bedroom. Nothing looks out of place there either, but my intuition tells me otherwise. I enter.

I smell her before I see her. Cocoa butter lotion mixed with CK One perfume. “Salome,” I utter in disbelief. At the sound of her name, she steps out of the shadows, where she had been camouflaged by the billowing tan curtains that frame the small window. I reach nervously for the light switch and flick it on. I drink her in. She stands still, an onyx idol. Her jumbo braids cascade neatly down the small of her back. She tucks one behind her ear, then speaks.

“Hello, Saman.”

Saman. Ghost. She’s the only one who calls me that. Upon hearing her voice, I free-fall head over heels into our past.

⚜

The ride to the airport is uncharacteristically quiet. Normally, Salome would be reenacting outrageous scenes from our favorite Bollywood movies, complete with neck rolls and a Hindi accent; and I would be applauding and cackling, her constant cheerleader. But today, she just grips my fingers between hers, forehead creased. The taxi driver also says nothing, but from the rearview mirror he glares at the jezebels spooning in his backseat. We lock eyes, my defiance matching his revulsion. He looks away and concentrates on the pothole-ridden road.

We enter the leafy suburb of Airport Residential Area. The smell of freshly cut grass wafts into the car. It reminds me of those brief yet painful days of my youth, when I sought rest atop their sharp blades. I roll up the window.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Salome says.

I tense up. This plan is Salome’s brainchild. It’s all she’s been raving about for the past month. This deal, she has explained, is a game changer for Oga, her big boss, an unseen but revered criminal mastermind.

Then I understand.

I pull her in closer. I, too, ache just thinking about us being apart. Salome found me a year ago and breathed new life into me. But this mission is too lucrative to pass up.

“I want in,” I admit. “Besides,” I add, tracing her clenched jawline with my finger, “who else can you trust?”

The taxi rolls to a stop. We’re here. Salome reluctantly peels herself off me. She retrieves the luggage from the boot. It’s an old black suitcase, secured by a brass padlock. Its plain appearance belies the intricate network of hidden compartments which we have dutifully filled with cocaine. She plants travel documents in my palm.

“Our associate will contact you once you get to London.” We hug. She gives me a quick peck on the cheek and chews her lip. “You know what to do next.”

This hurts, but I’m in too deep to change my mind now.

“Hurry back, okay?” she sniffles. Then she is gone.

I march into Kotoka International Airport, a massive rectangular ark.

The departure hall is a madhouse, congested with people in motion.

A woman with the brightest fire-engine red weave I’ve ever seen quarrels with an airline agent, shaking her meaty fist.

A porter in an ill-fitting lime-green uniform pushes a trolley up a sloping walkway, the wheels squeaking with every strained step.

And then there are the bᴐgas strutting around the terminal, reeking of cologne.

I can’t pull this off.

The air conditioner above me is on full blast, causing the back of my neck to break out in goose pimples; yet I fan myself madly with the plane ticket.

I won’t get away with it.

I can’t breathe. I claw at the collar of my dress shirt but can’t find the button. I feel my chest tightening. I am hyperventilating. I sink to the tiled floor, its black-and-white squares like a giant crossword puzzle swimming before my eyes.

She’ll never forgive me.

A white man with wispy auburn dreadlocks and scuffed hiking boots squats in front of me, his head cocked to the side. He speaks with a gentle baritone in a language I do not understand, then offers me a bottle of water with an outstretched tanned hand. I swat it away. He hesitates, then leaves.

What am I doing?

I rise.

I exhale; pick up the suitcase.

I exit the airport into the merciless Accra heat, pulling my bounty behind me.

There’s no coming back from this.

⚜

My eyes dart between the intruder and the rusty cutlass leaning against my dresser. Salome raises her hands in surrender. She’s trembling.

“Please, Saman, I need your help.” She inches closer. “Oga wants me dead.”

My body turns into lead. “But . . . but you are his best employee,” I sputter.

“Was,” she corrects me. “When you were a no-show, Oga thought I was in on it. I . . .” She shudders. “I was tortured. Then demoted, doing all sorts of donkeywork to get back into Oga’s good graces. But it’s no use now. There’s a price on my head.”

I’m overcome with guilt. No doubt there would have been consequences. I just never thought Salome would be the one to pay the ultimate price.

Salome paces my room, invading every inch of my sanctuary. Her voice scales with each hurried sentence, like fingers gliding across a keyboard. “You were supposed to be dead three years ago, but here you still are. That makes you the only person to cross Oga and live to tell the tale. That’s why I tracked you down. I need to know how you did it. I need to get away before his thugs find me. I can’t keep running. I need you to help me disappear! I need to start over. Like you did. Go somewhere else. Be someone else.” She pauses before striking the final chord. “I need you to make this right, Saman.”

Sighing, she takes my hand in hers and implores me with those captivating eyes. “Please give me the stuff you took. I have a kilo on me, but I need more to make a clean break.”

“I . . . I . . . sold it,” I mumble, head bowed.

Salome stiffens and lets go of my hand. “You . . . sold it,” she repeats, choking on the words.

I confess everything.

How I sold what I now know to be a small fortune for a tenth of its value. How I met my buyer, Latif, at an auto-body shop that was also a warehouse for smuggled goods in transit—weapons, precious minerals, even children. How we bonded over life on the fringes. How he clucked in sympathy when I disclosed my dangerous assignment. How he suggested—casually at first, growing bolder with every unanswered probe—that perhaps I was getting a raw deal. How he promised to pay me double while eliminating any chance of incarceration.

Zero risk. Double reward. I liked those odds. I was all in.

Salome mulls over this revelation in pained silence, then lowers herself onto my thin mattress. I drop to my knees before her, weighed down with remorse.

“This changes everything,” she says flatly, breaking the heavy stillness enveloping us.

I search those dark eyes, desperate to uncover what she’s thinking, how she’s feeling. Instead, there’s a hollowness there that didn’t exist before.

“I know what I did was wrong,” I croak. “But I can fix this. I’ll get you the money. Whatever you need. Just give me one more chance. Please. Let me make it better for you.”

And I do.

⚜

I have not kept in touch with Latif since our rushed exchange outside a mosque three years ago, but tracking him down is easy. I slip the auto-body shop’s attendant a twenty-cedi bill and walk away with Latif’s number. Once I get him on the phone, he leaps at the opportunity to purchase the kilo. We agree to meet at Club 1000 Hotel to complete the transaction.

I patrol the entrance of the run-down hotel, kicking up clouds of copper dust and obsessing about Salome.

Last night, she asked me to leave with her once the present threat has been extinguished. This time not as a drug mule and her handler but as soul mates taking another shot at their happily-ever-after. With Latif’s funds, we should be airborne within the next week, putting all the rancor behind us for good.

I steal another look at my watch. Salome and Latif should have been here by now. I stick my head inside the lobby. A statuesque woman wearing a hijab sits at the reception desk, studying me suspiciously through kohl-rimmed eyes. She chews loudly on a kola nut as I shuffle toward her.

“Good evening, madam,” I greet.

She just glowers at me.

“Please, I am looking for my friends, a man and a woman.”

She snorts, the force of which sends nut-infused spittle all over the desk. “At this time of the night? Take your pick!”

“She’s not a prostitute,” I shoot back, a bit too defensively.

The woman shrugs. “Try room 211.”

After stumbling along a dimly lit, seemingly endless corridor, I finally find room 211. I knock. “Salome?”

No answer.

“Latif?”

Still nothing.

I turn the handle, but the door is wedged shut from the inside. I shove it repeatedly until it swings wide open, revealing Latif’s lifeless torso. I clamp my hand over my mouth and stagger backward in horror. My heart thumps against my rib cage so aggressively that I fear it might shatter. I let out a strangled cry as someone grabs the front of my T-shirt, pulling me fully back into the room. I thrash at my assailant, but my uncoordinated jabs fail to connect.

“Heh! Stop that!” the person hisses.

It’s Salome, but my relief is short-lived when I digest my new surroundings. It’s a modest-sized, sparsely furnished room, unremarkable really, save a few features.

A claw-foot bed devoid of sheets or pillows.

A wardrobe missing a wooden panel.

A framed portrait of Jesus in a green pasture, bearing a staff in one hand and a lamb in the other.

And blood.

So much blood.

Splattered on the dirty peach walls.

Soaking the shaggy carpet.

Squishing under the soles of my flip-flops.

I retch. “Salome! What happened?” I demand, in between gulps of air.

She slams the door shut and wags a finger at me. “Why are you asking me? Don’t you remember? You did this.” She sneers.

“Are you mad? How can you joke at a time like this?” I shriek. “Latif is dead!”

Her face contorts into a terrifying mask. “So what?” she explodes. “Did you really think that after you guys stole from me, I would just pretend it never happened and run off into the sunset with you?”

A chill creeps into my bones, like a bucket of iced water has been dunked on me. I back away from her slowly, shaking my head to ward off the frightening thoughts forming in my mind. “You set me up.” I gasp.

“And I got my money back.” She motions toward a woven red, white, and blue plastic Ghana Must Go bag flung carelessly in the corner.

Just then the door flies open and a tall, muscular man enters. He wildly surveys the room, from the man bleeding out on the floor to the two women standing before him. Nostrils flared, he roars in thick Nigerian pidgin, “Oga, wetin happen now?”

I whirl around, expecting Oga to materialize out of thin air. But all I see is Salome. My eyes widen as the final puzzle piece locks into place.

I bolt toward the door, but the man blocks my path, his face transformed into a menacing scowl.

“Seize her!” Salome barks. Instantly, the Nigerian tackles me, covering my mouth with a large calloused hand and pinning my arms to my sides.

Salome sidles up to me, eyes narrowed to slits. “You know what? You are much smarter than I ever gave you credit for. To hide right under my nose while I tore Europe apart looking for you these past three years. I always knew you had potential. That’s why I was grooming you. But this.” She laughs humorlessly, clapping slowly. “This is almost genius. You had me fooled. A whole me. The leader of the only woman-run criminal enterprise in Ghana. Maybe all of Africa. You cost me a lot. Not just money. No, worse than that. You made me a laughingstock. You already know how hard it is for women to be taken seriously in this society. How much more in the underworld? They said I couldn’t do it. That I couldn’t run my own organization. That women are emotional, too unstable. Because of you I proved them right. And for what?”

Her voice softens. “I risked it all for you.” Her voice is now scarcely above a whisper. “I thought you would do the same for me.” She leans in, so close that I can feel her hot breath against my neck.

A sharp pain sears through my abdomen. The Nigerian’s rough palm stifles my screams as Salome plunges, then twists a small hunting knife deep into my core. I flail like a broken marionette, but that only seems to galvanize her more. Then she stops.

She yanks my head back and watches me with mild amusement.

And with one flick of her wrist, Salome slits my throat. Blood squirts out of my severed windpipe. The Nigerian releases me, and I land on the soiled carpet with a loud thud. Before everything fades to black, I watch the queenpin pick up Latif’s money and strut toward the door.

As I take my final protracted breath, the Nigerian speaks up: “Oga, wetin make I do plus the bodies?”

“Leave them to rot,” she snaps, then pauses. “Wait. As for the girl, there’s a gutter near the market. Dump her there.”

Suro nnipa na gyae saman.

(Fear man, not ghosts.)

—Paapa Yankson