The old man sat perfectly still for a moment, processing the words. Then, tears began to track through the deep furrows of his cheeks. He raised his hands to the sky.
“Oh Yehowah! (Jehovah God!)” he whispered. “My son. The Director. In this same Kumasi where I carried sacks on my back?”
“The very same, Papa.”
“This calls for a celebration!” Opanyin Dankwa tried to rise, eager to offer something, anything, to mark the occasion, but he faltered, remembering the emptiness of his larder. He sank back down, a shadow passing over his joy. “I… I wish I had some wine to celebrate this occasion.”
“Don’t worry, Papa,” Kwesi said, reaching for his wallet. “I will buy the wine. I will buy everything. Tomorrow, we will fill this house with food. I promise you, you will never eat dry kenkey again.”
He pulled out a stack of cedi notes, his per diem from the trip that he had barely touched. He pressed the bundle into his father’s calloused hands. “Take this for now. For the house.”
Opanyin Dankwa stared at the money, his hands trembling. But instead of pure relief, a flicker of anxiety crossed his face. He glanced towards the compound gate, as if expecting someone.
“Kwesi,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “This is good. But… you must be careful. When the tree grows tall, the wind blows harder.”
“I can handle the wind, Papa.”
“It is not just the wind,” the old man said darkly. “It is the people who stand in your shadow. Our neighbour, Mr. Agyeman… the shopkeeper…”
“What about him?”
“I owe him, Kwesi. A small amount, but… he has been asking. And he asks with a loud voice.”
Kwesi frowned. Agyeman. The man ran a provisions store down the street. He was known for his high interest rates and his loose tongue. “How much, Papa?”
“It is not much. But to me…” He looked at the bundle of notes Kwesi had just given him. “This will cover it. God bless you.”
Just then, a shadow fell across the courtyard entrance. Kwesi turned to see a figure standing at the gate, silhouetted against the setting sun. It wasn’t Osei, and it wasn’t the shopkeeper. It was a young woman, balancing a tray of fresh bread on her head, her silhouette framed by the dusty gold of the evening. But behind her, lurking near the wall, Kwesi thought he saw the familiar, slouching posture of his cousin, Osei, watching them.
When Kwesi blinked, the figure was gone.
“Papa,” Kwesi said, standing up. “Keep the money hidden. I will deal with Agyeman tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate.”
But as the sun dipped below the roofline of Bantama, casting the compound into a grey twilight, Kwesi couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadows in the corners of the yard were stretching out, reaching for them. He had returned a hero, yes. But every hero needs a villain, and in the quiet hum of the Kumasi evening, the stage was being set for a tragedy he couldn’t yet see.
