The wail of the sirens faded into the distance, swallowed by the hum of the Kumasi traffic, leaving behind a silence that was heavier and more suffocating than the heat.

In the Oforis’ living room, the settling dust danced in the shafts of sunlight. The room was completely transformed from a space hosting a joyful ceremony into a crime scene. The bottle of Schnapps lay on its side on the centre table, a pool of liquor spreading across the carpet in the center of the room. The smell of alcohol, usually a scent of celebration, now hung in the air, pungent and nauseating.

Abena stood near the doorway, her hands trembling by her sides. She was staring at the empty chair where Kwesi had sat just moments before, as if her mind could not quite process the physics of his disappearance. One minute he was there, the man asking for her hand, her soon-to-be Regional Director, her beloved Kwesi. The next, he was gone, dragged away like a common criminal.

Her mother, Mrs. Ofori, rushed forward, wrapping her arms around her daughter. “Abena, my child. Breathe. Just breathe.”

Abena gasped, a ragged, tearing sound, as if the air had turned to glass. “They took him, Ma. They put him in handcuffs. Why? Why would they do that?”

“It is a mistake,” Mrs. Ofori soothed, though her eyes darted anxiously towards her husband. “Just a terrible mistake. Kwesi is a good boy.”

But the murmurs had already started. The family members and the uninvited neighbours who had invited themselves into the compound on hearing the sirens of the police vehicles, were now huddled in small, tight knots. The shock was wearing off, replaced by the insidious creep of speculation.

“Did you hear the officer? Smuggling,” a woman whispered to another near the window.

“And fraud,” another replied, shaking her head. “Ei. And we thought he was a big man. It seems the money wasn’t clean.”

“It is always the quiet ones. Walking around like a saint, but look at this disgrace.”

Mr. Ofori, the retired headmaster, stood in the centre of the room, his posture rigid. He was a man who prized dignity above all else, and today, his house had been turned into a spectacle. He adjusted his glasses, his face a mask of controlled fury and confusion.

“Enough!” he commanded, his voice cutting through the whispers. “This is not a market square for gossip. Please. Give the families some space.”

Slowly, reluctantly, the self-invited guests began to drift out of the house, casting backward glances at the grieving family. They carried the story with them, carrying it out into Patasi, into the taxis, spreading the poison just as Kojo had intended.

In the corner, the tragedy was taking a different toll. Opanyin Dankwa had not moved from the armchair where he was lying after collapsing into Uncle Gyasi’s arms. His head was thrown back, his mouth open, gasping for air. His skin, usually a rich, healthy dark tone, was ashen and grey.

“Papa! Papa!” Uncle Gyasi was fanning him frantically with a handkerchief. “Someone bring water! Cold water!”

Abena broke from her mother’s embrace and rushed to the old man’s side. She knelt, taking his cold, clammy hand in hers. “Opanyin? Can you hear me?”

Opanyin Dankwa’s eyes fluttered open. They were unfocused, swimming with tears and confusion. “My son,” he wheezed, his hand clutching at his chest. “They have taken my son. My Joseph.”

“We will get him back, Papa,” Abena promised, though she had no idea how. “We will go to the station. We will clear this up.”

“My chest,” the old man groaned, his hand tightening on his kente cloth. “It burns.”

“Let’s take him to the hospital,” Mr. Ofori said, stepping forward, his practical nature taking over. “Gyasi, help me. Let us get him into my car. We cannot wait.”

The joy of the morning had completely evaporated. The festive meal sat untouched in the kitchen. Uncle Gyasi and Mr. Ofori hoisted the frail old man up. He looked so small between them, a withered leaf battered by a sudden storm.

As they manoeuvred him towards the door, Abena grabbed her purse. “I am coming with you. Then I am going to the police station.”

“No,” her father said sharply. “You stay here. You are in no state, and a police station is no place for a young woman alone, especially not today. We will take Opanyin to the hospital. We will go with you to the station later, once we know the old man is stable.”

Abena wanted to argue, but the look on her father’s face welcomed no dissent. She watched them carry Kwesi’s father out to the car, the old man’s groans tearing at her heart. She felt utterly helpless. Her fiancé was in a cell. Her future father-in-law was dying. And the community was already judging them.

She walked out to the gate as her father’s car sped off. She hugged herself, shivering despite the heat. The street was empty now, save for a few neighbours.

And then, she saw him.

Walking up the road with a slow, deliberate casualness was Osei. He wore a faded shirt and jeans, hands deep in his pockets. He didn’t look shocked. He didn’t look like he had run all the way from Bantama upon hearing the news. He looked… calm.

He stopped in front of the gate, looking at Abena’s tear-streaked face. He let a beat of silence pass, a masterful pause, before allowing a look of concern to wash over his features.

“Abena?” he said softly. “I saw the police cars pass by the main road. I heard people talking. Is it true? Did they take Kwesi?”

Abena nodded, fresh tears spilling over. “Osei. It’s terrible. They say… they say he stole money. They say he is a smuggler.”

Osei shook his head, clicking his tongue in a show of sympathy. He stepped closer, entering the personal space that Kwesi had occupied only hours before.

“I am so sorry,” he said, his voice low and comforting. “I knew he was under pressure. The big job. The expectations. But I never thought…” He let the sentence hang, unfinished, insidious.

“Never thought what?” Abena asked, wiping her eyes.

“Nothing,” Osei said quickly, too quickly. “Just… sometimes people do desperate things when they want to climb too high, too fast. But don’t worry about that now.” He reached out, tentatively placing a hand on her shoulder. “I am here. I will help you handle this. You are not alone.”