Ten miles away, in the quiet, manicured suburb of Nhyiaeso, Jude Asamoah stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in his dressing room, adjusting his cufflinks. The silver sparkled under the warm glow of the recessed lighting. In two hours, he would be at the Jubilee Tulip Hotel, celebrating his engagement to Cynthia Boateng with the elite of Kumasi’s legal and political circles.
The world saw a champion of justice. The morning newspapers had hailed the “Asamoah Conviction” as a landmark victory against the “Cocoa Syndicate.” Even Justice Boateng had called him that morning, his voice thick with a rare, grudging respect. “You have proved yourself a man of the law, Jude,” the Judge had said. “A man without shadows.”
But as Jude stared at his reflection, the word shadows tasted like copper in his mouth.
Every time he closed his eyes, he smelled it: the acrid, biting scent of burning paper. He could still see the edges of the Shadow Ledger curling in the metal wastebasket, the ink of his father’s truck numbers turning into grey flakes of ash. He had bought his future with a man’s life. He had traded Kwesi Dankwa’s freedom for a seat at Justice Boateng’s table.
“Jude? Are you ready, love?” Cynthia’s voice drifted from the hallway, bright and expectant.
“Just a minute,” he called back. His voice sounded thin, even to his own ears.
He reached for his glass of whiskey, his third since arriving home and drained it. The alcohol burned, but it didn’t touch the cold knot of nausea in his stomach. He was a man of the law, yet he was now a collaborator in a crime far greater than any smuggling ring. He was the guardian of a lie that would last twenty years.
He looked at his hands. They were steady, a prosecutor’s hands, but they felt stained. He remembered the look in Kwesi’s eyes during the interrogation, the desperate, naive hope that the law would see the truth. That hope was currently sitting in Cell 4, and Jude had put it there.
The moral decay was not a sudden collapse; it was a slow, rhythmic erosion. Every congratulations he received felt like a slap. Every smile from Cynthia was a reminder of the purity he no longer possessed. He was ascending to the pinnacle of his career, yet he felt as though he were sinking into a mire.
He grabbed his suit jacket, checking his reflection one last time. The mask was perfect. The tie was straight. The eyes were cold and focused. He was the hero of Kumasi.
“You look wonderful,” Cynthia said as he stepped into the hall, her eyes shining with pride. She adjusted his lapel, her touch light and affectionate. “My father is so proud of you, Jude. We all are.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her forehead.
As they walked toward the car, the cool evening air of Nhyiaeso felt like a rebuke. Jude Asamoah had won everything he ever wanted: the career, the girl, the reputation. But as the gates of his driveway slid open, he realised he was just as much a prisoner as the man he had sent to the ACP. The only difference was that Kwesi’s bars were made of iron, while Jude’s were made of silence, and the mounting weight of a conscience he had sold too cheaply.
