Waking in my hotel room in Accra was probably one of the few mornings in Ghana I haven’t risen to brooms sweeping, roosters crowing, dogs barking, goats “merrhhing,” drummers drumming, the sun blinding, heat invading, neighbors quarreling, colleagues knocking, radios blaring or mosques “AHHUUUUMMMMNNNNAAAA” -ing. This morning, my only waking force was my measly cell phone alarm.
A group from New York University, comprised of 13 graduate and undergraduate students and one professor, had been volunteering with a HIV/AIDS outreach project in Cape Coast through our NGO for two weeks. They were ending their trip with a tour of Accra, the capital. Tettey, a guide from a tour agency to which we outsourced, was in charge of them and I was along for the ride to make sure their transition from Accra to home went smoothly. All went well until the group’s last night in Accra. Upon return from our day tour, one of the volunteers discovered $80 had been taken from her room. (For a dramatic buildup, read my previous post.)
The volunteer group was scheduled to leave the hotel the next day at 5 a.m. for the airport, and the stolen money mystery hadn’t been resolved yet. Therefore, I offered to continue trying to get to the bottom of the case on Yvonne’s behalf. Not my mandate, but I would want someone to do the same for me. Tettey and I rode with the group in the bus to the airport. After saying goodbye to the group, I collected Yvonne’s contact information in case it was needed for the police report. I told her we would wire the money to her account if we recovered it.
The bus driver dropped Tettey and I off at Lake Botsumtwi Hotel. We had a few hours until the owner said he would come to the hotel to sort out the stolen money issue, so I went back to my room and Tettey went into a volunteer’s room and we slept. We had agreed to meet at 8:30 a.m. at the outdoor patio for breakfast. Tettey wasn't there yet so I found a table under the shade and watched the football game across the street.
"I am leaving," a voice said from behind me.
It was Gracie, the receptionist Yvonne and I had talked to for hours the previous night. She had given me a strange vibe for being immoderately loose-lipped about why she thought it was Naomi, the cleaning lady, who stole the money.
"You are finished for the day?" I asked.
"No, I work again tonight." She was standing on the other side of the patio fence.
"Ah, the morning and night shifts, I see."
"You will call me when you figure out everything? I want to know how things turn out for your friend," she said.
"Sure, I can do that." No reason not to. "What's your number?"
She gave me her number and wished me luck, then crossed the street to the nearest fruit vendor. I watched her for a few minutes, pondering the possibility of her being the one who stole Yvonne's money and how heavy her conscious would be after making friends with both Yvonne and me. Tettey interrupted my thoughts when he brushed by my shoulder and sat in the opposite chair.
When we finished eating, Tettey called his boss, an African-American woman based in Accra, to explain the situation. He hung up and shook his head and chuckled in a low tone.
“She said I should have called her last night and she would have come to the hotel with half the money and you could have gotten the other half and we both could have given it to the volunteer. That way the volunteer wouldn’t have left for the U.S. without her money.”
“But we can’t guarantee we’re getting back her money. What if we can’t get it back and we had done what your boss said? We both would’ve been giving money away when we shouldn’t have,” I said. “Not to mention that our NGO is not liable for any theft that happens to our volunteers. I’m not sure if your company would be.. or should be liable either.”
Tettey didn’t say anything. That was pretty presumptuous, I thought, of Tettey’s boss to think I would pay half of Yvonne’s stolen money, let alone to assume I even had 56 extra cedis on me. (80 USD = 112 GHC)
Finally, the owner arrived. Tettey said, “You see? He drives a nice car. He has extra money to give to us.” We can’t just ask for 112 cedis...but I think Yvonne and Tettey expect me to, I thought. I was advised by my boss and Gracie, the hotel front desk receptionist, that I should threaten to file a police report. They both believed the owner wouldn’t want to go through the humiliation of a public complaint of a police report, which would make him more willing to cough up the money. I just needed to act like I was going to ruffle his hair.
When I met Mr. Charles, the owner, I quickly learned there was no hair to ruffle. One, he is bald. And two, he was completely fine with filing a police report. More than fine, in fact.
“We will find out who did this and make them pay the consequences. Believe me, whoever did this will be locked away. They will not see the light of day again.”
Damn, really? I didn’t want anyone going to jail over this. I didn't think Yvonne wanted that either. All I was hoping for was to get the money back and whoever stole the money to never work at a hotel again.
“Mr. Charles, is there any way your hotel staff can be held responsible for this instead of the police?” I was getting frustrated with the prospect of the matter changing hands yet again. “Maybe a portion of the 112 cedis can be subtracted from the salaries of the three staff members who had access to the rooms? You could do this over a couple months until one of them confides?” I asked.
“Oh, are you now sure it was one of my staff who stole the money?” his voice boomed in the narrow and long, heavily-air-conditioned room. I looked at Tettey, sitting on the couch opposite my sofa chair, next to the manager who was working the night before. He looked vastly uncomfortable. By the manager’s furtive glances from the floor to me whenever I spoke, I gathered he didn’t want to be in the room either, although his arm draped over the back of the couch indicated differently. “Let me tell you something,” the owner continued.
It seemed he had sniffed out my indirect request for money. Several minutes dragged on as he ambushed our eardrums about how he would be out of business if he compensated each guest who complained of theft. Tettey was hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his fingers interlaced on the back of his neck. I guess he isn’t a fan of getting yelled at by a massive and violently passionate Ghanaian man either. The owner did not seem like the same man I spoke to on the phone the night before, fumbling and bumbling, "Madam, please, I apologize for the inconvience of this situation."
Tettey and I had to ask the owner to calm down several times throughout his rant. Not able to hide my surging anger about his rudeness any longer, I shouted over him, “WHY ARE YOU YELLING?” I hoped my blunt "challenge" made him realize how unprofessional it was to yell at a guest - an upset one, at that.
“You. You are American, hmm?” the owner asked me in a slightly lowered voice.
Not normally being pegged as an American upon first glance, I assumed the manager had briefed the owner, having remembered that detail about me when we first met.
“Yes,” I replied evenly.
He slammed his fist on his desk; sending Tettey and I out of our skins. “Then you know! You know a hotel is not liable to cover the stolen items of its guests! Any hotel in America is like that. You must know that. You should be ashamed of yourself for even suggesting that we would give you money just because it went missing.”
“Look,” I said plainly, putting both my hands up in defense. “I'm sorry for suggesting that your hotel give me 112 cedis. I understand you are handling this situation to the best of your ability, and I appreciate you taking time to help us out. I have worked in the hotel industry before, which gives me even more reason to have known better. You're right, in the U.S. hotels do not hand out money whenever something goes missing. However - " pausing briefly, " - many hotels do give some other form of compensation for the inconvenience. Now, I don't know what we could come up with as compensation in this case, since all the room arrangements were prepaid. But, my point is that I was simply trying. I was trying to get something back for our volunteer. Because she has already left for America, I was given the task to fight for her. So that is what I am doing." The owner's face had softened and he nodded while muttering "okay" repeatedly when I had finished.
"Yes, I know you are just doing your job," he said in a normal voice.
I decided to push my luck with his calmed state. "Also, my volunteer said she did not appreciate how the issue was handled last night."
"Last night? That means she was not happy with him," the owner said, smiling and pointing to the manager on the couch.
"That's right," I said. The owner laughed. I looked at the manager, "She said it didn't seem like you were very concerned at all."
There was nothing we could do about that now, though. I knew the manager didn't care about this complaint, I knew he wouldn't take it into consideration the next time he had to handle a guest's problem, and I knew the owner didn't care about this complaint either. To be honest, I didn't agree with Yvonne's complaint anyway. The manager did what he was supposed to - he called in the cleaning lady to testify. (In retrospect, he should have also asked the female receptionist Gracie to testify as well as the daytime boy receptionist.) The manager was required to take action; he was not required to act like he cared. Ha! Maybe I've been in Ghana too long. Regardless, this is the first and major learning component of Ghanaian management.
"Okay, you will go to the police now?" the owner asked me. "I've called in Naomi, the cleaning lady, she is in the lobby waiting to go to the police station with you."
"Just Naomi?" I asked.
"Yes. Is there someone else who could have done it?"
"Well, Gracie, your receptionist was working yesterday. I thought it was very strange that she was so willing to tell me and Yvonne such secretive things about Naomi, as if she was trying to get her into trouble."
"What things?" asked the owner, his brows furrowed.
Gracie had asked me not to mention to the owner or manager that she had spoken about Naomi. "She asked me not to say anything..." I drifted off, smiling at the owner and then Tettey out of discomfort.
"Maame," Tettey said softly.
I decided I didn't owe anything to Gracie, especially considering the possibility that she was the guilty one.
"Okay, she said Naomi has stolen from guests before and the manager, you, Kwame," I looked at his habitually bored face, "you knew about it but never did anything about it because you and Naomi are friends."
The owner and manager smirked. I paused, waiting for an actual response. I didn't hear any.
"Then she said she and the boy receptionist couldn't have possibly taken the money because as a front desk clerk, you must never leave the front desk, so how could she or he have had time to go into each room and look through everyone's bags for money?"
All three men burst out in various exclamations and readjusted their sitting positions. I looked at Tettey, who I had noticed the previous night was scanning Gracie and shaking his head whenever she made an interjection. It seemed he thought what I had said confirmed his suspicions.
"My dear, the receptionists go into every room!" said the owner, leaning forward in his chair. "It is part of their job to personally check each room that has been cleaned."
I was stunned. How did I not think of this? I knew I should have trusted my gut instinct when she gave me that bullshit excuse for why it couldn't have been the receptionist! I was annoyed at myself for not realizing the check-and-balance system ensuring clean hotel rooms could have been different at a smaller hotel.
"Kwame, tell Joseph to get Gracie on the line. Tell her to come to the hotel immediately," the owner said to the manager.
Turns out Gracie's phone was off. Had she been suspecting that her bosses would eventually realize she was equally as guilty as Naomi? The owner told the boy receptionist to keep calling Gracie until she answered. Meanwhile, Kwame, his brother who is also a manager and has an unfortunate stuttering problem in both English and Ga, scowl-faced Naomi, Tettey and I all squeezed into Kwame's car and drove a few minutes down the road to the Osu Police Station. I don't know why we didn't think to take the boy receptionist with us, but it all shook out in the end.
The entire ride I was tickled with amusement that the accuser (Yvonne via me) was wedged arm-to-arm with the accused (Naomi). Reminded me of the time when about 20 minutes into a tro-tro ride I looked to my left and noticed the guy next to me was a police officer and the guy next to him was in handcuffs. It's funny to think of all the things I see on a daily basis in Ghana that would never fly in the U.S.
We parked outside the station and walked inside the lobby. The male and female jail cells were about 15 feet behind the front desk! Both cells were small, maybe about a five by six yard box. The floors were cement and the bars provided a two by seven yard window to the station's lobby. The male cell was on the left, packed with seven hooting and hollering 20- to 30-somethings, the loudest only wearing white boxers adorned with red and green Christmas trees. They were all barefoot and wearing what appeared to be their own clothes. The female cell seemed to be empty. I moved to the right for a (hopefully inconspicuous) better look inside. A body was curled on the floor in the front left corner, her feet bare. Above the male cell a white sheet of regular printing paper stuck to the pale yellow wall, bearing "MALE CELL" bubble letters colored in crayon. Not a single letter was the same color. I squinted my eyes - no, that can't be - op, yep, that is definitely a pencil-traced line underneath the bubble letters. Gotta keep the letters straight.
"Yes?" asked the man in a police uniform stationed at the front desk.
"Hello, we want to file a police report and turn in a suspect."
The man whipped a paper from his desk onto the countertop. Noticing someone had written on the top already, he drew a line through it and instructed me to write the date, my name, nationality, phone number and purpose of my visit. When I finished, Tettey, who had been watching me, reminded me to indicate that it was not to me the crime had happened. I nodded and made a note, then smiled at him, appreciating he was there with me.
"Just another Monday on the job, isn't it, Tettey?"
He laughed.
"Bet you've never thought your job would take you to the police station, did you?"
"Oh ho, please, no!" he replied, still laughing and shaking his head.
"Oye! Charlie! You-who! Charlie! Over here!"
I turned from Tettey to the male cell. In Ghana, "Charlie" (pronounced Chah-lay) means "friend."
The man who had been shouting was looking at me.
"You give me five cedi for when I get out, okay? Okay, Charlie?"
I smiled. "Sorry, I don't have that much myself." It was true. I had spent all but three cedis of my personal money - I just had my organization's money to use to get home.
"Oh, Charlie!"
The man at the front desk took the paper and then asked Naomi to step behind the counter and sit on the bench against the wall, where two other accused suspects were sitting. She hadn't looked at me since the previous night; I didn't dare look at her while she could have seen me either. The guy who asked me for five cedis asked Naomi in Ga what she had done. I couldn't understand her but watched her face. She had lost her angry "this isn't fair" face and now looked sad. And scared. I kept telling myself, it wasn't you who insisted on the police report. It was the hotel owner. It wasn't you who accused her. It was Yvonne. Sort of. Ugh. I felt awful. Whatever, I am just here for Yvonne, I had nothing to do with this. So why, then, do I feel responsible for something that feels wrong? I wished Gracie, the other suspect, was there with Naomi.
Twenty minutes later, the five of us were summoned into the chief's office across from the lobby. We filed a police report with the chief, who was very old and I don't think felt comfortable speaking in English. Kwame explained the chief had instructed us to go to a woman outside, around the corner and down the hall to file some other report, but she was on her lunch break. We waited for over half an hour outside when suddenly a woman who looks like Loretta Devine approached me with a slim and modest-looking man probably in his late-20s but looked no more than 20 years old (typical of Ghanaians).
"I am here for my sister, Naomi," the woman told me flatly. Naomi must have texted her sister - she still had her phone. I envisioned her sister asking Naomi, "How will I know which lady it is?" I was, after all, the only white person at the station. Tettey, Kwame and his brother, their arms folded across each of their chests, walked over to me. It seemed that the off-duty officers roaming the outdoor hall also noticed the pot was about to be stirred. They crowded around us.
"Oh, hello. What can we do for you?" (Ugh, sorry about your sister... what else was I supposed to say?)
"How much money was stolen?" she asked.
"It was 80 U.S. dollars, which is 112 Ghana cedis," I told her. "Why?"
"One thousand twelve Ghana cedis?"
"No, 112 Ghana cedis."
"Oh!" she laughed. "I wish to pay it," she said, fishing through her purse. I stood in front of her, stunned for the second time that day.
"You...want to pay it," I sounded it out to her. To myself. "Why?"
The man spoke up softly and calmly. "Because that is our sister in there. She should not be in jail, we can't let her be in jail. It would be embarrassing to our family." His older sister nodded, pulling her wallet out of her purse.
I imagined her summoning her brother to accompany her to the bank, not knowing how much money was at stake, therefore withdrawing as much money as possible from her account, and driving to the Osu Police Station to save their younger sister. It made me miss my younger brother and sister in a deeper way than before. If I ever needed to save either of them like that, I couldn't.
My gaze drifted from the sister, in her expensive-looking outfit and pearls, nose held high and wallet clutched tight, to the brother, with his puppy dog eyes and sweet disposition. My voice came out softer than it had in what felt like months, "But why would you do this if you don't know if your sister took the money?"
She made the common sucking noise with the sides of her mouth and she and her brother started walking toward the lobby. "Oh! In Ghana, sometimes you must do things even if you don't think..." I stopped listening. I couldn't pretend to not mind being patronized. This was too beautiful a moment - an "I believe in the good of humanity" moment that has revisited me countless times while living in Ghana. Maybe I am immune to noticing these moments back in the states, or maybe they don't happen as often as they do here. The thing is, people in Ghana see each other. Truly see each other. There's hardly ever a missed "Good morning, how are you?" or a genuine smile or energizing eye contact. Complete strangers feel more familiar than neighbors back home. They push each other to improve. They take care of each other. Ghana is a pulsating family, expanding and contracting with vigorous rhythm.
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