Story 4: The Showdown

Published in the Ghanaian Saturday 'Mirror', Saturday September 23, 1995

The man behind the desk was bent over sheets of paper spread all over the desk. He was seriously working, oblivious of the rhythmic humming of the air conditioner, the soft music being played on the radio, and the continuous knocking on his door. The secretary, who was not unaware of this occasional eccentric behaviour of her boss, opened the door and entered the office after knocking for well over three minutes. The man still went on writing, his handsome face contorted in concentration.

Miss Ocansey smiled at the bent form of her boss. She really loved working with him; she had been with him for about three years as his personal secretary, and she had loved every minute of it. What a boss to serve! Committed, dedicated – and handsome too. Mr. Stephen Benson was a man of about thirty two years. Slim and tall, he had a body which spelt inner strength and a face bright with intelligence and vision. A graduate of Oxford University, he had pursued a series of courses, coming out an editor and publisher, all in one piece. For the past six years, he had been managing his own firm, churning out a total of twenty splendid novels in this period, each novel a bestseller. He was unmarried, and flirtatious bachelor of the highest degree too.

“Sir, a visitor to see you, please.”

He still went on writing. Miss Ocansey hesitated for sometime, and tried again. This time, Mr. Benson looked up and realised for the first time that it was past mid-day and that he was very hungry. He had been working for about five continuous hours on the novel “A day to remember”, written by one of his best clients, Nii Noi Narh Snr. A great writer, and a great novel. He wanted to finish it within the month and take a well-deserved rest for a period of time.

“Yes, what can I do for you, Miss?”
“A lady visitor to see you, sir. Can I show her in?”
“Yes, yes. Please do. And a cup of coffee for me, please.” And with that, he resumed his work, with the same serious concentration.

He looked up soon to meet the stare of a lovely lady, standing a short distance away from his desk. She was about twenty-five, he reasoned, and by God, beautiful. For a moment he absent-mindedly stared at her before he came to himself and showed her to a chair in front of him.

The lady sat down gracefully, and with the same grace placed her handbag on her lap. A split moment of silence as their eyes met…

“Mr. Benson Stephen, Editor-publisher at your service, ma’am.”

He had said this a million and two times in his career and he always felt refreshingly confident each time. Today was no exception. It assured him always of his competence.

“Miss Akosua Nketia is my name. I am an author. I have a novel I want published and a friend recommended you to me at a party. She said you were the best this side of the world; so I decided to rush down to see you. I have the manuscript here. Can you take a look, sir? Here, thank you.”

A knock on the door, and the secretary entered with the steaming cup of coffee. Miss Nketia politely refused Mr. Benson’s offer to have a cup made for her. He took the manuscript and skimmed it, taking sips of the coffee intermittently. As he read, he thought also of the beautiful homo sapiens seated before him. A nice fish worthy to be sailed after. Having finished with the script, he placed it on the desk and smiled at the lady.

“Can I call you Akos? Good. The work is perfect, the plot is excellent, I am just in love with the suspense, and your climax is just splendid. I think you’ve got a deal. Anyway, everyone will like to deal with a … beautiful lady like you. Well… let’s see…can you meet me on Friday at eh…Sadisco Hotel so we can discuss this in more detail? At 4.00 pm? Good. See you then.”

Friday evening found them seated around a table on which were two bottles of Star beer and two glasses. They had been chatting for about an hour when Mr. Benson made his next move:

“Miss Nketia, tell me, what do you do with your beauty?”

She smiled shyly and sipped her beer. Mr. Benson asked her to tell him more about herself and how she became a writer.

She proceeded to give him details of her life; what she didn’t tell him, however, was that she was married to one Lieutenant Patrick Atiemo, and that her husband was on a peace-keeping mission in Rwanda. The night turned out to be a long one, with a lot of dancing together. At the end of the day, both had no doubt in their minds that they were in for a something more than a business relationship.

“Friday nite” turned out to be a favourite time for these lovebirds. They went out together to many places, and were hardly apart. Akosua ended up partly giving up her house, and staying with Stephen. This, of course, had a great effect on Stephen’s commitment to his work, failing to publish Nii Noi Narh’s novel, and even that of Akosua; actually, she didn’t care for it any longer. They continued this relationship with an intensity akin to madness until a tragedy caused its abrupt end.

Lt. Atiemo had returned from Rwanda to find his marital home empty, his wife nowhere to be found. He wanted to surprise her, so he didn’t send any notice of his arrival date. After waiting a couple of days without her return from wherever he presumed she had travelled to, he called on a good friend of his to enquire about Akos, as he was getting worried. What his friend told him shook him to his very bones. His wife going out with someone and, not just that, sleeping in his house as well. He just couldn’t take it.

Back home, he thought about the whole situation. He wasn’t one given to wine but he drank that day, tears streaming down his face like a waterfall. All these years he had lived for his wife alone, toiled to make her life comfortable, been faithful to her. In Rwanday, whilst his colleagues sampled the native women, he had remained faithful to his vows, to love Akos and only her. And what does she offer in return? God, he surely had to end it all. End it, blast it, shoot the bastards in their stomachs for sure.

He took out his pistol and loaded it. His military mind was set in motion. They were the enemy. He knew what he had in mind, the enemy didn’t. He knew they existed, they didn’t. His next move was to find them.

Stephen and Akosua had had a wonderful day. Akos had finally agreed, after a lot of persuasion, to take Stephen to see her home. In high spirits, they entered the sitting room. Stephen instantly felt Akos freeze beside him at the sight of the man sitting behind the dining table with the pistol in his hand. Akos just couldn’t believe her eyes. She never expected her husband to be back so soon; at least, he should have written to inform her he was coming home.

Before she could recover from her shock, two shots rang out – a bullet each finding its mark in Akos and Stephen. As they fell, Atiemo shot his head off.

Stephen was shocked the most about the whole incident. As he went down in pain, he cried “Oh God, save me…” but all he could perceive was darkness, deep darkness enveloping him…

Stephen was sure he was in heaven, and an angel was looking down at him. All around him was bright light. This must be the light that, he learnt ages ago in Sunday school, was supposed to shine forth from the throne of God.

The angels moved about. All he could whisper was “Have mercy, Lord, and give me another chance, another chance.”

Slowly, his gaze focused and the haziness cleared. He was looking up at a nurse, and he realised that he was not in heaven but in a hospital, and the nurse holding his hand was speaking to him.

“Yes, He will give you a chance again, sir. Thank God you are alive and recovering. Been in a coma for the past three days. Shot in the shoulder, you were, and the only one alive of the three of you. Give your life to the Lord, take Him as your own, and you will never regret you did.”

And regret he did not, as later years were to prove. He repented of all his evil, past ways and turned over a fresh new leaf, eventually becoming a minister of the Gospel.

His favourite sermon was the “The Showdown”, the story of a great deliverance.