Escape from Cape Coast

                Preface: I have been trying to keep my blog posts chronological, at least loosely. But so many new sights and sounds and feelings come with each day I can’t possibly keep up. Because of this my daily journals, after revision and editing aren’t posted for at LEAST 2 weeks after the actual day described. Today will be different. Today will be today.

                Some stories demand to be told immediately. They won’t wait. Those stories are oblivious to the stories proceeding themselves. They scream for attention regardless of the significance of others. They are self-absorbed stories, ego-maniacal stories, desperate, hopeless, panicked and irrational stories. They must be told now. This is one of those. And this story is about Dakota.

                At 6:15 a.m. my cell phone buzzed. A girl’s voice asked, “Is Dakota there?”

                I expected that he wouldn’t be in the bungalow. He’d told me the night before that he had an extra Chemistry class to attend at 6 a.m. and he’d be leaving early. He’d told me not to wake him up because he would set his own alarm. So I’d looked forward to this morning when I could sleep in rather than making him breakfast before leaving for school.

                I pulled myself from bed. “Let me check.” I walked the length of the hallway from my room to Cody’s and peeked in. His bed was covered perfectly with a royal blue sheet bearing his school’s insignia, an African novel propped against his pillow. The dirty clothes, normally strewn around his room were cleared away. His curtains were open and his shoes were in a neat row against the back wall. His black school shoes were the third pair in the row.

                “He’s not here,” I started to explain to the phone voice. But the voice was gone, the connection cut off. I went back to bed.

                Two hours later I woke Scott up. I’d been feigning sleep to myself. I so looked forward to sleeping in that I denied my brain the recognition that I was really awake for the whole time anyway.

                “Scott,” I woke him. He startled awake like he does when I nudge him. “I’m worried about Cody. He said he had to meet a Chemistry class at 6 but some girl just called looking for him. I’m afraid he may not have made it to school.”

                Scott assured me that I shouldn’t be concerned. “It was probably Diana asking him to walk to school with her.”

                Diana lives across the street. She’d come over the night before for dinner. I’d made Groundnut Soup for Cody’s favorite teacher, Mr. Omoaku and his classmate Diana. It was the first and only time Dakota had ever asked to invite a friend to our house so I agreed on short notice to host them.

                I tried to quiet the mice running in my head for only a few more minutes before I got out of bed. Something felt wrong. In a moment when being right doesn’t feel good at all, I spied a composition book open to its center on Scott’s desk, the only furnishing in our bare dining room. From across the room I saw a spare passport photo of Dakota placed beneath large writing.

On the left page, “IF YOU HAVEN”T SEEN MY LETTER YET… On the right, “I’m gone.”

I woke Scott. We looked for a letter. We searched through the house. I tore apart his room and found no letter. I looked in the kitchen, on the doors, in the bathroom sink. Nothing.

I found the three page letter on our bed stand, not four feet from where I’d slept. It said he was safe. It said he loved me. It said he didn’t hate it here. It said he had lied about struggling in school. He’d just told me he was failing so I’d feel guilty and send him home. It said he felt guilty. It said he was weak. It said he’d celebrate when we returned in June because we were strong and could survive here. It said he knew I loved my son. It said he knew I wanted the best for my son. It said this was not a joke. It said he had no cruel intentions. It said it was time to listen to what my son wanted. It said it was time for him to leave. It said “BE HUMBLE. WORK HARD. AND THAT’S IT,” in capital letters. It said, “Good bye.”

It was 8:30 a.m.. Scott called Dakota’s cell phone with no luck so we both started calling anyone who Cody may have confided in. I called Big John first. He was who we all trusted the most. He was the one Dakota went to church with, the one who drove him then stayed to watch him at boxing lessons, he was the one Cody allowed to hug him, the one he called “brotha.”

“Big John.”

“Hello, mommy. How are you?”

“Have you seen Dakota?”

“No, mommy. Did he go to school?”

“He’s run away?”

“Did he take his school uniform?”

“What? I don’t know! Why? He left a letter. He ran away!”

“I’m coming.”

Scott called the head mistress of the school. He told her Dakota was missing. He told her that Mr. Omuaku was Dakota’s favorite teacher. He asked if Dakota may have told Mr. Omuako his plans. She insure Scott that she would send the teacher to us right away.

I inhaled cigarette after cigarette on my magic porch. I reread the letter overe and over and over. My first thought was that the language used in the letter wasn’t Dakota’s language. Someone else had composed this letter. Someone else was helping him. Someone else must know what my child meant when he said, “I’m gone.” I had to find the person. I had to find my son. I already hated Dakota’s conspirator for their disloyalty. It had to be someone we know. Dakota wouldn’t just leave with a stranger, would he?

                Scott and my mothers were both visiting for two weeks. This morning, my mom and I had planned to deliver supplies to the school where I’d been volunteering. We had promised to be home by noon, when Dakota would be released from school early and all of us would leave for a two-day vacation to Bushua Beach Resort. As planned, my mom arrived at our bungalow at 9. Barbara had come with her after my panicked phone call to them earlier.

                Big John arrived. He read the letter. He sat, dumb-founded on the plastic porch chair. “He didn’t say anything to me. This makes me feel disappointed in Dakota. I don’t feel happy about this. Why didn’t he say something to me? He should tell someone about this before leaving.” His somber eyes said more than that.

Mr. Omoaku arrived, accompanied by his younger brother, one of Dakota’s confidante’s at school. He read the letter.He hung his head, shaking it from side to side. “I don’t believe this. Dakota! He never told me he was unhappy. I am sad your family is dealing with this. He didn’t tell me anything about this. I see him fitting in and having fun woth friends at school, especially on our last class excursion.”

His class had gone to Kakum National Park, where they crossed the highest and longest suspension bridge overlooking the African jungle. Instinctively my brain reversed to that day a week before. As it rewound, I saw and heard things I hadn’t noticed before.

When the laundry man came for clothes, Dakota claimed he’d had none so he sent none of his clothes away to be washed. For the last two days he’d returned from boxing lessons disappointed that the manager hadn’t shown up. Last night when my mom asked if he would sleep in her air-conditioned, hot-water chalet he claimed he had “things to do.” He cancelled his regular Wednesday evening church with Big John. Instead, he’d invited his favorite people to the house for dinner. Last night, he’d apologized and said “I love you” after I’d screamed at him for not putting his sheet on his bed night after night.

I had to blame someone for this. Then, a phone call from Dakota’s father, Leif, popped in my head. He had been planning a surprise visit to Cape Coast on March 6. He had his passport and visa. He was getting his shots and found some affordable plane tickets, but he still wasn’t sure he would make it. He told us not to tell Dakota. He wanted it to be a surprise. Plus, if for some reason he couldn’t come, he didn’t want Dakota’s hopes to be up and then crushed. But this last phone call was different. He had sounded skeptical about coming. He clarified the words “IF I visit” in place of “WHEN I visit.” And he had said, “I think I’ll come on March 3^rd instead of March 6^th.”

“Scott,” I demanded, “What’s the date?”

He flipped his wrist watch back, “It’s March 3^rd.”

I knew then that Leif must be part of this plan. He must have told us he supported our insistence that Dakota stick this out then undermined us with Cody to make this plan. I seethed with disgust and betrayal.

“He told Dakota to run away. He told us what we wanted to hear then helped Cody organize this escape!”

Scott rationalized, “Molly, you don’t know that. We don’t even know if Leif knows anything about this. You have to call Leif to tell him what’s going on.”

But I didn’t know what was going on. I clutched the letter still in my hand to read it again. This time I saw a name I hadn’t seen before. Sarpei.

Sarpei was the man at the American Embassy who’d given us our orientation when we arrived in Africa. I flipped the pages back and forth. There it was. Scrawled on a separate page in large letters, “I’m safe in Accra.”

“He went to Accra!”

Scott looked incredulous, “How would he get to Accra?”

Accra is at least a 3 hour drive, most likely much longer with traffic.

Scott and I pondered out loud, trying to keep level heads, “Who would he get to take him to Accra? How would he pay for it?”

I grabbed my cell phone and scrolled through the menu for the call record. At 6:15 a.m.. I found the number I wanted and hit send. The ring tone was a reggae song. It rang and rang until at the final moment, someone picked up, “…kota,” then the phone hung up. I called back. Noone picked up. I called again. Noone picked up. Again. Noone. Again. Noone.

At the same time, Scott called Sarpei at the American Embassy in Accra. Scott reported to me, “ Cody’s not there. Sarpei hasn’t seen him or heard from him. He said he’d call if he came there.”

Before Scott could finish what he was saying, a text from Dakota came in, “I’m safe at the embassy.”

I have to continue this story tomorrow. I’m physically drained from the gamut of emotions through which I’ve traveled today, not to mention the hours of time in a hot, sweaty taxi standing still in the packed streets of Accra. Two packs of cigarettes are empty. My eyes are swollen from crying and my brain is racing in ridiculous spirals.

I can leave you with only the tenuous assurance I had for the longest hours of my life, Dakota’s safe.