Boniface leaned forward with some effort and peered at Osewa, his face so close to hers she could smell his foul, wheezing breath. He traced her facial features with his fat fingers. His palms were saturated with the dark color and odor of herbal medicines. Osewa found Boniface Kutu repulsive in a way that made her believe in him.

“So, Kweku Gedze,” he said. “Tell us why you have brought your wife here.”

Kweku cleared his throat. “Please, Mr. Kutu, she is barren.”

“Eh?” Boniface said, craning forward to hear.

“Speak up, my friend,” Isaac prompted.

“She cannot bear fruit from my seed,” Kweku said more loudly.

“Have you taken your wife to a healer before?” Boniface asked.

“Yes, please. Many.”

“And what did they do?”

“They gave her medicines to change her desert into a rich soil. And also a tonic for the blood.”

“And what happened?”

“Please, nothing.”

“Stand up,” Boniface said to Osewa.

She did as she was told. Boniface placed his hands on her belly and began to press upon it. It was an experienced touch, firm and sure. He suddenly stopped and stayed completely still, as though he had felt something or caught a sound. Then he took his hands away and signaled to his son to perform the same inspection.

Isaac knelt on one knee in front of Osewa. She thought his inexperience and physical strength would render him rough and coarse, but the instant he put his palms flat upon her belly, she felt such a thrill race through her she almost gasped. He did not have anything approaching the hardness of his father. Instead, his hands were soft and light, his fingers long and flowing as they glided over her skin like a warm stream. She had never been touched like that.

Osewa looked down at him. His head was level yet his eyes were turned up at her, dark and burning. Her face grew fire hot, and her heart raced as he held her gaze.

“What do you feel?” Boniface said.

“Something is there…,” Isaac said, his voice trailing into doubt.

“No,” Boniface said with a sigh. He sounded tired. “There is an absence, not a presence.”

Isaac nodded. “Oh, yes.”

“Don’t make things up. If there is no water in your calabash, do not tip it as if to pour. Do you understand?”

Isaac looked embarrassed. “Yes, Papa.”

Boniface turned to Osewa. “Do you know what is wrong with you?”

Osewa dipped her body in a slight curtsy. “Please, Mr. Kutu, no, I don’t know.”

“Little woman, you have no womb.”

Osewa reeled.

“No womb?” she whispered. “How is it I have no womb?”

“It has been stolen from you.”

“By whom? Who stole it?”

“Most certainly a witch.”

Osewa stared at him in disbelief. “A witch?”

“Yes. Do you have any problems with your in-laws?”

“No,” she said, with a sidelong glance at Kweku.

“How many sisters do you have?”

“Two.”

“Are you fighting with them?”

Osewa shook her head. “No.”

“Is one of them a troublemaker? When she was a small girl, was she disrespectful to her elders? Tell the truth.”

“Yes. You are right.”

“What is her name?”

“Akua.”

“Is she jealous of your beauty?”

“Beauty?” Osewa was surprised both by the question and the compliment it held. “No, Mr. Kutu, I don’t think so.”

“I suspect her. Bring her here. I will try her by an ordeal that will tell us whether or not she’s a witch. If she is, and she confesses to stealing your womb, then we can get it back. Then you will regain fruitfulness. Do you hear?”

“Yes, please. I hear.”

“You will need to bring three hens with you for the trial.”

Osewa, twenty-five, was the middle of the three sisters. Akua was younger by about three years, and Beatrice, thirty, was the oldest. As Osewa had predicted to Kweku, Akua ridiculed the idea that she might be a witch and resolutely refused to go to Boniface Kutu’s compound to be “tried.” Kweku made the decision to take her there by force. It took him three days to arrange for this. Two friends of his agreed to help kidnap Akua.

Boniface had told Osewa that she would have to attend the ordeal. After all, it was her womb that was to be restored. When she saw Akua being hauled in by Kweku and his friends, Osewa’s stomach turned. She had feared there would be a struggle, but this was horrible beyond imagination. Akua was writhing and screaming like a beast. Her clothes were torn and twisted around her body, and her face was drenched with sweat and frothing saliva.

Kweku had brought the requisite three hens. The trial was a nasty affair, in which Akua had to partially slice each hen’s neck and release it to run around blind and crazy for a few dying moments. When it finally staggered to a stop and collapsed, the question was whether it had died breast up or down. The first one died with its breast up.

“And what does that mean to you?” Boniface asked Isaac.

“It means that the gods approve of the woman.”

“No. It means they approve of this one sacrifice and only this one.”

“Oh, yes, Papa. That’s what I meant to say.”

“Does she have more chickens?”

“Two more, Papa.”

“Carry on.”

Akua’s face was twisted and her eyes bloodshot with revulsion. Covered in blood, feathers, and beastly excrement, she looked at Isaac as if she would slice his neck if she got the chance.

She killed the second chicken, and then the third. Each did its strange dance of death, half running, half staggering, with its head flapping about like an appendage. The second one died with its breast upward like the first, and the third died on its side but more up than down.

“Come here,” Isaac said to Akua.

She approached shaking like a leaf in a stiff wind, and Isaac turned her to face Boniface.

“The fowls have all died breast upward,” Boniface said, new strength in his voice. “That means all your sacrifice has been accepted by the gods. They would not approve of it if you were a witch. Therefore, I declare you not guilty.”

The verdict barely registered with Akua. She was in a daze. Isaac rubbed powdered clay over her arms and shoulders and gave her a piece of white clay as a token.

Much later in life, Osewa was to have mixed feelings about the trial experience. She was glad it had happened because that was how she had met Isaac. At the same time, the memory was anguishing and sad because Akua never forgave Osewa for conspiring to subject her to the most humiliating experience of her life. Akua and her husband had to move away from Ketanu because rumors kept surfacing that she really was a witch, and Osewa never, ever heard from Akua again. The tragedy of it was that Akua had been the best sister Osewa had.

AFTER HIS MEETING WITH Elizabeth and Charles, Dawson’s first stop that morning was to have been the police station, but Elizabeth insisted he visit her fabric shop before that. Instead of the usual religious reference, she had named it simply Queen Elizabeth’s Dress Shop, and Dawson smiled to himself and thought how fitting a name it was. It was a cozy space packed with clothing, rolls of beautiful fabric, and that unmistakable smell of fresh new textiles.

“This is really nice,” Dawson said, looking around.

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said sweetly. “Would you like to choose something for your wife?”

He picked out a kente stole. “I think she’ll like this one. How much is it?”

“It’s a gift, Mr. Dawson. I would not dream of charging you for it.”

The station was quiet. Constable Gyamfi was at his desk taking swigs from a bottle of Malta Guinness. Dawson’s eyes lit up. Goodness, energy, vitality, as the label proclaimed. “Good morning, Constable Gyamfi.”

The young man jumped to his feet with a beaming smile. “Morning, sir.”