My sister operate a small drug store in a village that’s about 30-minute drive away from town. That after our bread business couldn’t yield us any profit. One fateful night, about 10 pm, when She was about closing for the day, a man, qualified to be described as “elderly” appeared from nowhere.
“Are you closing?", the man queried. "Yes", She answered. "Not yet", he said, "I want you to draw my blood." "Draw your blood? For what exactly", My sister questioned. "I want you to draw my blood first and I will go home and bring my son for his blood to be drawn too", he said with all seriousness. "Please, tell me what exactly you want. It's late", My sister asserted impatiently.
The man sighed deeply and began to tell her his story. "I want to know if the boy is my real son. That's why I want you to take our blood and check for me. I will pay", the man revealed the matter that brought him. "I am sorry. I can't do it” said my sister. I don't have the capacity to do it. Even the big hospitals in Tamale cannot do it. If you want that service, then unless Accra. And it comes at a significant cost", She came clear with him.
Intrigued, She probed further to satisfy her curiosity, "But why do you want to confirm if the boy is your son?" The man shook his head with a loud "hmm". My son bears a striking resemblance with a Fulani man in my vicinity. It is in the mouth of every man and woman in the community that my son was sired by the Fulani man. Before my wife got pregnant, there was a widespread rumour that she was in some amorous entanglements with the said man.
"Did you confront your wife with the rumours?", My sister asked for clarity. "Yes and she denied it flatly", the man answered. "And do you believe or trust your wife?", My sister pushed further. "I want to", he muttered.
"But that's not all the story", the man continued, "at some point, this Fulani man travelled to Accra and my wife also travelled to Accra at the same time to visit her mother who fell sick. This coincidence further deepens the perception in the community that my son's true father could be the Fulani man."
"So, do you feel the boy is not your son", She asked him the multimillion-dollar question. "Sometimes. Sometimes, I look at the boy and all I see is the Fulani man. He's spitting image of a Fulani and act typically like one. "Well, people look alike and it could all be personal biases of people fuelling the rumours and perceptions", My sister wrapped up the conversation and bid him farewell.
A week later, a woman, almost bare-chested, ran to the drug store, tears gushing out of her eyes, wailing and tapping her feet on the ground. In her hands was a beautiful light-skinned boy frothing and foaming at the mouth. The boy was almost lifeless and his mouth was like an artist's canvas dipped into a white palette.
Before My sister could ask what was amiss? The man appeared like an apparition. The man who came to me a week ago wanting a paternity confirmation with his son. In his hands, was a white powder in a transparent polythene bag. My sister had an instantaneous déjà vu. Shocked to the marrow, Then she managed to ask, "What happened?"
Sadness had completely enveloped the mother. She was drowning in the streams of her own tears and choking on her encumbered sobs. She stood still like a mannequin but for the occasional squinting to drain her eye porches. She lost her ability to speak. She couldn't utter a word in answer to my question. Her only answer was to look at the almost lifeless body of her son and look at my sister ostensibly for a miracle.
My sister looked at the man man-to-man. There was no single construction of any emotion on his face. Indifferent. "I kept a rat poison in the room and he accidentally ate it", the man confirmed my suspicion. "Accidentally?", My sister probed. "Yes", he replied lackadaisically.
My sister felt the boy's pulse at the jugular and the life in him was at its low moments. She told them that there was nothing She could do at that precarious moment as the boy was on the verge of giving up the ghost. She told them to run as fast as they could to any of the big hospitals in Tamale for immediate medical care.
Immediately, the woman, the mannequin became instantly animated. She turned like a determined lioness ready to chase a zebra for her famished cubs. She was running towards Tamale, her cloth falling off her waist, exposing her unmentionables. The man turned and followed her reluctantly. The woman's resolve to see her son survive reminded my sister of the saying that "motherhood is a fact and fatherhood is a belief."
She stood still, like an enchanted zombie, trying to knock her self out of the déjà vu.
For almost a month, She saw the man for the first time. They exchanged greetings and She enquired about the outcome of their hospitalisation following the poisoning case. The man said, "Oh the boy? He is dead." He said it flippantly without an iota of grief or discomfort. His prosaic tone hurt my sister deeply. "Good grief", her heart murmured.
The Perspective!
If you're in Tamale, you will probably know of this popular DNA case involving one politically exposed couple.
