(Takoradi & Sekondi, November 1953 – Night of the Steel Auction)
Kwesi Boateng leaned on the polished rail of the Sekondi Club's veranda, swirling ice in his whisky as the wireless crackled from the corner table. British dance music faded; a cargo bulletin cut in. "…UAC Surplus—eighteen tonnes reinforcing bar, location Takoradi, reserve three pounds per ton…" Boateng snapped his head toward the set.
Eighteen tonnes? The numbers rushed through him like quinine—steel was already scarce; every contract for the colonial Public Works Department listed 'delivery delays' in red ink. Whoever grabbed that lot tonight could name their price come January.
A younger broker, Thomas, smirked. "Waste of petrol, Kwesi. Auction's after midnight—maybe even two a.m. Let the British rep scoop it. You've cocoa to think of."
Boateng's jaw tightened. Cocoa. That cursed wonder‑child and his carpenter father were scooping beans right under his nose, paying farmers in cash while he waited on credit lines from Liverpool. Two weeks ago he had heard them talking to the harbourmaster about warehouse space. Now steel? No. He would not let a barefoot six‑year‑old embarrass him twice.
He slammed the tumbler down so hard the ice cracked. "Get my driver and a launch. We sail for Takoradi in twenty minutes."
Thomas blinked. "But the tide—"
"Move!" Boateng strode for the cloakroom, heart hammering a tempo half fury, half thrill.
The Midnight Run
A gusty swell slapped the launch as it rounded the breakwater. Boateng wrapped his coat tighter, cursing the salt spray on his imported hat. Dock cranes loomed ahead like skeletal giants. He visualized the rebar already: cut, stacked, sold to Frye & Co. for twice purchase, then resold to Public Works for double again. A neat triangle of profit—and a sharp lesson for the Obeng upstarts.
But the minute he stepped onto Pier 4, he spotted the carpenter's Bedford parked near Warehouse 17, lantern glowing in the cab. They're already here. His pulse stuttered. A tiny figure—Malik—sat atop a bollard, too calm for a child among shadows. Boateng's anger hardened to something more dangerous: humiliation waiting to happen.
He lurked by a coal hopper, listening. Auction whistle blew. He flung a bid—four pounds—just to bruise them. But the boy's father countered, voice steady. Boateng nudged higher, felt the edge of his credit. Rum would have let him gamble; arithmetic did not. When Obeng took the lot at a measly five‑ten, the humiliation bloomed full.
Poisoned Pride
Boateng stalked the alley between warehouses, fists throbbing. The night guard dozed by a brazier; two silver coins bought his silence. Inside Warehouse 17, moonlight traced neat rows of cocoa sacks. Boateng's knife hissed from its sheath like a promise.
Teach them fragility, he told himself. Teach the boy that numbers on paper wilt when the beans rot.
He slit ten sacks—clean, precise—then scattered a handful of damp straw near the beans. The humid air smelled ripe, almost sweet. Good. Let fungi feast. He left as silently as he came, pausing only to kick over a lantern so that hot oil puddled close enough to scorch the floorboards but—he calculated— not ignite. Ruin, not arson: plausible deniability.
Outside, the night guard whistled a tune. Boateng pressed the final coin into the man's palm. "Forget I passed."
The guard nodded, gaze fixed on silver.
Doubts on the Drive Back
In the rattling Austin motorcar, Thomas ventured, "We could still angle for their surplus if the beans spoil and they need cash."
Boateng stared through the windscreen haze. He felt no triumph, only an ache behind his ribs. He remembered Malik's small face glowing in lantern light—eyes too knowing, yet oddly kind. A boy who offers clean water even to rivals,rumors said.
This is business, he told the pity stirring in his gut. Survival.
Yet whisper‑shadows of doubt clung like salt. Sabotage could backfire; sympathy can be worth more than steel. But pride overrode wisdom.
He opened his ledger and scribbled a number: £90—the price he should have paid. Beside it he wrote, Win the next bid or break them for good.
The car rolled east toward Sekondi as dawn lit the clouds. Boateng closed the ledger, but unease rode with him, as real as the rebar clanking now in Obeng hands.