Wife Of The Gods

Wife Of The Gods


Introducing Detective Inspector Darko Dawson: dedicated family man, rebel in the office, ace in the field—and one of the most appealing sleuths to come along in years.


When we first meet Dawson, he’s been ordered by his cantankerous boss to leave behind his loving wife and young son in Ghana’s capital city to lead a murder investigation: In a shady grove outside the small town of Ketanu, a young woman—a promising medical student—has been found dead under suspicious circumstances. Dawson is fluent in Ketanu’s indigenous language, so he’s the right man for the job, but the local police are less than thrilled with an outsider’s interference. For Dawson, this sleepy corner of Ghana is rife with emotional land mines: an estranged relationship with the family he left behind twenty-five years earlier and the painful memory of his own mother’s inexplicable disappearance. Armed with remarkable insight and a healthy dose of skepticism, Dawson soon finds his cosmopolitan sensibilities clashing with age-old customs, including a disturbing practice in which teenage girls are offered to fetish priests as trokosi, or Wives of the Gods.



    The forest was black and Darko was afraid to enter. The trees, covered from apex to root with dry, sloughing scales, beckoned him with their crackling branches. The forest floor erupted into a cloud of dust as the gnarled, ragged tree roots burst from the earth and turned into massive, thrashing limbs. Swaying, the trees began to lumber toward Darko. He wanted to escape, but terror paralyzed him. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came.

    “Don’t be frightened, Darko.”

    He recognized his Mama’s voice at once. Relief swept through him and rendered him light and free. Joy swelled in his chest and knotted in his throat as he saw Mama emerge from the shadows. She walked toward him as if floating, her head held high in the assurance that she would allow nothing to harm her boy.

    She held out her hand. “Come along. It’s all right.”

    Her palm softly and completely cocooned his. He looked up. She smiled down at him, her eyes deep and warm and liquid. She was strong and beautiful. He loved the touch of her hand and the scent of her skin.

    And she took him into the musty forest of putrefying trees. The forest floor was carpeted with ashen leaves and brittle twigs that snapped underfoot. For a moment, the trees stopped moving and let Darko and his Mama pass through like ghosts.

    “You see?” she said. “They can’t trouble us because we’re not afraid of them.”
    One of the trees moaned loudly – a wrenching sound, full of the pain of approaching death. Roots flailing, its bulbous trunk took on a distorted likeness of Darko’s Papa, eyes cruel and mouth bitter as quinine. Darko shied away but Mama held him fast.

    “No, Darko, you can’t go back now. I’ve led you here to find the truth. I want you to find it.”
    “I’m scared to go on, Mama.”
    “Why, Darko?”
    “What if the truth is more terrible than the forest?”

    At that very instant, his hand slipped from hers. She faded away, and in the void she left, there was no answer. The Papa Tree, suddenly luminous in the darkness, floundered in the soil as it lurched closer.

    “Mama?” His reaching hand touched empty space. “Mama, where are you?”

    Darko turned in circles, straining his eyes to see, but Mama had vanished. The trees grunted, scrabbling at the ground to gain traction as they closed in.

    Darko Dawson, the boy, cried out. “Mama!”

    Darko Dawson, the man, cried out. Gasping, soaked in sweat, he sat bolt upright in bed. “Mama?”

    The room flooded with light and he cringed, expecting to see the hideous trees closing in. He felt arms wrapping around him and he tried to fight them off.

    “The trees,” he said. “The trees.”
    “No trees,” Christine said. “No trees. Just me. In the bedroom, here with you.”

    His wife held him and wiped the sweat from his brow. He sighed deeply and let the tension go as he leaned against her.

    “The dream was different from before,” he whispered.
    “Was it?”

    He nodded. “This time, Mama was there in the forest with me. She’s calling for me, Christine. I know she is. She wants me to find her. She’s ready for me now.”


    “It’s an absolute gem of a first novel and the sort of book that will delight not only hard-core mystery fans, but also those who visit the genre only casually..[It] is not simply an extraordinarily well-crafted mystery; it’s also an extremely well-structured and deftly written novel.. Wife of the Gods undoubtedly will be compared with Alexander McCall Smith’s phenomenally successful “No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency” series, but Quartey’s debut is — to this reader, at least — a far richer and more sophisticated experience. The author is working on a second novel and, if it lives up to this one’s promise, mystery fans have an important new voice to savor.”

    – Tim Rutten, Los Angeles Times


    “Kwei Quartey’s first novel, Wife of the Gods, is a dark, edgy mystery that’s almost gritty enough to be considered noir. The book is a marvelous detective procedural; its complex plot includes a plethora of suspects and clues that will keep readers guessing the murderer’s identity until the inevitable confrontation at the book’s climax.”

    – Book Browse


    “Quartey’s winning debut, a police procedural set in modern Ghana, introduces gifted detective Darko Dawson … a wonderful creation, a man as rich with contradictions as the Ghana Quartey so delightfully evokes … readers will be eager for the next installment in what one hopes will be a long series.”

    -Publishers Weekly

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