I always knew Kweku had ideas. Big ones. Wild ones. The kind that make you ask, “Are you sure this won’t get us arrested?” And every time, Kweku would laugh and say, “Relax, this one is clean."
Spoiler alert: it was never clean.
This time, though, he had a “side hustle” that, according to him, would make us rich in one week. Not one year. Not one month. One week.
“You’ll thank me later,” he said, grinning like a man who had just discovered gold in his backyard.
“What is it this time?” I asked, already regretting the question.
“Courier business,” he said, proudly. “Fast delivery. No stress. Big money.”
Now, to be honest, the idea didn’t sound so bad. Everyone needs delivery these days. People order food, phones, wigs, shoes, even fufu. If we were going to be the guys bringing it to them, why not?
But I should’ve asked more questions. Like what exactly we were delivering. Or who we were delivering it for.
The first few days were simple. We picked up things from point A and dropped them at point B. Most times it was food or small boxes. One time it was a blender. Easy stuff. We even gave ourselves names: he was “Delivery Commander,” and I was “Logistics General.” We wore sunglasses and acted like we worked for the government.
Then Day Four came.
We got a call. Some guy named Blaze. Yes, Blaze. That should have been a red flag. But no, Kweku said Blaze was a "VIP customer."
“He wants us to deliver something quickly. Says it’s urgent,” Kweku said.
“What is it?” I asked.
Kweku shrugged. “Didn’t say. Just said to pick it up and don’t open it.”
Another red flag. I started to itch like something in my spirit was scratching me.
We met Blaze at a dark corner in Osu. He came wearing a hoodie, sunglasses, and chewing gum like his jaw was in a race. He handed us a brown envelope and looked around like a spy.
“Take this to the address on the back. No questions. No stories,” he said.
I wanted to say no. I really did. But Kweku gave me the look. The “we need money” look.
So we took it.
We got on the okada (Kweku said we were too broke to buy a motorbike, so we hired one on credit). We zoomed off, me holding the envelope like it contained the cure for poverty.
Halfway through the journey, things got strange.
We noticed a black police pickup following us. I tapped Kweku.
“Do you see what I’m seeing?”
“Yes,” he said. “Pretend we’re just two innocent delivery boys.”
The police put on their siren. Our okada driver panicked and started flying like we were in Fast and Furious 14.
“Stop!” the police shouted.
But no, our driver was determined. He said, “If they catch me, they will take my motor. Hold tight!”
The chase began. We zigzagged through traffic. We nearly hit a goat. A woman carrying tomatoes screamed. One tomato flew and hit Kweku in the eye.
We finally got blocked at a roundabout.
“Get down!” the police shouted. “What are you carrying?”
“Just an envelope!” I said, shaking like cold banku.
They opened it.
Inside was powder. White powder.
“Eiiiii!” the officer screamed. “Cocaine!”
My soul left my body. Kweku fainted. Just like that.
We were thrown into the police pickup and driven to the station. On the way, I kept praying. “God, I don’t even like nose drugs. Please let this be gari.”
At the station, they questioned us like we were in a crime movie.
“Who sent you?”
“Blaze!” I shouted.
“Where is Blaze?”
We didn’t know. Blaze had disappeared. Switched off his phone. Deleted his WhatsApp. Guy vanished like he was never born.
They locked us in a small cell with three other people. One was singing. One was doing pushups. The last one just kept asking, “Do you believe in aliens?”
We sat in one corner. I wanted to cry but my eyes were too tired.
Kweku whispered, “Maybe this is all a dream.”
“Then please wake me up before I marry in here,” I replied.
Hours passed. Then, a miracle.
The police tested the powder. It was not cocaine. It was powdered yam. Yes. Yam. Blaze was not a drug lord. He was a yam smuggler.
Apparently, it was some banned foreign yam powder he was importing without permission. Illegal, but not narcotic.
They still kept us for questioning. But the police officer was now laughing.
“So you two risked your life, ran from police, and almost died... because of yam?”
“We didn’t know!” we shouted.
In the end, they let us go with a warning. A very long one.
“Next time you want to hustle, open the bag first,” the officer said.
We walked out of the station like war survivors. Kweku looked at me and said, “Well, that escalated quickly.”
“From now on,” I told him, “if any customer’s name is Blaze, Flame, Fire, or anything hot, we are not delivering for them.”
We both laughed.
But I never trusted Kweku’s side hustles again.
At least not until he told me about the "money doubling monkey" from Tamale.
But that’s a story for another day.
THE END
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