At their next meeting, held at the same restaurant, Erik appeared paler than before. His age was beginning to weigh on him, and the prognosis of his medical challenges had not been encouraging.

“Moria,” he began, his voice a little weaker than usual, “today is not like other days. I came because I owe you and your people this story. Otherwise, I would have stayed home.”

“I appreciate this,” Moria replied, as Erik took a sip of his tea and grimaced. “It tastes like dishwater,” he muttered, setting the cup down and wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.

He cleared his throat. “I am going to share with you what led to the removal of Nkrumah. As before,” he continued, “please take notes.”

Moria listened intently, her pen flying across the page as Erik spoke. This time, her questions were fewer, her understanding of international politics deepening with each word. Just as before, after their initial meeting, she moved to the restaurant window, translating Erik’s insights into her own words. She wrote:

The early morning sun cast long, dancing shadows across the cobblestone streets of Westminster. A gentle breeze carried the scent of freshly brewed tea and toasted crumpets from nearby cafes. At the heart of Westminster, a historic Georgian townhouse stood sentinel. Its black door, adorned with a golden lion and unicorn, was a symbol of British power. Inside, the Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, had just concluded a press conference. The tension and anticipation in the room had dissipated, leaving behind a lingering scent of cigar smoke and the soft hum of conversation. As Wilson exited the briefing room, he headed for his office in the labyrinth that 10 Downing Street was.

Once in his office, he took his seat behind his writing desk made of dark wood, likely mahogany, featuring brass detailing and ornate carvings. The desk was cluttered with papers, files, and pens, reflecting the hectic pace of his political life. Not much else stands distinctively in the office except the small lamp that provided light for late-night work, and a framed photograph of his family, which sat on the corner.

Resting separately from the clutter was a thick, crimson dossier bearing a single, ominous word: Ghana. A look at the inking seemed to give an insight into the pulsating weight of the nation’s problems; instinctively, the Prime Minister knew that the future of the Commonwealth, and perhaps even the world order, hung in the balance. If anything can be done to save the flickering glory of Britain, now is the time to make the decision and do it. When he opens the folder, he would need to make that decision, one that he had been dragging his feet on.

The loss of Ghana was a bitter pill to swallow. It was a vivid reminder of the empire’s waning influence, and the rising tide of nationalism and anti-colonialism was ferociously sweeping across the globe. Kwame Nkrumah, the charismatic leader of Ghana, had become a beacon of hope for oppressed peoples everywhere. With the enormous wealth Ghana now possessed, thanks to its gold reserves and cocoa exports, Nkrumah could afford to be audacious; his fiery rhetoric fuelled Pan-Africanism, stirring unrest in other British colonies in Africa and the Caribbean. This is igniting a conflagration that could engulf the entire British Empire.

A single tear escaped his eye as he recalled the glory days of the British Empire. The sun had never set on its vast dominions, and its power and prestige were unmatched. But now, the empire was in twilight, its once-mighty grip on the world slipping away.

Wilson reached for his cigar box, something that had become a comforting habit during times of stress. As he lit the cigar, a cloud of smoke enveloped him, providing a momentary respite from the storm raging within his mind. He thought of his predecessor, Harold Macmillan, who had presided over the granting of Ghanaian independence. Had Macmillan made a mistake? Or had the tide of history simply turned against the British Empire?

Wilson knew that he had to act decisively. As he puffed on his cigar, he resolved to face the challenges ahead with courage and determination. The empire might be in decline, but its spirit would not be broken.

In the annals of British history, a record that the British might prefer to forget, Kwame Nkrumah’s greatest transgression was funding and training dissidents across Africa to rise up and demand independence, or as it was more popularly termed, the emancipation of Africa. Ghana had been a crucial asset for the British colonial conquest in Africa, serving as the site of one of the most important training facilities for Her Majesty’s Colonial Army at Tekshie. The single fly of Nkrumah was threatening to spoil the entire British jar of ointment.

As he reached out to open the dossier, the phone on his desk rang. How his secrets were leaked to the Swedes remained a perplexing mystery for MI6, the British Secret Intelligence Service. But on the other end of the line, when he picked it, was Willy Spühler, who discussed the need for British support for continued low cocoa prices at the United Nations.

“Willy, you know this isn’t in Britain’s best interests,” Harold replied. “The boys at Paternoster Square won’t like this. Those in the Square Mile will call for my head.”

“No, you need to look at this differently,” the Swedish leader sputtered in broken English. “The setback from reduced cocoa pricing is temporary, but the loss of the colonies will be permanent. And by the way, with no cheap revenues coming from cocoa, the governments in those countries will become unpopular. They will come begging for alms, and you can refer them to the boys in the Square Mile who can get their pound of flesh, as they usually do. Everyone gains, perhaps not the West Africans, though.”

“Could you give me some time to think through this?” Harold asked.

“No, no, Harold, we don’t have the luxury of time, and there’s really nothing to think about,” Willy replied. “If you want to quiet that thorn in your flesh, Nkrumah, this is the way to do it, and now is the time.”

From the moment Harold Wilson and Willy Spühler had this ill-fated conversation, Nkrumah was a sitting duck. Like Nero, fiddling while Rome burned, Nkrumah remained blissfully unaware of the impending doom. He had survived a few assassination attempts, which were like warning salvos that should have jolted him to caution. But those were for lesser beings, not for Nkrumah. Instead, he embraced a more flamboyant leadership style, adopting the title “Osegayefo,” meaning “Leader of the People.”

Yet, the people he led were growing increasingly desperate and impoverished. Life was becoming harsher and shorter with each passing day. Just a decade ago, cocoa prices had reached a dizzying high of over $1,600 per ton. Joy permeated the air across Ghana, Nigeria, and Ivory Coast. The Owambe parties, a cultural hallmark of the flamboyant Yoruba people of Nigeria, spread like wildfire across the region. The Akan, Ewe, and Ga people soon caught the bug, joining the revelry with unprecedented fervour. People became spendthrifts, and a new trend emerged: taking on new chieftaincy titles and expanding their harems with additional wives.

There was a practical reason behind the family enlargements though: more wives meant more children, and more children meant a larger workforce to tend to the farms. As cocoa prices soared, more land was brought under cultivation, turning cocoa into the new black gold. Expectations were sky-high; prices were expected to climb even higher, leading to widespread affluence.

Then, the unexpected happened: the price plummeted. The once soaring prices began a race to the bottomless pit. By 1964, as the new cocoa plants started contributing to the harvest, the price per ton had fallen to an all-time low of just above $500 per ton. As 1965 drew to a close, the price dropped even further to $250 per ton. Uproar erupted in the land. Farmers ended the year 1965 with empty pockets, and there were mixed reactions regarding the upcoming farming seasons. Should they continue farming, or should they abandon their fields and head to Accra, Kumasi or Takoradi in search of different employment?

Suicide was rife. Kwasi Adjei was one of the farmers who took this tragic path to end his life. He had taken a loan with a crippling interest rate from one of the loan sharks, anticipating a bountiful harvest and the high prices of previous years. The price slump made the loan impossible to repay. As a prominent Ashanti chief, death seemed preferable to the constant reproach and humiliation from the loan sharks.

One Monday morning, his second wife entered his room to deliver breakfast, only to find him hanging from a rope from the ceiling, the royal stool he had stood upon lying fallen away from him, presumably having been pushed away by him. His suicide was just one of many, perhaps more notable due to his status as a chief. But the peasants were also committing suicide in droves.

Somehow, deliberately or otherwise, Nkrumah seemed oblivious to the growing unrest. Fear was palpable in the land, yet he continued business as usual. Everyone, except Nkrumah, saw it coming: change was imminent. Ghana needed a leader who could alleviate the hunger and restore the good old days that now seemed like a distant memory.

The events of February 24, 1966, remain a subject for historians to debate, but it was clear that the coup was a case of Esau’s hand and Jacob’s voice. Although carried out by Ghanaian military officers under the sponsorship of the notorious CIA, the idea to remove Nkrumah originated in that phone conversation between the British and Swiss prime ministers.

It was a case of who was the bigger “bad boy” on the global stage and a masterclass in how to carry out a coup d’état, a playbook that Nigeria would follow in less than a decade: remove the master while he is away from home.

Nkrumah was far away in Hanoi, meddling in a war that had nothing to do with Ghana, Africa, or anything that should have been of great concern to him. Oh, except that he saw himself as a player on the world stage, mediating between the all-powerful United States of America and the underdog, Vietnam, in the Vietnam War.

Though Nero fiddled while Rome burned, at least he was aware of the catastrophe. Nkrumah, however, seemed oblivious to the flames consuming his own nation. He was a man who left a fire burning on his own thatched roof while putting out one on his neighbour’s.

When Moria finally looked up from her writing, a sense of satisfaction washed over her. She had captured every point from the two-hour discussion with Erik. She remembered his parting words, a low, gravelly rasp: “History’s reckoning was brutal. Nkrumah returned to nothing, his legacy consumed by flames.” He had paused, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “You know, he died in exile?”

Moria struggled to process the weight of his words. How could Erik know such intimate details, the clandestine conversations within the Prime Minister’s office? Overwhelmed by curiosity, she had challenged him. “Erik, why should I believe any of this?”

A wry smile twisted his lips. “Because” he replied, “I was at the heart of it. I managed our company’s interests throughout.” He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “We had pressure groups, yes. But we also had eyes and ears within the very walls of government.” He shrugged with detached indifference. “Just protecting our interests. The tragedy that followed… unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” The word had struck Moria like a physical blow, a thunderclap of callousness. Lives shattered, families destroyed—and he called it “unfortunate.” Then, a chilling realisation: without the Agbekoya uprising, she wouldn’t be who she is today.

As Erik turned to leave, she had forced herself to speak. “Thank you, Erik, for everything. I’m planning a trip to Nigeria. Would you… Would you be interested in joining me?”

A shimmer appeared in Erik’s eyes, disappearing as quickly as it had come. “I surely would have loved to, but I am frail,” he answered. “I don’t think I can travel. I’m sure I’ve been knocking on heaven’s doors for a while now, not sure when that door will open.”

Moria rose, her heart aching, and embraced him tightly, tears threatening to spill. In that moment, the weight of mortality pressed down on her, a raw, visceral wish that death held no dominion over humanity.