Mensah is a London Noir. A crime novel with a difference set in the deprived streets of Hackney amongst the African community, a stone throw away from affluent and gentrified parts of the borough and Islington. It pays homage to Raymond Chandler and introduces us to the charismatic Mensah, a black hero for our times. Mensah is the kind of man you go looking for when you have a problem. He might cause mayhem and carnage on the way but he will get the job done. So when a would-be African pop star disappears her rich husband puts Mensah on the case. Soon things start to go wrong and Mensah finds he is the one being hunted. The mean streets of Hackney spell danger for him. Mensah is set in an African city in the heart of London. "Raw, energetic and smart, the action pops and the language crackles." -- The Times Crime Club "...one of the year's most unusual crime novels, a pacy read that also works as social history..." -- Carole Dawson Young, The Tribune “Nathan Mensah, the narrator of Anyetei's fun, fast-moving first novel, prowls the mean streets of the African immigrant underworld in “a dangerous part of London called Hackney.” One of many spiritual great-great-grandkids of Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe, Nate isn't a detective. “There's not really a name for what I do... A fixer, independent gangster, connection man.” Hired by the rich Grayson Fielding to find his missing young wife, originally from South Sudan, Nate, in time-honored tradition, follows every lead, gets involved in side cases, and faces the added mystery of two murdered white women on his turf. Traditional narrative gets a fresh mix with sudden breaks to insert notes on the maximum penalties for the specific crime Nate just committed. Also adding interest are chapter titles, such as “Your favorite criminal's favorite criminal.” One plot twist is a tip of the hat to Agatha Christie. A useful glossary for slang and foreign expressions appears at the end, though most readers won't have trouble figuring out, for instance, that “knawmean” means “You know what I mean?” Fans of London noir are in for a treat.” -- Publishers Weekly Gbontwi Anyetei, spent his infancy in Ghana, Nigeria, Botswana and Zimbabwe before growing up in London. He works in project management and in his spare time he is an entrepreneur and keen blogger. Mensah is his first novel. I'm supposed to die tonight I pick the kettle out of the cupboard beneath the sink. It knocks my third gun to the floor. I use the handle of the teaspoon in the trigger-guard to return the gun to where it was and raise the kettle. I've lost my left sock, so I keep the bare foot off the cold stone tiles and I fold my arms as the kettle fills. The mobile phone I'm now ignoring rings, then stops. ONE MISSED CALL… MERLEY There's an episode of Columbo on the small soundless 14-inch screen TV which I keep in the kitchen. Out of the window I've got a captivating view of a flat that has an equally captivating view of mine. I'm very happy with the place. Sometimes when I come home from the rest of Hackney I almost feel like praying to God in thanks, but I don't, because I don't believe in God. I suppose I'm an atheist. But I'm an African and to be an African atheist is sacrilege. On the TV there's a middle-aged woman killing a younger woman. I know she's not killing the younger woman because she's better looking. The older one's better looking. Maybe she doesn't know it. This must be the cover-up killing, because I've already seen Columbo on the screen. That's how I know the shiny classic TV show is Columbo and not Quincy, or the Rockford Files or the one with Perry Mason in a wheelchair. Columbo never turns up before the main murder has been committed. I always feel sorry for the victim of the cover-up kill because a lot of the time he or she didn't deserve it unlike the victim of the main murder. It's usually a blackmailer or inna witness, but sometimes it's just an unlucky mug in the wrong place at the wrong time. Columbo doesn't investigate the cover-up kill's murder in the same way. It doesn't eat at him like that first killing that brought him and his dusty car into the piece. At best their murder turns out to be just a clue for the main murder. You're dead and you're nothing but a clue. That's messed up. ONE MISSED CALL… MERLEY I switch channels. Local news without sound is even easier to figure out than an old cop show I've watched hundreds of times before. There's a police officer moving between street fixtures applying caution tape, and some of his colleagues standing around pointing things out to other police officers. It's east London and somebody is dead, violently, and they don't know who did it. Shaking my head I change back to the 70s murder and note that the water has almost – No! I can't go on like this.