William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

‘Everything’s fine, Pris,’ he said softly, noble in defeat, trying to convey also that she was making a terrible mistake but ah well there you go. ‘Under the circumstances,’ he added wryly. He removed his hand to expose her engagement ring. Priscilla snatched it away, as if his arm had suddenly turned blazing hot, and tucked it in the pocket of her jeans. She looked down at her feet in confusion.

Morgan leaned forward. ‘You don’t want to listen to Denzil’s nonsense about me having a date,’ he whispered. ‘It’s just his curious Welsh sense of humour.’ He patted her reassuringly on the shoulder, then raised his voice. ‘Bye everyone,’ he called. ‘See you anon.’ He strode off, exulting momentarily at this superb turning of the tables until he recalled suddenly where he was striding to. His step faltered and he looked back longingly at the small circle of people he’d just left. He felt a terrible sense of isolation descend on him. Adekunle was waiting.

The small bar was the name given to the club room that overlooked the eighteenth hole. Normally it was occupied by perspiring golfers downing pints of shandy but at this time of night it was deserted. A sleepy steward slumped on the bar; Morgan wondered where Adekunle was, thankful for his discretion.

He heard his name called from the stoop. Walking out on to it he saw Adekunle’s bulk at the far end, the tip of his cigarette glowing in the darkness.

‘Ah, Mr Leafy,’ Adekunle said again, coming to meet him with his arm outstretched. ‘I think we will have rain tonight.’ Morgan shook hands with him and concurred nervously. Adekunle was a big man with bulging apple-cheeks and a well-padded jowl. He was a distinctive figure; images of his moustachioed face currently regaled hoardings throughout the Mid-West. Tonight he looked even larger than usual as he was in his full traditional costume, an embroidered, loose, knee-length cream tunic with prodigious wide sleeves that were folded back over his shoulders, matching cream pyjama trousers that tapered to the ankle and a black velvet, gold-threaded tarboosh that, in the Kinjanjan fashion, was crushed lopsidedly down on his head. The evident wealth and splendour of his outfit, plus his considerable girth made him seem like some all-powerful native potentate, an African Henry VIII.

‘Forgive the paraphernalia,’ he said. His voice was deep and educated, with a near-perfect English accent modulated by hints of American tones he’d picked up while studying at the Harvard Business School. ‘But I’m going on to a party rally.’

‘I didn’t expect you back so soon,’ Morgan ventured, his voice sounding unnaturally husky and at least two registers higher. ‘Did you have a good trip?’

Adekunle smiled broadly. ‘An excellent trip, thank you, most fruitful. London was cold and very crowded.’ Adekunle paused, and when he continued the genial note was missing from his voice. ‘I wanted to see you…urgently. So you can imagine how delighted I was to spy you out here. I am the bringer of bad news I am afraid,’ he puffed cigarette smoke out into the night. ‘As I feared we have a problem. A problem with Dr Murray.’

‘I’m glad,’ Morgan cleared the catch from his throat. ‘I mean I’m glad you were so discreet. My colleagues are out there.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Adekunle said urbanely. ‘I fully understand your position.’

‘Listen,’ Morgan croaked, ‘would you mind if I got another drink?’ He paused, unsure if he could form the following words. ‘Before I hear your problem.’ He went into the bar, shook the steward awake and was given another whisky. He took a large gulp and rejoined Adekunle on the stoop. Adekunle lit another cigarette and asked in his unperturbed, sonorous voice, ‘Talking of Murray, how is your friendship with him progressing? Is everything going as planned?’

Morgan swallowed, he was glad at least to report some success. ‘Going quite well,’ he said weakly. ‘As you suggested I’ve been trying to mix with him socially which is…a little difficult as he’s not the most sociable man. However, I am playing golf with him later this week.’

‘Golf,’ Adekunle said reflectively. ‘Excellent. Just you and Murray?’

‘Yes…at least, I assume so.’

‘Good, Keep it that way.’

‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ Morgan said plaintively, ‘but what’s this all about? I’m afraid I don’t understand anything. Why is it so important for me to become friendly with Murray? What exactly do you expect me to do?’

Adekunle looked quizzically at Morgan. ‘I suppose I can tell you now,’ he said. ‘It is not unreasonable. Yes.’ He paused, and then said quite quickly as though it were the most natural thing in the world, ‘I want you to get to know Murray because I want you to bribe him.’

Morgan wasn’t at all sure he’d heard this correctly. ‘What?’ he said haltingly. ‘Murray? A bribe? You must be joking.’

‘I’m not joking, my friend,’ Adekunle said in a tone that effectively removed any doubt on that point from Morgan’s mind. He suddenly felt nauseous: a nightmare vision of the future was forming in his muddled brain; unrelated events in the past fell into their allotted places in the dreadful pattern; ambiguous remarks and attitudes suddenly became menacingly explicable. With some effort he managed to speak.

‘You want me to bribe Murray,’ he said faintly. ‘To do what?’

Adekunle took him by the arm and led him to the far end of the stoop. The bar lights cast a faint glow on them. In the darkness somewhere beyond the pool of light the fairways stretched out into the forest. ‘Let me explain,’ Adekunle said reasonably. ‘There is a building project at our university here in Nkongsamba in which I have a very great interest — not just because of my, ah, professorial connections with the university but for other reasons as well. You see,’ he went on, ‘the university is expanding and they want to build a new 500-room hall of residence and cafeteria. The land that they want to build the hall on belongs to me. I have been expecting to sell that land for some months now but there have been hold-ups.’ He held up his hand for silence as Morgan was about to interrupt. ‘There is also a university committee called the Buildings, Works and Sites Committee. Its job is to investigate and consider the viability of all new university building projects from the point of view of hygiene, social and environmental concerns and report its conclusions to the university senate. It is an important committee, in fact it carries a veto on all building projects and its chairman…’

‘Is Dr Alex Murray,’ Morgan gulped.

‘Precisely,’ Adekunle congratulated. ‘You are, as the saying goes, catching on.’ He plucked at the embroidery on his gown. ‘I became aware of the problem some time ago through certain contacts I have. But yesterday, on my return from London, I was informed by my sources that my worst fears have been realized. Dr Murray,’ there was a hint of annoyance as Adekunle pronounced the man’s name; Morgan knew how he felt, ‘Dr Murray intends to file a negative report on the proposed site. If he goes through with this the land will not be bought and there will be no sale.’ Adekunle smiled grimly. ‘I feared as much,’ he said. ‘I had to make preparations, which is why I…decided to, ah, how would you say? engage your services in this delicate matter of persuasion.’

‘You want me…’

‘I want you to persuade Dr Murray to change his mind.’

‘Oh my God,’ Morgan said feebly, suffering from an attack of neurotic clairvoyance. ‘I’m not sure…’

‘Please,’ Adekunle said silkily, squeezing Morgan’s arm. ‘Let us not talk of defeat.’