William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

‘But what’s the problem?’ Morgan asked. ‘Why is he saying no?’

Adekunle flicked the stub of his cigarette out into the night. ‘There were certain objections to be expected: the proximity of Ondo village, the inconvenient course of the nearby river, but these were not major, they could be overcome without difficulty. Villagers can be persuaded to resettle, rivers can be diverted.’ He sighed with exasperation. ‘Unfortunately for all of us Dr Murray is very thorough. A very thorough man.’ He took a cigarette pack from a pocket in his robe. ‘Perhaps you know,’ he said, lighting a cigarette from it, ‘that my family are tribal chiefs in this part of the world. In fact we own a great deal of the land around Nkongsamba. But, alas, the expenses of political life are very considerable, and so two years ago I was obliged to sell some of my family’s land. Some land which now borders the proposed site for the new hall of residence.’ Adekunle smiled emptily. ‘I was chairman of the Nkongsamba Chamber of Commerce at the time and so it was, shall we say, convenient for me to sell it to the Nkongsamba Town Council. They own that land now.’

Morgan frowned. He wondered if in his naivety he was missing something very obvious. He still couldn’t see how it all tied in. Perhaps Adekunle’s ponderous euphemisms were a code he should have picked up on immediately. ‘Does Murray know you own the land?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Adekunle. ‘No, no. I am sure of that. None of these transactions occur under my own name,’ he said condescendingly, as if suppressing his frustration at Morgan’s slowness. ‘I don’t think,’ he went on, ‘that the University of Nkongsamba would spend hundreds of thousands of pounds if they knew it was going to their own Professor of Economics and Business Management. No,’ he continued, ‘the problem lies with the Town Council. The land I sold two years ago is today the new Nkongsamba municipal rubbish dump.’

‘Oh,’ Morgan said, suddenly seeing. ‘I see.’

‘They started dumping there about six months ago. At present the dump is still fairly small and insignificant and at some distance from the proposed hall site. However in another year it will be most obvious, in fact if they continue at this rate the rubbish will be pressing against the walls of the buildings. But if by then,’ he said fake-sadly, ‘construction is underway it will be too late to find a new site.’ Morgan was impressed by his concern for his students’ welfare. ‘Nobody,’ Adekunle said emphatically, ‘nobody could know this now. Unless they consulted the town planning records.’

‘And Murray has consulted the…yes.’

‘You have it, my friend. A very thorough man, as I said.’

‘But can’t you get them to move the dump or something?’ Morgan asked hopelessly.

Adekunle gave a scornful laugh at the impracticability of this suggestion. ‘And where will you put thousands of tons of decaying rubbish? Besides,’ he added, ‘since entering politics I have been obliged to abandon my more influential positions within the council for the sake of, what shall we say, probity.’ The word seemed to leave a sour taste in his mouth. ‘I am sorry, my friend, but there is no other way. And in any case it is vital that this deal goes through now. I cannot afford to wait.’ He spread his hands. ‘Election expenses. And when, I mean if, we win I will need substantial reserves. No, Murray must change his report. Without Murray there would be no problem, the land would have been sold already.’ He looked at Morgan. ‘You are a white man, a representative of Her Majesty the Queen’s Diplomatic Service and a friend of his. I am counting on you to change his mind.’

Morgan gazed bleakly heavenwards. He felt the weight and menace of the invisible black rainclouds above him as a personal threat, a final vindictive rebuff from a surly and spiteful God. The Canutian impossibility of the task Adekunle had set him made him want to laugh hysterically; the sheer audacity of the suggestion made him want to weep with helpless despair. Did the man know nothing of Murray? he wondered. Could he not see in those stern features the moral rectitude of a latter-day John Knox?

Morgan began, gently, to explain. ‘If you knew Dr Murray as well as I do, you would see the impossibility of…’

Adekunle interrupted. ‘Please, I do know Murray. He is a man, Mr Leafy, just an ordinary man like you and me. He is not a god, he is not some kind of heroic figure as I think you imagine him to be.’ Adekunle wagged an admonitory finger. ‘Don’t forget that,’ he cautioned, ‘in any of your dealings, with whoever it may be. Dr Murray is just a hard-working man, he has three children, schools in England are expensive.’ He smiled. ‘You didn’t think I was going to ask you to rely only on your…your powers of rhetoric. You can offer him ten thousand pounds sterling,’ he said flatly. ‘In any bank: Switzerland, Jersey, Guatemala — wherever.’

Morgan said nothing. He was thinking about ten thousand pounds.

‘Everybody, as the saying goes, has their price. I think ten thousand pounds will be sufficient for a poor man like Dr Murray.’

Morgan was rocked by the munificence of the bribe. Even Murray…Evil possibilities and vile scenarios began to swarm in Morgan’s head like blow-flies round rotting meat. Uppermost among them was the exquisite irony of seducing that severe self-righteous man. Just to be there, he thought, and watch the corruption spread through him like a stain. Adekunle’s broad lips were parted in a slight smile as he watched Morgan pondering.

‘You may be right,’ Morgan admitted. You may just be right.’

‘We don’t have a great deal of time,’ Adekunle warned. ‘This must be settled before the elections, certainly before the next meeting of the Buildings, Works and Sites Committee which is early in the new year.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I must leave. I will go round the back way.’ He crossed the stoop to the steps that led down to the golf course.-At the top of the steps he halted and turned to face Morgan.

‘I don’t like to remind you of your, let us say, obligation to me, Mr Leafy,’ he said. ‘And I don’t think I need remind you of possible unpleasant consequences either. But you can of course — when this matter is settled — rely on my absolute discretion, and,’ he smiled, preparing his final circumlocution, ‘shall we say my continued support in your line of work as long as you remain in my country?’ He turned and walked off into the dark.

When Morgan arrived home the first fat heavy drops of rain were spattering on his windscreen. He drove the Peugeot into the garage and got out. The pale grey dust of his driveway turned to black mud in front of his eyes as the torrent from the swollen clouds in the darkness above him unleashed itself upon the earth. He watched the force of the rain battering down, clattering tinnily on the corrugated iron of the garage roof, drowning the sound of the strong wind that thrashed through the bushes and trees in the garden.

The light was on above his front door but there was no other sign of life in the house. Where the hell were Friday and Moses? he wondered angrily. It was only a matter of thirty yards from the garage to the front door but in this rain he’d be soaked in seconds.

‘UMBRELLA!’ he bellowed in the direction of the house, hoping his voice would carry above the noise of the downpour. There was a brilliant flash of lightning, as if in sarcastic response to his faint cry, illuminating his garden in harsh monochrome for a brief instant, followed some moments later by a hill-cracking peal of thunder. Morgan restrained himself from shaking his fist at the dark sky as he sprinted splashily towards his house, leaping over the burbling stream that already gushed around the doorstep, and flinging himself panting onto the verandah.