William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

Morgan had to confess that Fanshawe’s enthusiasm for their plan had been infectious. He had behaved like an excited schoolboy playing at spies; he had given a drawer of a filing cabinet over to the project, to which only he and Morgan had the key. He had even gone so far as to bestow a code name on the operation: he called it ‘Project Kingpin’, after Adekunle’s party’s initials — KNP. ‘We’d better have a Kingpin meeting,’ he would say cautiously to Morgan in the passageway, or, ‘This is material for the Kingpin file,’ or, ‘Any progress on Kingpin?’ Morgan had thought at first that it was all a bit sad really, but had happily gone along with it anyway as he was reaping the benefits of this new alliance with Priscilla’s father. ‘You know,’ Priscilla had said to him during one of their latest meetings, ‘Daddy’s been terribly impressed with you recently — singing your praises night and day. What are you two up to?’

‘Nothing really,’ he had said modestly. ‘Routine stuff, that’s all.’

Earlier on in the evening Morgan had been remarking on the excellence of the punch to the overweight wife of an engineering contractor when Fanshawe had sidled up and muttered in his ear ‘Kingpin’s arrived,’ and had glided off dramatically, like a courtier informing a prince of a plot against his life.

Now, looking down on the herd of loyal subjects, Morgan saw Adekunle standing by the beer bar with a white woman he took to be the politician’s wife. Adekunle was wearing native dress and was carrying a carved ebony stick. His wife, Morgan thought, looked unhappy and incongruous in a loose yoke-necked blouse, a wrap-around cloth skirt and bulky headscarf. As he watched, Morgan noticed the way people came up and paid court to Adekunle almost as if he were the host. Scanning the faces Morgan recognized two other political leaders keeping as widely separated from each other as possible. There was Femi Robinson, an angry little Marxist who was the local representative of the People’s Party of Kinjanja, and there was Chief Mabegun, governor of the Mid-West state and head of the Mid-West branch of the ruling United Party of Kinjanjan People. Widespread popular discontent over its bloated members and the inefficient lean years Kinjanja had suffered while it was in power had brought about the approaching general election. Mabegun, Morgan thought, looked like he was running on the graft and corruption ticket again. He was a vastly fat man who seemed to be implying by his own comfortable obesity that power had been good to him so a vote cast in his favour might, possibly, provide everybody with similar benefits.

But both Robinson and Mabegun were, Morgan accepted, small fry beside Adekunle. The main leaders of the PPK and the UPKP were in the capital; the Mid-West representatives were only minor luminaries, with little or no influence outside their own small state. Adekunle, on the other hand, was in a different league. He was a respected academic who had spoken at the last meeting of the Organization of African Unity. From the information Morgan had gathered thus far, Adekunle seemed to spend more time flying round the globe to various third-world conferences or UN special committees than he did giving lectures or, as dean, administering his faculty. There was also talk, Morgan had established, that he might be the next vice-chancellor of the university.

As Morgan watched, he saw Fanshawe and his wife go up and chat to Adekunle who smiled and beamed at them with urbane geniality. He saw Fanshawe, in response to some remark of Adekunle’s, laugh uneasily and shoot a quick glance over his shoulder up at the first-floor windows. Morgan swiftly pulled himself back behind the wall though he was fairly sure he couldn’t be seen. Typical Fanshawe, he fumed inwardly, the man clearly wasn’t suited for this covert work if he revealed the positions of his confederates so thoughtlessly. It was time, he decided, that he went down and sorted things out.

As he slowly descended the stairs on his way to meet Adekunle, he felt his pulse quicken and a tight ball of pressure establish itself securely behind his sternum. He stepped out of the back entrance of the Commission and on to the crowded lawn.

As he weaved his way through the groups of people towards Adekunle, he could feel his palms moistening and his mouth drying. Adekunle was a large man. He was going steadily to fat as all successful Kinjanjans seemed inevitably to do — as if it were a generic concomitant of power and esteem — and he had about him an aura of self confidence as unshakable as a force-field. He was talking sternly and in a low voice to his wife who looked sullen beneath her headdress and who was smoking a cigarette, nervously staring down at the trampled grass. As Morgan drew near they both looked up smiling suddenly in a well-practised insincere way.

‘Professor Adekunle,’ Morgan said. ‘How do you do? I’m Morgan Leafy, First Secretary here at the Commission. I think we met once briefly before.’ This was not true, they had only been in the same room, but it was his favourite introductory device, often throwing people into confusion as they racked their brains trying to remember the occasion. It had no such effect on Adekunle. He smiled beneath his wide moustache.

‘Did we? I’m afraid I don’t recall, but how do you do anyway.’ He shook Morgan’s hand. ‘This is my wife Celia.’

‘Hello,’ Celia Adekunle said in a demure voice. She kept her eyes on Morgan’s face. As with all direct looks that he received he found this one somewhat disconcerting; he suspected they stirred vast untapped reservoirs of guilt deep within him. He returned to Adekunle.

‘Very good of you to invite us here,’ Adekunle said, before Morgan could speak, in tones of thinly disguised sarcasm. ‘I see my distinguished rivals are present too.’

Morgan smiled. ‘All in the interests of balance,’ he laughed. ‘Talking about which…’

‘And to see a film of your wonderful Royal Family,’ Adekunle continued regardless. ‘Most thoughtful. Most uplifting.’

‘Well, between you and me,’ Morgan said confidentially, ‘any excuse for a bunfight, if you see what I mean.’

‘Ulterior motives. Now I understand. Devious people, you diplomats.’ Adekunle signalled over a waiter who was carrying a tray of drinks and helped himself to an orange juice. Morgan was distressed by the note of hostility and sardonic displeasure that still coloured Adekunle’s voice. He decided to be direct.

‘How’s the campaign going?’ he asked as innocently as he knew how. ‘Well, I hope.’

Adekunle affected surprise. ‘My campaign? Why on earth should the British be interested in my campaign? Why don’t you ask my opponents, Mr Leafy? I’m sure they can judge its effects better than I.’

‘Ah now, professor, let’s not be naive,’ Morgan chuckled knowingly. ‘I think it’s fairly common knowledge that the British government would naturally be very interested in the outcome of the elections.’

‘Very interested?’

Morgan looked around and became aware again of Celia Adekunle’s intense gaze. ‘Well yes, I think you could say that.’

‘How interested?’

‘Just a moment, professor,’ Morgan said quickly, realizing that the conversation was going further and faster than he’d intended. ‘We can hardly discuss such matters here.’ He flashed a nervous smile.

‘I don’t see why not,’ Adekunle insisted obstinately. ‘If you invite representatives of the three major parties to a function such as this you must expect politics to show her face, as the saying goes. Isn’t that so, Celia?’ Morgan couldn’t tell if this was banter or a serious point.

‘It shows its face everywhere else,’ Celia Adekunle said drily. ‘Why make an exception in this case?’