William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

‘Good evenin’, sah,’ a voice called from one side. Morgan turned in its direction. Sitting on packing cases around a lantern were Isaac, Ezekiel and Joseph. They were wearing cloth wraps and were bare-chested with the exception of Isaac who wore a ragged vest. They were drinking what Morgan took to be palm wine.

‘Evening,’ Morgan said, approaching the verandah. There was a pause as if they were expecting him to say something. He thought for a few seconds and then added lamely, ‘She is still there.’

‘Dat’s correct,’ Isaac said. ‘Please, sah, save your time. Don’t send undertaking man for here again. Dey nevah go take her. Dis he be Shango killing. Dey no fit totch ‘im.’

There were grunts of agreement from Ezekiel and Joseph. There was no animosity in Isaac’s tone; he was a patient teacher instructing a particularly backward child.

‘But I have to try,’ Morgan protested. ‘Mr Fanshawe is not happy. The Duchess is coming.’ There were tut-tuts of commiseration at his plight. Morgan looked at the three men sitting in front of their houses with their palm wine and confidence and suddenly felt lost in this sense of apartness.

‘Don’t you mind?’ he asked them suddenly. ‘That Innocence is lying out there?’ He pointed in her general direction. ‘What do you think is going to happen?’

The three looked at each other as if they found it hard to understand him. ‘There is no problem,’ Ezekiel said finally. ‘Make you bring one fetish priest, then you can take her.’ There were amused chuckles at this. Things will take whatever course Shango has assigned, they seemed to be implying.

Morgan bade them good night and made his way back to his car.

The next morning Morgan drove to work earlier than usual and found to his surprise a small demonstration outside the Commission gates, which were firmly closed. There were about thirty or forty young men who looked like students, a few of them carrying hastily made-up placards. Morgan tooted his horn and they cleared the road obligingly with a few jeering cries and a brief chant of’UK out. UK out.’ As the gate was being opened a head appeared at his window and Morgan recognized the serious unsmiling features of Femi Robinson, the Mid-West representative of the Marxist-Leninist People’s Party of Kinjanja.

‘Mr Leafy,’ Robinson said. ‘We wish to protest with sincere vigour.’ Robinson had a permanently worried expression which had furrowed deep inverted-v creases in his brow, and of course the thin sprinkling of pubic beard and swelling afro hair-style favoured by black American radicals. Morgan wondered how Robinson knew his name, as he took in the flimsy banners and placards. UK STAY OUT OF KINJANJAN POLITICS, they read, NO UK IMPERIALISM IN KINJANJA.

‘What the hell is going on?’ Morgan asked in astonishment.

‘We are protesting against the, ah, destabilizatory tactics of the British Gov’ment in the internal politics of Kinjanja.’

Morgan tried to work a species of mystified smile onto his face that would suggest he hadn’t the slightest idea what Robinson was talking about, even though his brain was twinkling with warning lights like the console of a crashing airliner. Robinson flourished a copy of the Daily Graphic . Morgan saw a large picture of Adekunle at the foot of some aeroplane steps shaking hands with a morning-suited Foreign Office representative. The banner headline read: ADEKUNLE VISITS UK. Morgan felt his stomach swirl and tilt.

‘Doesn’t mean a thing,’ he asserted quickly and firmly. ‘Pure nonsense. KNP propaganda obviously. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’ He set his car in motion and swept through the gates hearing Robinson’s final shout of ‘Is that official?’ dying away behind him.

Dry-mouthed he raced up the stairs into his office and snatched all three copies of the Kinjanjan daily papers off a startled Kojo’s desk. Each front page told the same story. Adekunle on official visit…invited to attend…greeted by Under-Secretary of State…Consultations with Foreign Office…Morgan sat down, his head reeling. The elections were less than two weeks away; the whole tone of the reports emphasized the tightness of the KNP to rule Kinjanja in the considered opinion of the British Government.

Morgan urgently took stock of this frightful new development, contemplated the ramifications of this breach of confidence, tried to work out Adekunle’s motives. Clearly it gave the KNP a vital boost of status and responsibility — equated them, no less, with the UPKP — the resident government. Such official feting would be vastly impressive to the average undecided and literate Kinjanjan voter — but no doubt word would be swiftly conveyed to the grass roots. Nobody, after all, was consulting any other political party. It would also, of course, offend the others, especially the vocal minority — Femi Robinson and his ilk — but Morgan assumed that Adekunle would hold this a negligible price to pay for this coup in pre-election publicity.

He himself felt curiously distanced from it all: it could either be a catastrophic turn in events or quite insignificant. Project Kingpin was out in the open, but who cared? He realized too that he and Fanshawe had been successfully duped by Adekunle — manipulated and exploited with consummate ease. It didn’t surprise him that much: Project Kingpin had been bumbling and amateurish from the start, blown up out of all proportion by Fanshawe’s extravagant dreams. It seemed somehow fitting it should now be exposed for what it was. But his heart was still racing from the unprecedented suddenness of its dissolution. He wondered how Fanshawe would react. His thoughts were interrupted by Kojo appearing in the doorway.

‘Excuse, sah,’ the little man said. ‘The porter says there is a Mr Robinson at the front door requestin’ an urgent meeting.’

‘No no no!’ Morgan shouted. ‘Tell him to see Mr Fanshawe.’

‘Mr Fanshawe is not here.’

‘Oh Jesus Christ,’ Morgan theatrically smote his brow. ‘All right, send him up.’

Robinson soon arrived. Morgan noticed that he was wearing a black woollen polo-neck, black leather gloves and had put on a pair of cheap wire-framed sunglasses, every inch the black power activist. Morgan could see the sweat beading his nose and forehead.

‘Mr Robinson,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘We demand an explanation,’ Robinson began officiously, rapping Morgan’s desk with a gloved finger. ‘By what or whose rights has the British Gov’ment the power to summon Mnelected political leaders to London for consultatory po’poses?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Morgan, genially passing the buck. ‘It’s as big a surprise to me. I’m afraid you’ll need to talk to Mr Fanshawe on that one. But then,’ he added fairly, ‘he may know nothing about it either.’

Robinson seemed to be preparing himself for a mighty explosion of scoffing disbelief but his fervour visibly collapsed before Morgan’s eyes, as if he’d been punched in the belly. ‘Mr Leafy,’ he said resignedly, taking off his gloves and wiping his dripping hands on his trousers, ‘whatever you are doing you are playing a very dangerous game. We have a saying here: ‘If you are cleaning a room you don’t sweep the det under the carpet…’

’

‘Sorry. The debt?’

‘Yes, the det, the rubbish, the dust.’

‘I see. Go on.’

‘As I was saying: ‘you don’t sweep the det under the carpet because somebody can easily come and lift it up and find the det beneath.’ This is what has been going on in Kinjanja for these last five or six years. The carpet is now raised from the floor!’ The old passion returned for an instant.