William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

Morgan nodded sagely, as if considering the gnomic trench-ancy of Kinjanjan folklore. ‘Well that’s all very interesting, Mr Robinson, but there’s nothing I, or even the British Government can do about…about the shoddy housework, if you see what I mean. It’s a Kinjanjan problem.’

‘If it is a Kinjanjan problem why are you consulting with theKNP?’

‘Are we, Mr Robinson? Are you absolutely sure of that?’ Morgan said, diplomatically avoiding the question by asking another.

Robinson practically erupted with frustration. ‘It is written here!’ he shouted, jabbing at the newspapers covering Morgan’s desk. ‘Here, here and here!’

‘Ah, but you don’t want to believe everything you read in the newspapers, especially at election time.’

‘In that case issue a denial.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Deny it. Expose the KNP if they are lying as you say.’

Morgan felt a flutter of worry. He smiled, ‘No, we can’t do that. We don’t issue denials, as a matter of policy. We find it has the habit of conferring a certain dignity on accusations and, um, inaccuracies which only deserve to be ignored.’

‘Jargon!’ Robinson asserted fiercely, his arms windmilling around in exasperation. ‘This is diplomatic jargon. If one man says you killed his wife,’ he pointed at Morgan, ‘do you keep your silence? If they accuse you of thieving, do you not deny it?’

‘Mr Robinson, please,’ Morgan said, rattled by the cogency of the man’s argument. ‘Those are quite spurious examples. Really, I think you need to get this newspaper thing in perspective. It’s an electioneering ploy — vote-catching.’

Robinson slumped in his chair. ‘From a British perspective it may be nothing. From a Kinjanjan perspective it is very serious indeed.’ He paused. ‘I will tell you why. If the KNP win because of this, or even if the UPKP are returned, there will be very serious problems.’

‘I don’t quite follow,’ Morgan said.

‘Do you know,’ the finger prodded at his chest again, ‘that Kinjanja is the seventh largest importer of champagne in the world? Do you know that last year over two hundred Mercedes Benzes were purchased for government officials?’ He sat back. ‘They will not allow such corruption to continue. Then we are in dangerous trouble.’

‘Who?’ Morgan asked. ‘Who won’t allow it?’

‘The Army of course,’ Robinson said, flinging his arms wide. ‘There have been mutinies in the North already. All troops have been recalled to barracks. They will take over.’

Morgan frowned sceptically. ‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Everybody knows it,’ Robinson declaimed scathingly.

‘But what about the voters? What if they vote a party in?’

‘You go to one village. You pay the chief. You say vote for me and you get your votes.’

‘But in the towns, surely…’

‘Even in the towns it is the same.’

Morgan shrugged helplessly. ‘But I don’t quite see what I can do about any of this.’

‘Expose the lie,’ Robinson said with ardour. ‘It is simple. If the KNP are lying you must say so.’

Morgan gulped. He thought he should change the course of the questioning. ‘But why here? Why Nkongsamba? We’re not important. You should go to the High Commission in the capital.’

‘We have gone,’ Robinson said. ‘We are there at the gates at this very moment. But, as you know, Adekunle is a chief in Nkongsamba; there is a strong connection with the town.’

‘Well, look I’m sorry,’ Morgan apologized. ‘But there’s absolutely nothing I can do. I’ll tell you what though, I’ll pass your message on to higher echelons — I’m sure they’ll pay close attention to it.’ He rose to his feet to signify the meeting was at an end. Robinson smiled sarcastically.

‘That is no good,’ he said. ‘You must act now. There is very little time.’

♦

As soon as Robinson had gone Morgan raced out of his office and bumped into Mrs Bryce on the landing. She was carrying a bundle of sheets in her hands.

‘Ah Mrs Bryce,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Just the person. Where’s Mr Fanshawe?’

‘He’s away,’ she said simply.

‘I know that,’ Morgan said slowly, with forced reasonableness. ‘But where?’

‘The capital, meeting the Duchess of Ripon. She arrives today. Weren’t you informed of all this?’

Of course, Morgan remembered now: the wretched visit.

‘He’ll be back tomorrow,’ Mrs Bryce continued. ‘Anything urgent?’

‘Ah no. No. It can wait. Keep until tomorrow I suppose.’ He looked at Mrs Bryce again. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, Mrs Bryce, but what are those sheets for?’

‘Making up the beds in the guest suite,’ she said, marching off towards it across the landing. ‘The Duchess is spending Christmas night here.’

Morgan wished grievous septic inflammation on her mosquito-bitten legs and thoughtfully retraced his steps back into the office. Kojo sat at his desk, one hand covering the mouthpiece of his telephone.

‘Mr Fanshawe on the line, sah,’ he said. ‘From the High Commission.’

‘Oh Christ, no,’ Morgan muttered. He picked up the phone in his office. He took a deep breath.

‘Arthur?’ he said breezily. ‘Hello. How’s everything with you?’

‘Seen the papers?’ Fanshawe squeaked in fury down the phone. ‘It’s a disaster, man. Grade A disaster!’

‘Sorry Arthur…I don’t quite…I mean…’ his stomach hollowed. He felt the blood drain from his face.

‘There are about two thousand demonstrators outside the High Commission here raising merry hell. Phones’ve been going all day. H.E. ‘s been summoned to Government House. The UPKP are hopping mad. Hopping. It’s dreadful, Morgan. Dreadful.’

‘God,’ was all Morgan could find to say.

‘And. And the Duchess is due to arrive here this afternoon. What’s she going to think when she finds the High Commission surrounded by rioters?’

There was a silence. It seemed to Morgan that Fanshawe was expecting an answer. ‘I don’t know,’ he began. ‘I suppose…’

‘She’ll think it’s quite disgraceful, that’s what,’ Fanshawe told him. ‘I mean, really Morgan, what’s Adekunle playing at?’

Morgan thought quickly. ‘It might not be that bad — in the long term. What if he wins?’

‘Well there has been talk of that,’ Fanshawe conceded, his voice calming down. ‘That would make a difference. Our pundit-chappies here think the prestige he’s bought with this visit will outweigh any damage. But, and this is the main thing, Project Kingpin wasn’t meant to work out this way at all. The whole thing’s been handled very badly. Very badly.’

Morgan felt anger flare up inside him as he sensed the gun barrels of blame swinging ponderously around to point at him. ‘We could have had no idea he was going to do this though, could we, Arthur? It is a breach of trust on Adekunle’s part, not ours. What do you suggest we do?’

‘Yes, well…’ Fanshawe said, obviously taken aback. ‘The official line is say nothing, do nothing. The elections are not far off, everything may work out for the best, if the KNP emerge as victors. But, if the UPKP get back in, Anglo-Kinjanjan relations are going to be decidedly rocky.’

For a moment Morgan wondered whether he ought to pass on Robinson’s dire warnings, but then thought better of it: Fanshawe had enough on his plate as it was — as did they all. ‘It’s been fairly quiet up here. We had a small demo but nothing to write home about: the PPK mob.’

‘And who in God’s name are the PPK?’ Fanshawe demanded impatiently. ‘I can never get these initials straight.’

‘The Marxists: People’s Party of Kinjanja, Femi Robinson and his merry band.’ He craned his neck to get a view down the drive. ‘But they’ve all gone home now, more or less.’