William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

‘Phew,’ he said to Fanshawe, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief. ‘It’s amazing how quickly…you know, how fast everything…’

Fanshawe was pale and obviously shocked. He led Morgan unsteadily a little way down the compound.

‘That does it,’ he said vehemently. ‘She’s got to go. She has to. It’s…It’s obscene, that’s what it is. I’d no idea that sort of effect…well, happened. Get rid of her. That’s all. Away from here. Get rid of her, Morgan. Any way you can.’

Morgan felt the anger of the subordinate who always gets the dirty jobs. ‘But how Arthur?’ he protested. ‘Just tell me how and I’ll do it. Be reasonable for God’s sake. You can see how impossible…’

‘I don’t care!’ Fanshawe almost shrieked. ‘I’ll give you twenty-four hours. It’s been days now since I asked you to take care of everything. If you hadjust handled things properly the first night we wouldn’t be in this frightful mess now. Get an armed guard, anything. Just get rid of that body before the Duchess arrives.’ He stared furiously at Morgan for an instant, his jaw clenched, the muscles and tendons standing out on his neck. Then he turned abruptly on his heel and marched off back to the Commission.

Morgan stood in the compound, rigid with bile-churning rage. Fuck you! you stinking little shit! he mouthed at Fan-shawe’s retreating back. He made twisted vampire claws with his hands and savaged the air in front of his face. He turned and glared at the crowd, slowly dispersing now. They might have been waxworks, moon-men or zombies for all the understanding their minds shared with his. But there again, he thought, the same could be said about the gulf that existed between him and Fanshawe.

♦

Morgan had to confess that the Innocence-problem seemed insoluble. His one good idea was swiftly quashed by Fanshawe. Morgan had gone down to the Commission’s front door and consulted Isaac about the juju ceremony. If he had the money now, Morgan asked, how long would it take to pacify Shango? Isaac thought about it. If the fetish priest could come this evening, if the goat, the beer and the other accessories were purchased forthwith then the whole ceremony might possibly be contracted into two days. But, he warned, tomorrow being Christmas Day the fetish priest might demand extra money for working on a public holiday. Fine, Morgan said, thanks.

Back in his office he had phoned Fanshawe.

‘I think I’ve found a way out of it, Arthur,’ he said.

‘Yes. Go on,’ Fanshawe snapped.

‘What we do is do it their way. We’ve been swimming against the tide so far. So, now we get the juju man, slaughter the goat and get him to exorcize the demon or whatever. I can’t see any other alternative.’

‘I thought there was some kind of money problem.’

‘Yes, there is. But only as far as Maria is concerned. But I thought we could pay for it.’

‘Out of the question,’ Fanshawe said immediately. ‘We don’t want to establish that precedent.’

‘Hold on,’ Morgan said, losing patience. ‘Give it some thought. Couldn’t we lend it to her at least?’ Mean bastard, he said under his breath.

‘Well, perhaps. We could consider it. But tell me, how long will this ‘exorcism’ take?’

‘Couple of days. I can get on to…’

‘No! No!’ Fanshawejammered. ‘ Impossible . Don’t you listen to anything I say? It’s got to be away by tomorrow. The Duchess…’ Morgan let him rant on. His scalp crawled with hatred at the man’s intransigence.’…and remember, Morgan. I’m making this top priority. Forget Kingpin, forget the elections. I just want that body away. I’m making it your sole responsibility.’

And very handy for you too, Morgan thought bitterly, replacing the phone on the receiver, but where did that leave him?

At four that afternoon he decided to go home. At the gate stood Femi Robinson on his own, holding up a placard that read, NO SUEZ IN KINJANJA.

Morgan stopped his car and leant out of the window. ‘Isn’t that a little extreme?’ he called. Robinson approached the car. He was still in his polo-neck and gloves. Somehow he’d managed to pull a beret down over his afro. His BO preceded him like a cloud of mustard gas. His worried face shone with moisture, rivulets of sweat slid down his jaw-bone. A bleb hung from his chin.

‘Don’t you think,’ Morgan indicated the placard, ‘that it’s also, well, a bit subtle?’

‘The message is directed at you British,’ Robinson said belligerently. ‘Not at my own supporters.’

‘And where are they, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘They are both buying beer from the trader down the road.’ Robinson scowled when he saw Morgan laughing. ‘You can laugh,’ he accused, ‘but soon it will be on the other side of your face.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Morgan, suppressing his grin. ‘But what you said…it’s a joke, quite well known.’

Robinson suddenly relaxed. He smiled. ‘I admit their fervour is not so great today, but there will be more soon. You must beware. I believe your High Commissioner has apologized. But it is not sufficient. The diplomaticization of the problem is a smoke-screen. And,’ he banged his fist on the window sill, ‘if the KNP win?’ He sucked air in through his teeth and shook his head sadly.

‘Thanks for the warning,’ Morgan said. He put the car in gear. Robinson took a pace back and brandished his placard.

‘I shall remain,’ he said, ‘to ensure you are not forgettin’.’

♦

As soon as he returned home Morgan showered and crawled into bed for a siesta. He shut his eyes and told himself to relax, ordered every sinew and tendon in his body to ease off, advised his heart to slow its pace. But Fanshawe’s hysterical commands seemed to bounce around the inside of his head like a series of powerfully struck squash balls: ‘You’re responsible…top priority…twenty-four hours…’ He supposed it was some form of indirect punishment for the embarrassment he had suffered over Adekunle’s effective PR job for the KNP. Morgan wondered if Adekunle had fixed the draw yet. He felt suddenly weak and helpless: an impotent Sisyphus who’s just been informed there’ll be two rocks from tomorrow — a fagged-out Hercules with a gross of labours to complete. He wanted to weep and blub. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair…

There was a ring at the doorbell. Dispiritedly, remembering Friday and Moses didn’t come in until later, he pulled on his dressing-gown and shuffled grumbling down the passageway to see who it was.

Standing there was Kojo, his wife and their three children. Kojo was wearing a shiny black suit, gleaming shoes and a bright red tie. He was carrying a large enamelbasin containing something covered by a cloth. His wife, a tiny smiling woman with a creamy caramel skin and huge dangling earrings, was in a lacy blouse, luxuriant black velvet wrap-around and head-tie. The three boys were miniature replicas of their father with small black short-trousered suits and red ties, closely shaven hair and serious-nervous faces. Confronted by such daunting spic-and-spanness Morgan was suddenly aware of his exposed hairy shanks and bare feet, his shabby dressing-gown and tousled hair.

‘Kojo,’ he said. ‘Hello…yes, what um…hello.’ He was very surprised to see them.

Kojo smiled at his confusion. ‘Good afternoon, sah, how are you? I have brought my family to greet you.’ He paused, waiting to see if comprehension would dawn on Morgan’s face. ‘For Christmas,’ he added finally. Morgan understood. Such courtesy visits were annually paid by employees and servants. Tomorrow he was expecting the nightwatchman, the gardener and the man who cleaned his car once a week, but Kojo had never been before.