William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

‘Of course,’ Morgan said. ‘Go inside, please. Sit down. I’ll go and put some clothes on.’

Cursing with irritation he went back to his bedroom and pulled on his clothes. He returned to his sitting room to find the tiny family occupying the edges of two chairs and a settee.

‘Yes,’ he said stupidly, rubbing his hands together in a bad imitation of a genial host. ‘I don’t think I’ve met your wife and sons before.’

Kojo stood up. ‘This is my wife Elizabeth.’ Elizabeth half rose to her feet as Morgan shook her hand and she gave a demure curtsey. ‘Yes, sah,’ she said.

Kojo led him on to the three boys. ‘And these are my sons: Anthony, Gerald and Arthur.’

‘Named after Mr Fanshawe?’ Morgan asked curiously.

‘Yes, sah. I requested his permission.’

‘Good,’ Morgan said, his mind empty of conversational gambits. ‘Good good good. Yes,’ he said abruptly. ‘I know. What’ll you have to drink? Gin, whisky, some beer?’

‘Please, a soft drink. But before, please, I have this gift for you.’ Kojo pushed forward the enamel basin on the carpet. Morgan scrutinized the dark cloth covering its contents. For some reason he was reminded of Innocence’s shroud. He thought his eyes must have been playing tricks on him because he was sure he could detect a tremor of movement below it. Then, from underneath the cloth, came a faintly musical croak. Morgan leapt back in alarm, causing Kojo’s boys to giggle softly to themselves.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Morgan exclaimed, then wished he hadn’t used the profanity. ‘It’s alive!’

Kojo drew back the cloth to reveal a large turkey, its legs securely trussed. With an effort he lifted it up by its roped legs and held the bird out, upside down, to Morgan. ‘Merry Christmas, sah,’ Kojo said. The turkey’s stumpy wings were also tied together and it vainly tried to flap them. Its pink wattles hung over its startled face. Between the dangling combs its glaring maddened eye seemed to stare in accusation at Morgan. Feeling slightly queasy he reached out and grasped its scaly stick-like ankles. As he took the weight, the turkey twitched its head, parted its beak and gave a sotto voce ‘gobble-gobble’. Morgan promptly released his hold and the terrified bird dropped heavily to the floor where it gave a great gobbling shriek and shat greenily on his carpet. Kojo’s family fell about in delighted mirth at his feebleness, Mrs Kojo with her arms folded across her stomach, politely bent over to hide her face, the three boys laughing and slapping each other on the shoulders.

Kojo picked up the panicking bird. ‘Sah,’ he said considerately. ‘If you don’t like it I can remove it.’

Morgan grinned sheepishly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think you’d better handle things.’

Kojo took the turkey out to the garden and tied one of its legs to a bush with a long piece of string while Mrs Kojo expertly cleaned up the mess and Morgan served up the soft drinks. They chatted politely for five minutes or so but soon Kojo rose to his feet and announced their departure. Morgan rushed into his study and wrote out a cheque for ten pounds which he sealed in an envelope and slipped into Kojo’s hand at the front door.

Kojo tucked it away in his suit pocket. Tank you, sah,’ he said simply.

Morgan watched the little family wander away up his garden path in the soft late-afternoon light, the small boys looking curiously back at him. He heard them chattering excitedly. He wondered what they would be saying about him, what they thought of the stupid fat white man who was too frightened to hold a turkey. He walked out into his garden and strolled round to the back near the kitchen. The turkey stood at the extremity of its bit of string tugging futilely with one foot while it tried to peck at the ground just beyond its reach, it was a big bird, in good condition. He wondered how much it had cost: not ten pounds anyway, he told himself unkindly; at least Kojo got what he came for.

Dusk was advancing and he heard the insect and animal orchestra begin to strike up. He went morosely back into the house. It seemed huge and empty and he felt its vacant rooms and dark corners whisper with melancholy and depression.

‘Come on,’ he said out loud to himself, striding to his hi-fi to select Frank Sinatra’s Songs for Swingin’ Lovers , ‘you’re not a bloody Romantic poet.’ As the music boomed out he heard the turkey gobble outside in the garden and he looked at the dents and hollows Kojo’s family had made in the cushions of his armchairs and settee. Their absence seemed more absolute despite the evidence of these shallow templates of their bodies. He felt suddenly angry at his mean-minded interpretation of their motives in visiting him. Kojo had never come before and now Morgan felt obscurely pleased and nattered that he had brought along his family. He thought that, in fact, Kojo probably liked him for some reason. This cheered him up and he began to hum along with Frank. He smiled to himself remembering how he’d dropped the turkey and the bird’s reaction as it had hit the floor. What had Kojo said? Typical Kojo: tact itself — ‘If you don’t like it I can remove it.’

‘If you don’t like it I can remove it…’

Friday bounced into the sitting room. ‘ Bon soir , masta,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Dis na fine bed for garden. Extra .’

Morgan looked at him, a mad idea taking shape in his head. He would show them. Yes. He would show the bastards.

‘Tell me, Friday,’ he asked ingenuously. ‘What are you doing tonight?’

‘There she is,’ Morgan whispered, crouching behind the trunk of a dwarf palm. He pointed fifteen yards in front of him to the dark bundle that was Innocence’s body, just distinguishable in the moonlight. Friday squatted beside him.

‘Ah-ah-ah,’ he croaked. ‘I go see ‘im.’

They were hiding in the small grove of trees and ill-tended yam and cassava allotments that stood behind the wash-place at the northern end of the servants’ quarters. It was half past three in the morning. To his left Morgan could see the straggling line of tall nim trees that bordered the Commission grounds — and separated the servants’ quarters from the garden — and beyond them the unlit mass of the Fanshawes’ house. There was a clear three-quarter moon in the sky which palely illuminated everything and caused the buildings, trees and bushes to cast dagger-edged impenetrable shadows. Twenty yards behind them the Peugeot was parked on a dusty track, its boot gaping in expectation. With some effort he and Friday had pushed it up from the main road to a point as close as possible to the servants’ quarters.

Beside him Morgan could sense Friday’s fear coming off him like perfume.

‘I thought you weren’t frightened of Shango,’ he whispered angrily.

‘ Comment? ’

Christ almighty, Morgan swore to himself, wondering what sort of an accomplice he’d chosen. He tried again. ‘You say me you nevah fright for Shango. Tu n’as pas peur de Shango ,’ he translated as an afterthought.

‘Is true, masta. But I dey fear for os if dis people livin’ for here catch os one time.’ He gestured at the dark lines of the housing blocks. He had a point there, Morgan had to admit. Up to now it had been the dogs that he was most concerned about but so far they hadn’t met any. There had been the odd bleat from a tethered goat and a heart-stoppingly strident cock-a-doodle-doo from an irate rooster, but as everyone knew Kinjanjan cocks crowed at any time except dawn no one, apparently, had deemed it anything out of the ordinary.

Morgan had cajoled, threatened, bullied and finally bribed Friday to come along on this escapade. First, he had established that Friday, being a Dahomey man, didn’t even know about Shango, far less worry about offending him. Religious objections out of the way it had only taken some earnest pleading, followed by threats of instant dismissal and⁄or GBH and finally a promise of a five-pound bonus to secure his participation in operation body-snatch.