William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

‘Christ yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s right, it’s election day today. God. Do you know I’d completely forgotten. Who are you going to vote for?’

Hazel picked up her handbag and adjusted her wig. He wished he hadn’t asked: he knew what she was going to say. She looked round. ‘KNP,’ she said simply. ‘For a united Kinjanja.’

Morgan’s benign morning mood disappeared. He thought suddenly of his fate and the grim alternatives in front of him — either he told Fanshawe or Adekunle would. He sat up in bed, a serious look on his face.

‘I think there is something you should know, Hazel,’ he said. Hazel stopped at the door. ‘I’m afraid things may be changing soon.’

‘In what way?’

‘I think I might be leaving. Going back to the UK.’ He scrutinized Hazel’s face for her reaction. She appeared to be considering the news, her bottom lip thrust out, her almond eyes narrowed.

‘For why?’

‘Well…I’m in a bit of trouble you see, and they’ll send me back home as a punishment,’ he said. Hazel shrugged. ‘How…How do you feel about that?’ he asked, beckoning her over to the bed. She sat down beside him. He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Will you be sorry?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to go.’ But he couldn’t see any tears in her eyes.

♦

Morgan stayed in Hazel’s flat for the duration of polling day — the twenty-seventh. On the morning of the twenty-eighth he drove back to his house and found Greg Bilbow packing his bags.

‘You off already?’ Morgan asked.

‘Yes,’ Bilbow said. ‘I’m getting a plane back down to the capital in a couple of hours. Where the hell have you been anyway?’ Bilbow inquired with amusement. ‘I’ve never known anyone so in demand. Phone going like the clappers. Your pals Adekunle and Fanshawe as per, and also some female called Celia.’

‘Oh Gawd,’ Morgan groaned, exaggeratedly rolling his eyeballs. He’d forgotten about Celia’s frantic message on Christmas Day.

‘You in some kind of trouble?’ Bilbow asked sympathetically.

‘To put it mildly.’

‘Sorry. Anything I can do?’

‘No, no. You’ve been great anyway, acting as my answering service.’

Bilbow smiled. ‘No problem. Except for that Fanshawe. I think he thought I was you, you know, putting on a Yorkshire accent. He kept saying ‘Come on, Leafy, I know it’s you.’

‘Stop playing these childish games, Leafy.’

‘Bilbow had Fan-shawe’s pompous accusations off to a tee.

Morgan laughed uneasily. ‘Bloody typical,’ he said. He looked at Bilbow’s thin face. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Tell you what. I’ll give you a lift to the airport. Don’t want you getting in any more taxis.’

To his amazement Morgan managed to purchase two bottles ofbeer from the sulky girl at the Nkongsamba airport bar. They were unchilled, but you couldn’t have everything. Morgan and Bilbow sat down at a table to wait for the plane which was reputed to be fifty minutes late. They drank their beers and chatted. To his surprise Morgan found he warmed to Bilbow, and discovered him to be a loquacious, wry character and wished he had been able to spend more time in his company. He bought two more beers and told him this.

‘Yes, I’m sorry I’ve been behaving so mysteriously since you came,’ Morgan said. ‘I could have shown you around a bit. Anyway I thought you were due to stay on a while longer. Wasn’t your Anglo-Kinjanjan do meant to last a couple more days?’

‘It was,’ Bilbow said. ‘But the whole thing’s been stopped because of the student unrest at the university. There were big demonstrations yesterday. The riot police were called in. Had all the signs of turning out very nasty indeed. I thought it was something to do with the elections but I was told it’s because of some threat to shut down the university next term.’

Morgan punched his palm. ‘God, the elections,’ he said. ‘I keep forgetting about them.’ Vote-counting would be going on today; they should know the result by late afternoon. He wondered if a KNP victory could possibly help him now.

There was the crackle of a loudspeaker announcing the imminent arrival of Bilbow’s plane.

‘Only an hour and ten minutes behind schedule,’ Morgan observed brightly. ‘Things are looking up.’

♦

Morgan had just got out of the bath when the phone went later that afternoon. Pulling his dressing-gown around him he padded wetly down the corridor to the sitting room.

‘Hello,’ he said tentatively. ‘Leafy here.’

‘Ah, my good friend, you have returned from your travels.’ It was Adekunle. Morgan leant weakly against the wall.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was going to ring you. I…’

‘To congratulate me I hope.’

‘Sorry?’

‘My dear Mr Leafy. Are you not listening to the election returns? We have won, my friend. Victory is ours!’ Geniality and good-fellowship oozed from Adekunle’s voice.

‘Oh.’ Morgan felt no excitement. He was unsure whether this was good or bad news. ‘Congratulations.’

‘Such enthusiasm,’ Adekunle said cynically. ‘Still. It looks like being a small majority but a majority nonetheless.’ He paused. ‘I have been trying to phone you. I assume you went ahead with the other matter. Dr Murray and our agreement.’

‘Ah. Now, yes. That was something I…’

‘Did you or didn’t you?’

Morgan thought fast. ‘I didn’t,’ he said, instinctively seeking safety in a lie. ‘I…I was assessing his mood and, um, the conditions just weren’t suitable.’

‘Good,’ Adekunle said. ‘Good.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said good. You have put my mind at ease. This was what I was trying to contact you about but you were nowhere to be found. I was going to tell you not to do anything on this occasion.’

Morgan sat down on the floor. ‘Why?’ he said in a shocked whisper.

‘I have made other plans. I will tell you about them tonight.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Yes. At my house. A little victory celebration before I take up my new duties with the government. Shall we say eight o’clock?’

‘Well it’s very kind of you to ask but I…’

‘My good friend,’ Adekunle said. ‘Let us eat, drink and be merry, as the saying goes. I count on seeing you. Goodbye.’

Innocence had been dragged back to her original position. The juju spells had multiplied around her, the same cloth shrouded her body. Morgan thought it was as though nothing had ever happened, as if those two dreadful nights had never taken place. He returned the torch to Ezekiel. The warm African night enclosed them: to the west a thin gash of livid orange, some greys, rose pinks and metallic blues lingered on, edging the rain clouds on the horizon.

‘So,’ Morgan said to no one in particular. ‘She is still there.’ Isaac, Joseph and Ezekiel nodded in agreement.

‘Some person done move her tree days ago,’ Isaac informed him in a deeply suspicious voice.

‘I know,’ Morgan said. ‘Mr Fanshawe told me. Bad business that. However I’m very glad to see she was brought back.’

‘Dis ‘e no respec’,’ Ezekiel affirmed.

‘Well,’ Morgan said, suddenly making up his mind, ‘you can tell Maria to bring the fetish priest tomorrow. I will pay,’ he announced. There were mutters of astonishment.

‘You will pay, sah?’ Isaac confirmed.

‘That is what I said. I will pay. Everything.’

‘Fun’ral as well?’ Joseph asked.

‘Yes yes. Let’s get the whole thing sorted out. Over. Finished.’

‘Dis ‘e very good ting,’ Ezekiel declared. ‘Very very good.’

‘Isaac,’ Morgan said, ‘if I give you money tomorrow will you buy the beer and goat et cetera for Maria? Is that OK?’