William Boyd - A Good Man in Africa

‘Orighti,’ Isaac agreed. They made their arrangements. Morgan noticed how the cost had jumped to eighty pounds now he was footing the bill. It would be an especially large celebration they assured him, to which he was cordially invited. He didn’t begrudge it. If anyone deserved a decent send-off, he thought, it was poor Innocence. He’d get it all back out of petty cash, somehow, before he left.

They strolled to the edge of the compound. Cooking smells came from the charcoal braziers. A toothless mammy passed in the dark, her flat black breasts swinging in the light of the lantern she balanced on her head. The child she was leading by one hand pointed at Morgan and called out ‘Oyibo, oyibo.’ White man. Morgan wondered if they ever stopped noticing.

He sniffed the air. ‘Is it going to rain tonight?’ he asked.

‘I think we get small rain tonight, sah,’ Isaac said. Morgan was about to make a remark about lightning never striking twice but thought better of it. He said he would see them in the morning and walked across the lawn to his car.

He drove home to change for Adekunle’s party. As he was pulling on his shirt he shouted for Friday to bring him a whisky and soda. Friday brought the drink and established that he would not be requiring any supper. Morgan decided against his dinner jacket and put on a pale grey suit. As he reached into the wardrobe for it he noticed Friday still lingering by the door.

‘Yes, Friday? What is it?’

‘Please, sah. Let me warn you something.’

‘Warn me? About what?’

‘Nevah go for Nkongsamba tomorrow. I beg you, sah.’

‘Why, for God’s sake?’

‘The soldiers will be there.’

‘Soldiers? What are you talking about? A coup? Do you mean a coup d’etat?

‘ Ah oui. C’est ça. Un coup d’etat. Demain .’

‘How do you know?’

‘Everybody is knowing.’

‘OK, Friday, thank you.’ The little man left. What nonsense, Morgan thought, as he knotted his tie. That night with Innocence must have addled his brain.

As he set off for Adekunle’s house at ten to eight he felt he was like a man living on borrowed time. The news that he need not have bothered to bribe Murray after all had been a particularly cruel and ironic blow. All that humiliation, all that soul-searching need never have occurred — at that point anyway. Adekunle had seemed only to speak of a postponement, a temporary change of plan. In any event it was over now, and he thought that wasn’t necessarily bad. For the first time in several weeks he sensed a modicum of composure entering his life, probably due to the fact that there was little he could do now to alter or influence events. He decided, there and then, to take Murray’s advice and tell Fanshawe of his indiscretions and thereby deprive Adekunle of the satisfaction of fulfilling his threat. Fanshawe of course would still sack him — or recommend his dismissal — but it would be far better than allowing Adekunle to breathe slanders in his ear. In fact, he made up his mind, he wasn’t going to allow Fanshawe to derive any pleasure from firing him either. He would resign — tell Fanshawe everything, then hand in his resignation. He smiled at the thought: yes, that would be best. He was setting his house in order at last, and now Innocence too was tidied up, so to speak — everything set in motion for the wake. The only small unresolved cloud on his horizon was Celia. He felt a glow of affection spread through his body as he ran through the memories. Celia, the one true love affair of his life, he realized with astonishment, or at least the relationship that came closest to it. Now that he didn’t care about Adekunle he must try to see more of her, he told himself, before he booked his passage home.

Driving up a hill on the way to the university his headlight beams picked out a familiar black-clad figure. It was Femi Robinson, trudging up the slope with a bundle of placards under his arm. Morgan pulled into the verge. Robinson trotted up.

‘Can I give you a lift?’ Morgan asked. He felt generous and he had nothing against Robinson: in fact he sympathized with him. ‘I’m going as far as the university,’ he added. Robinson gladly accepted, flung his placards in the back seat and got in beside him. Morgan caught a glimpse of one that read PEDAGOGY YES! DEMAGOGY NO! He pulled the car back on to the road and set off on his way once again. They obviously shared the same destination.

‘You’ve abandoned us then?’ Morgan said, indicating the placards and winding down the window as far as it would go. Robinson could have ideally played Sweat in some allegorical deodorant ad.

Robinson scowled. ‘Since the election has been won according to your plans there is no point in warning the people. So tonight we are protesting at the presence of riot police on the university campus and the planned closure next semester.’

‘But won’t the new government make any difference?’ Morgan asked.

Robinson laughed scornfully at this display of naivety. ‘I assume you are making the joke. I told you: UPKP, KNP — they are just the same. They don’t like students making them trouble.’

‘So you are off to lend your support.’

‘It is my duty, while I can. I expect the PPK to be banned very soon.’

Morgan looked at Robinson with some admiration. He seemed always to be searching for a new set of hopeless odds he could pit himself against. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ll put in a good word for you with the new Foreign Minister.’

Robinson looked round sharply. ‘You are going to meet Adekunle already?’

Morgan laughed. ‘Don’t worry. It’s unofficial — a victory celebration I believe.’

‘Fanshawe will be there I suppose,’ Robinson sneered, ‘to congratulate his puppet.’ He spat out the last word with some venom.

Morgan hadn’t considered this possibility. He hoped Robinson was wrong. ‘Adekunle Fanshawe’s puppet?’ he scoffed. ‘That’s a bit ridiculous, isn’t it?’

Robinson folded his arms across his chest. ‘This is how we see the Anglo-KNP collusion prior to the election. How do you want us to interpret it otherwise?’

Morgan couldn’t think of anything to say. He hoped he hadn’t blundered in telling him of Adekunle’s victory celebration.

He stopped the car outside the university’s main gate. ‘I’ll let you out here, Femi, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure if it would be wise for me to be seen delivering revolutionaries to their demonstrations.’

Robinson collected his placards. ‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said. ‘I enjoyed our conversation. It was most interesting.’

♦

As Morgan drew near Adekunle’s house he was waved down by a uniformed guard and told to park his car some distance away. The roads nearby were lined with vehicles but as he approached he saw that the area immediately in front of the house had been left clear and the building itself was lit up with floodlights. He saw loudspeakers rigged up on the first-floor balcony and a dozen or so KNP supporters standing outside the gate. It looked as if Adekunle was planning to deliver a post-election victory address to the party faithful at some point in the evening. The front gate was opened once Morgan had established his credentials and he stepped through and walked down the drive. At the bottom down by the garages were several official-looking limousines and it was with a sinking feeling that he recognized Fanshawe’s black Austin Princess parked alongside Muller’s rather dirty Mercedes. Both cars were also sporting their national flags on the bonnets.

Peter, the Commission driver, snapped out an extravagant salute as Morgan came by. ‘Evenin’, sah,’ he called. Morgan went over.

‘Hello Peter. Mr Fanshawe here?’