A Good Man in Africa

by William Boyd

Morgan looked round. Jones, who was supervising the film, waved him aside impatiently. He heard Fanshawe call his name and saw him pointing to an empty seat in the front row between Mrs. Fanshawe and Chief Mabegun. Priscilla was three places away beside the Jones children. There was a sudden whirr and a blinding light struck him on one side of his face, silhouetting his round head and thin hair sharply against the screen. There were a few high-spirited whistles and calls of “Get your head down.” He crouched low and scurried back up the aisle towards the projector. He was emphatically not going to sit for an hour and ten minutes beside Mrs. Fanshawe. He felt angry and frustrated at the unsatisfactory way his conversation with Adekunle had gone, and his mood was not helped by Jones who hissed as he went past: “What are you bloody playing at, Morgan?”

  Shut up, you stupid Welsh git, Morgan swore under his breath, otherwise ignoring him, standing for a moment behind the final row of chairs watching the credits roll over a huge royal crest. What a disaster, he thought, contemplating his talk with Adekunle. And what a cynical bastard he was too, leading him on like that. He felt ashamed of his ineptitude, his clumsy inability even to set up another meeting. Had he been too subtle? he wondered, or was it the other way round? He shook his head in despair. So much for covert diplomacy, he thought scathingly. The entire audience must have seen him trotting after Adekunle like some importunate salesman determined to make his pitch. He gritted his teeth with shame and embarrassment.

  Slowly he became aware of the presence of figures in the dark around him. On both sides of him the Commission servants had quietly gathered and were gazing entranced at the film in open-mouthed wonder, their faces ghoulishly illuminated by the reflected light. Morgan turned to the screen. The Royal Family were engaged in setting up and enjoying a picnic in a stereotypical Scottish setting. They wore kilts, tweed jackets or thick woolly jerseys. In the background was a small loch and further off were purply-green hills and pine woods. It was a cloudy day with small patches of intense blue among the clouds, hurried on by a gusty wind that billowed kilts and blew strands of hair across Royal faces. The young princes ran about in childish abandon but the elders were agonisingly conscious of the camera crew’s presence and the conversation was sotto voce and bland. Occasionally a remark of mild humour was passed—“Three sausages! You greedy thing!”—and the audience would scream with uproarious laughter.

  Morgan looked about him. Above, the stars shone, all around the crickets chirruped, the air was hot and damp and the formal clothes on the arrayed guests were heavy and uncomfortable. The beam of light emanating from the projector was alive with fluttering moths and insects casting their tiny shadows onto the Scottish countryside. From time to time a bat would dive-bomb the flickering insects, a darker, more solid mass flashing across the picnicking group. The incongruity of the scene was so bizarre, so surreal—the fascinated servants stealing a glimpse of this family in their distant northern landscape—that Morgan felt it must be trying to tell him something significant, but he could see nothing in it apart from incongruity. Moreover, he found such juxtapositions unsettling; he could almost feel the chilly Scottish weather, the clear scouring breeze, and the sudden ideal vision of Britain made him depressed, reminded him painfully of his current location.

  As the scene changed to Windsor Castle he turned away, knowing that Feltham was just down the road. He walked with leaden feet back to the Commission building, weighed down with dissatisfaction and failure. He stopped at a bar and helped himself to a large whisky before continuing on his way. He went up to the first floor. On the landing was a small bathroom equipped with a bath, basin and WC, for, as well as the main offices being there, there was a suite of rooms for important guests. Morgan relieved himself and sat morosely on the edge of the bath. There was an old wall shower attachment which was dripping. He turned the tap tighter and it stopped. He fingered the plastic shower curtain distractedly, his mind far away. It was decorated with a motif of angel fishes, bubbles and seaweed fronds. A similar curtain covered the bathroom window. He pulled it aside and looked over the back lawn. The cinema screen burned with lambent colours like a jewel in the huge navy-blue night. The crowd of spellbound servants had been swelled by the soft arrival of their families from the nearby quarters. He saw the red and black pattern of a parade and faintly heard the tinny accompaniment of martial music. He drained his glass and set it down. For some reason the scene made him feel like weeping.

  He splashed his face with water and adjusted his bow tie. He paused for a moment on the landing, wondering how he would describe the night’s events to Fanshawe, before going slowly downstairs.

  He had just reached the bottom when a woman’s voice said, “Oh … Hello.”

  He gave a start of alarm as he had imagined himself to be quite alone. He looked round and saw Mrs. Adekunle standing in the shadows of the large entrance hall, her head-scarf removed and hanging from her hand. “Hello,” he said. “Couldn’t you take the film either?”

  “Made me homesick,” she said, stepping out into the light. Morgan saw she had mid-blond hair, a little thin and lank, and a deep tan, which he hadn’t noticed outside.

  She held up the head-scarf. “This was coming off as well. And I needed the loo.” She unclipped her handbag, small and expensive-looking, and took out a packet of cigarettes. “Cigarette?” she offered.

  “No thanks,” Morgan said. “Given up.”

  “Mmm.” Celia Adekunle made an impressed noise as she lit her cigarette. “Where is it?”

  “Sorry?”

  “The loo.”

  “Oh. The official ones are back down that corridor. But why don’t you go upstairs. The unofficial one’s up there, bit plusher, second on your left on the landing.”

  “My. I’m honoured. Thank you.” She moved towards the stair.

  “I’d better warn you,” he said. “For some reason it only locks from the outside. You have to clear your throat very loudly every five seconds or whistle a tune if you don’t want to be interrupted.”

  She laughed. “Thanks,” she said. “But I think everyone’s engrossed out there.”

  Morgan looked at his watch. “Only another twenty minutes. I think I’ll sit this one out.”

  “That’s not very British of you.”

  “Nor of you come to that.”

  “Ah. But I’m not British any more,” she smiled a little grimly. “I’m Kinjanjan.”

  “Oh, I see,” he said. “Then I’m the only guilty one.”

  “What is it you do exactly?” she asked. “Here, in the Commission?” She sounded interested so he told her.

  “It’s fairly routine in a small place like this. It’s just a presence that’s required really, in case of any problems and so on. But what I mainly do is take care of immigration. Vet the visa applications, issue them, keep up the records, that sort of thing. It’s amazing how many people want to go to the UK, even from somewhere like Nkongsamba. There’s a lot of paperwork and documentation. Not a very exciting life, unless it’s enlivened by occasions like this.” He pointed in the direction of the back lawn, but she ignored his irony.

  “I see,” she nodded. “So you get to decide who goes?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Right,” she said brightly. “I’ll go and practise my whistling.” She climbed the stairs. “Second door on the left?”

  “That’s right,” he said after her. “I’ll keep guard down here if you like.”

  She laughed. “My goodness, special privileges.”

  Morgan heard her walk across the landing and open and close the door. She seemed a nice sort of person, he remarked to himself; he wondered what it must be like for her being married to someone like Adekunle. He paced about the hall trying not to imagine her sitting urinating but found, to his vague self-disgust, that he did so all the same. He was thankful when he heard the noisy flush of the cistern.

  She came down the stairs shortly after tucking up a fold in her remade head-tie.

  “Looks nic
e,” he said. “The clothes.” He thought she looked ridiculous.

  “Nice of you to say so,” she said drily, clearly not believing him. “Sam’s made me wear them at these official functions ever since he became seriously involved in politics, though I still feel a bit of a fraud. I think you need a black skin for this style. I just feel I look weedy and washed out.”

  “I think it looks nice,” he insisted, not very convincingly.

  “You’re very kind,” she said in cynical tones reminiscent of her husband. Just then there was a loud and prolonged burst of applause from the garden.

  “Looks like you’ve missed the end,” he said.

  “Yes. I’d better find Sam.” She seemed to have lost some of her poise. “Listen,” she said suddenly. “Do you really want to speak to him?”

  Morgan was confused. “Well … Yes, actually, I suppose I would rather, but … unofficially, you know.” He smiled shamefacedly. “He didn’t seem too keen.”

  “He wasn’t on his home ground. He’s always more … difficult then. That’s why you should come to his birthday party.”

  “Birthday?”

  “Yes. It’s next week. Friday night at the Hotel de Executive.” She enunciated the name carefully, conscious of its pretensions. “Do you know it?”

  Morgan nodded. “It’s on the way into town from here.”

  “Good,” she said. “I’ll send you an invitation. You can be my guest.”

  “Are you sure he won’t mind?” Morgan asked. “I mean, I won’t be intruding or anything, will I? Do I need to bring a present?”

  She laughed out loud. “No, no,” she said. “There’ll be about three hundred people there. But don’t worry. I’ll tell him you’ll be there. Look, I must be off.”

  Morgan felt mingled sensations of relief and gratitude. “That’s amazingly kind of you, Mrs. Adekunle. I’m indebted to you. Very.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “See you on Friday.”

  Chapter 5

  The Commission staff waved goodbye to the last of the departing cars. Morgan stood on the steps beside Jones and Fanshawe; behind them, as though assembled for a photograph, were Mrs. Fanshawe, Priscilla, Mrs. Jones and her children and another expatriate couple Morgan didn’t recognise. He glanced at his watch—it was just after ten; he was to pick Hazel up at eleven.

  “Great success,” Jones opined, his Welsh accent seeming to Morgan’s ears stronger than ever. “Marvellous film, I thought, marvellous. So … so relaxed, wasn’t it? How you imagine they must really be, you know, behind the scenes, like.”

  Fanshawe grunted absentmindedly. Morgan said nothing; he was thinking about Hazel, now that Celia Adekunle had solved his more immediate problem. Jones moved off in search of more enthusiastic appraisals.

  “How did you get on?” Fanshawe asked immediately, snapping Morgan out of his sex-dream. “I tried to sound him out a little myself. Tricky customer, I thought,” he said grudgingly. “Surprisingly … I don’t know—sophisticated. Very confident man.” He paused. “So, how did it go?”

  Morgan inspected his fingernails. “Oh, not too bad,” he said modestly, extracting maximum mileage from his stroke of good fortune. “He’s invited me to a party he’s giving next Friday—his birthday party in fact.”

  Fanshawe’s face lit up with delighted surprise. “But that’s absolutely marvellous, Morgan. Marvellous. Great progress. Where’s the party?”

  “Hotel de Executive, in town.”

  “Splendid. Into the lion’s den, eh? How did he react to your moves?”

  “He’s a wary sort of character,” Morgan said evasively. “I was just sounding him out really. He seems … approachable, anyway.”

  “Going well though,” Fanshawe said. “A good night’s work, well worth setting the whole thing up.” He looked round. “Do you know the Wagners?” he asked, referring to the couple Morgan hadn’t recognised. “He’s from the American consulate in the capital. Come and meet them. We’re all going over to the house for a drink.”

  “Oh, I’ll give it a miss if you don’t mind, Arthur,” he said. “Been a long day.”

  “Fine, fine. Please yourself.” They joined the group gathered round the front door and Morgan was presented to the Wagners—the “w” was not pronounced as a “v.” Errol and Nancy Wagner had greatly enjoyed the film, it transpired. Mrs. Fanshawe turned to Morgan, just as he was about to speak to Priscilla, and smiled at him, but only with her mouth. Her eyes remained suspicious and probing.

  “Joining us for a drink, Morgan?” she asked unpersuasively.

  “No, I’m afraid I’m …”

  “Shame. Never mind.” She turned to the others. “Come on, everybody, let’s go. Geraldine? Are the children alright? …” The party moved off leaving Morgan alone with Priscilla. She had established the beginnings of a tan which was offset by a straight white and green sleeveless dress and white shoes. Morgan began by apologising as he could sense she was a little upset by his neglect of her.

  “I am sorry, Priscilla,” he said. “But it was semi-official buttering up of a local dignitary.”

  “Well, it wasn’t much fun for me.”

  He stole a look at the backs of the retreating group, almost invisible in the darkness now, and gave Priscilla a fraternal kiss on the cheek.

  “It wasn’t exactly fun for me either,” he said reproachfully. “I’d much rather have been with you.” She was looking very fanciable tonight, he thought. If only she’d get rid of that sulky, hard-done-by expression.

  “But why can’t you come along now? Honestly, Morgie, I haven’t talked to you all day.”

  Every tendon and sinew in his body seemed to go into spasm, triggered by the revolting diminutive she’d recently adopted. Did he look remotely like a “Morgie” he wondered, nauseated? Where the hell had she dug that up from? No one had ever called him that, ever. With an effort he controlled himself and tried to think of a reasonable excuse. He thought for a moment. “Tell you what,” he said. “Do you fancy going fishing next week? Make a day of it? Picnic and all that,” he improvised hastily, silently thanking the Royal Family for inspiring him.

  “Fishing?”

  “Yes. It’s great fun. I’ve done it once or twice. A place about seventy miles away. Called Olokomeji.”

  “Well … Yes.” She thought about it. “Sounds lovely.”

  “Great,” Morgan exclaimed, hugely relieved. “Don’t worry. I’ll make all the arrangements.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “See you tomorrow maybe. I’m really bushed. Sorry,” he abased himself again. He kissed her on the lips, allowing his own to linger there a moment or so, but he sensed that nothing more passionate was likely to ensue. He understood implicitly that in the rules of the game they were playing his behaviour had been less than satisfactory tonight—even though the prospect of the fishing trip had mollified her slightly—and he would have to take his punishment like a man.

  Chapter 6

  The road to Olokomeji was quiet and through thick rain forest. They had made an early start, at around seven, as the river was a two and a half hour ride away from Nkongsamba. Every now and then they would pass a small cluster of mud huts and roadside trading stalls that marked a village. The fascinated stares Morgan and Priscilla attracted spoke of the curiosity value that still attended white people as soon as the main roads and towns were left behind. Morgan had got Moses to make up a picnic of a cold roast chicken and sandwiches and he had also filled a cooler-bag with fridge-chilled bottles of beer. They stopped at one of the larger villages to buy fruit: a pineapple, oranges and bananas. Priscilla said she was entranced by the primitive nature of it all but her subdued demeanour seemed to tell another story as she unexcitedly took in the naked children, women pounding cassava in wooden tubs and slack-breasted old mammies expertly chopping sugar cane. Priscilla wore a red polka dot dress with large white buttons down the front. When she removed her sunglasses she had dark rings under her eyes.

  As they approached the large bridge across
the river that marked the fishing pool, Morgan kept his eyes peeled for the secluded turning that would lead them down to the bottom of the gorge. He saw it at the last moment and had to reverse back. It was a rutted laterite track that wound gingerly down the thickly forested slope to a small clearing. There he stopped the car and got out. The great pale-barked trees towered above them screening the sun; birds and insects chattered and buzzed, setting up a surprising volume of noise. A well-trodden path led down to the fishing pools.

  Morgan pounded his chest, “Aaah-ooah-ooah, ooah-ooah!” he bellowed, adding in a throaty basso profundo: “me Jane.”

  It wasn’t very funny—any wood or copse prompted the same display—but as expected, it made Priscilla giggle. “You are a silly,” she said. That was better, he thought; she needed to cheer up a bit—she had probably never been forced to get up this early for ages. They unloaded the picnic gear and the fishing rods and walked down to the river. To their right, about two hundred yards upstream and almost obscured by a bend in the river, were the high arches of the road bridge. The river was about fifty yards across and the colour of milky coffee. Ten or fifteen yards out into the stream from where they were standing were some rock outcrops beyond which were the deep pools where the Niger perch lurked. The far bank rose in a steepish rocky cliff amongst whose boulders and crannies lived a colony of baboons. It was very quiet. The sky was a washed-out blue and the water was so sluggish it seemed hardly to be moving.

  “Pretty spectacular, eh?” Morgan commented proudly, as if he owned it. “Real Heart of Darkness stuff, don’t you think?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Real Heart of … nothing. Not important.”

  “Are you sure it’s all right to swim in that?” Priscilla asked. “It looks filthy.”

  “Of course it is,” Morgan said, putting his arm round her shoulders and pecking her on the cheek. “All right to swim in, I mean. Here, give us a hand to spread this groundsheet.” They laid the groundsheet on the narrow bar of greyish sand at the bank. Morgan opened a bottle of beer, put it to his lips and took a long swig.