A Good Man in Africa (30 page)

Morgan urgently took stock of this frightful new development, contemplated the ramifications of this breach of confidence, tried to work out Adekunle’s motives. Clearly it gave the KNP a vital boost of status and responsibility—equated them, no less, with the UPKP—the resident government. Such official fêting would be vastly impressive to the average undecided and literate Kinjanjan voter—but no doubt word would be swiftly conveyed to the grass roots. Nobody, after all, was consulting any other political party. It would also, of course, offend the others, especially the vocal minority—Femi Robinson and his ilk—but Morgan assumed that Adekunle would hold this a negligible price to pay for this coup in pre-election publicity.

He himself felt curiously distanced from it all—it could either be a catastrophic turn in events or quite insignificant. Project Kingpin was out in the open, but who cared? He realised too that he and Fanshawe had been successfully duped by Adekunle—
manipulated and exploited with consummate ease. It didn’t surprise him that much; Project Kingpin had been bumbling and amateurish from the start, blown up out of all proportion by Fanshawe’s extravagant dreams. It seemed somehow fitting that it should now be exposed for what it was. But his heart was still racing from the unprecedented suddenness of its dissolution. He wondered how Fanshawe would react. His thoughts were interrupted by Kojo appearing in the doorway.

“Excuse, sah,” the little man said. “The porter says there is a Mr. Robinson at the front door requestin’ an urgent meeting.”

“No, no, no!” Morgan shouted. “Tell him to see Mr. Fanshawe.”

“Mr. Fanshawe is not here.”

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Morgan theatrically smote his brow. “Alright, send him up.”

Robinson soon arrived. Morgan noticed that he was wearing a black woollen polo-neck, black leather gloves and had put on a pair of cheap wire-framed sunglasses, every inch the black power activist. Morgan could see the sweat beading his nose and forehead.

“Mr. Robinson,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“We demand an explanation,” Robinson began officiously, rapping Morgan’s desk with a gloved finger. “By what or whose rights has the British Gov’ment the power to summon
un
elected political leaders to London for consultatory po’poses?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Morgan, genially passing the buck. “It’s as big a surprise to me. I’m afraid you’ll need to talk to Mr. Fanshawe on that one. But then,” he added fairly, “he may know nothing about it either.”

Robinson seemed to be preparing himself for a mighty explosion of scoffing disbelief but his fervour visibly collapsed before Morgan’s eyes, as if he’d been punched in the belly. “Mr. Leafy,” he said resignedly, taking off his gloves and wiping his dripping hands on his trousers, “whatever you are doing you are playing a very dangerous game. We have a saying here: ‘If you are cleaning a room you don’t sweep the det under the carpet …’ ”

“Sorry. The debt?”

“Yes, the det, the rubbish, the dust.”

“I see. Go on.”

“As I was saying: ‘you don’t sweep the det under the carpet because somebody can easily come and lift it up and find the det beneath.’ This is what has been going on in Kinjanja for these last five or six years. The carpet is now raised from the floor!” The old passion returned for an instant.

Morgan nodded sagely, as if considering the gnomic trenchancy of Kinjanjan folklore. “Well that’s all very interesting, Mr. Robinson, but there’s nothing I, or even the British Government can do about … about the shoddy housework, if you see what I mean. It’s a Kinjanjan problem.”

“If it is a Kinjanjan problem why are you consulting with the KNP?”

“Are we, Mr. Robinson? Are you absolutely sure of that?” Morgan said, diplomatically avoiding the question by asking another.

Robinson practically erupted with frustration. “It is written here!” he shouted, jabbing at the newspapers covering Morgan’s desk. “Here, here and here!”

“Ah, but you don’t want to believe everything you read in the newspapers, especially at election time.”

“In that case issue a denial.”

“Pardon?”

“Deny it. Expose the KNP if they are lying as you say.”

Morgan felt a flutter of worry. He smiled, “No, we can’t do that. We don’t issue denials, as a matter of policy. We find it has the habit of conferring a certain dignity on accusations and, um, inaccuracies which only deserve to be ignored.”

“Jargon!” Robinson asserted fiercely, his arms windmilling around in exasperation. “This is diplomatic jargon. If one man says you killed his wife,” he pointed at Morgan, “do you keep your silence? If they accuse you of thieving, do you not deny it?”

“Mr. Robinson, please,” Morgan said, rattled by the cogency of the man’s argument. “Those are quite spurious examples. Really, I think you need to get this newspaper thing in perspective. It’s an electioneering ploy—vote-catching.”

Robinson slumped in his chair. “From a British perspective it may be nothing. From a Kinjanjan perspective it is very serious
indeed.” He paused. “I will tell you why. If the KNP win because of this, or even if the UPKP are returned, there will be very serious problems.”

“I don’t quite follow,” Morgan said.

“Do you know,” the finger prodded at his chest again, “that Kinjanja is the seventh largest importer of champagne in the world? Do you know that last year over two hundred Mercedes Benzes were purchased for government officials?” He sat back. “They will not allow such corruption to continue. Then we are in dangerous trouble.”

“Who?” Morgan asked. “Who won’t allow it?”

“The Army, of course,” Robinson said, flinging his arms wide. “There have been mutinies in the North already. All troops have been recalled to barracks. They will take over.”

Morgan frowned sceptically. “Are you sure about that?”

“Everybody knows it,” Robinson declaimed scathingly.

“But what about the voters? What if they vote a party in?”

“You go to one village. You pay the chief. You say vote for me and you get your votes.”

“But in the towns, surely …”

“Even in the towns it is the same.”

Morgan shrugged helplessly. “But I don’t quite see what I can do about any of this.”

“Expose the lie,” Robinson said with ardour. “It is simple. If the KNP are lying you must say so.”

Morgan gulped. He thought he should change the course of the questioning. “But why here? Why Nkongsamba? We’re not important. You should go to the High Commission in the capital.”

“We have gone,” Robinson said. “We are there at the gates at this very moment. But, as you know, Adekunle is a chief in Nkongsamba; there is a strong connection with the town.”

“Well, look, I’m sorry,” Morgan apologised. “But there’s absolutely nothing I can do. I’ll tell you what though, I’ll pass your message on to higher echelons—I’m sure they’ll pay close attention to it.” He rose to his feet to signify the meeting was at an end. Robinson smiled sarcastically.

“That is no good,” he said. “You must act now. There is very little time.”

As soon as Robinson had gone Morgan raced out of his office and bumped into Mrs. Bryce on the landing. She was carrying a bundle of sheets in her hands.

“Ah, Mrs. Bryce,” he said breathlessly. “Just the person. Where’s Mr. Fanshawe?”

“He’s away,” she said simply.

“I know that,” Morgan said slowly, with forced reasonableness. “But where?”

“The capital, meeting the Duchess of Ripon. She arrives today. Weren’t you informed of all this?”

Of course, Morgan remembered now: the wretched visit.

“He’ll be back tomorrow,” Mrs. Bryce continued. “Anything urgent?”

“Ah no. No. It can wait. Keep until tomorrow, I suppose.” He looked at Mrs. Bryce again. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Mrs. Bryce, but what are those sheets for?”

“Making up the beds in the guest suite,” she said, marching off towards it across the landing. “The Duchess is spending Christmas night here.”

Morgan wished grievous septic inflammation on her mosquito-bitten legs and thoughtfully retraced his steps back into the office. Kojo sat at his desk, one hand covering the mouthpiece of his telephone.

“Mr. Fanshawe on the line, sah,” he said. “From the High Commission.”

“Oh Christ, no,” Morgan muttered. He picked up the phone in his office. He took a deep breath.

“Arthur?” he said breezily. “Hello. How’s everything with you?”

“Seen the papers?” Fanshawe squeaked in fury down the phone. “It’s a disaster, man. Grade A disaster!”

“Sorry, Arthur … I don’t quite … I mean …” his stomach hollowed. He felt the blood drain from his face.

“There are about two thousand demonstrators outside the High Commission here raising merry hell. Phones’ve been going all day. H.E.’s been summoned to Government House. The UPKP are hopping mad. Hopping. It’s dreadful, Morgan. Dreadful.”

“God,” was all Morgan could find to say.

“And. And the Duchess is due to arrive here this afternoon. What’s she going to think when she finds the High Commission surrounded by rioters?”

There was a silence. It seemed to Morgan that Fanshawe was expecting an answer. “I don’t know,” he began. “I suppose …”

“She’ll think it’s quite disgraceful, that’s what,” Fanshawe told him. “I mean, really, Morgan, what’s Adekunle playing at?”

Morgan thought quickly. “It might not be that bad—in the long term. What if he wins?”

“Well, there has been talk of that,” Fanshawe conceded, his voice calming down. “That would make a difference. Our pundit-chappies here think the prestige he’s bought with this visit will outweigh any damage. But, and this is the main thing, Project Kingpin wasn’t meant to work out this way at all. The whole thing’s been handled very badly. Very badly.”

Morgan felt anger flare up inside him as he sensed the gun barrels of blame swinging ponderously around to point at him. “
We
could have had no idea he was going to do this though, could
we
, Arthur. It is a breach of trust on Adekunle’s part, not ours. What do you suggest
we
do?”

“Yes, well …” Fanshawe said, obviously taken aback. “The official line is say nothing, do nothing. The elections are not far off, everything may work out for the best, if the KNP emerge as victors. But, if the UPKP get back in, Anglo-Kinjanjan relations are going to be decidedly rocky.”

For a moment Morgan wondered whether he ought to pass on Robinson’s dire warnings, but then thought better of it; Fanshawe had enough on his plate as it was—as did they all. “It’s been fairly quiet up here. We had a small demo but nothing to write home about: the PPK mob.”

“And who in God’s name are the PPK?” Fanshawe demanded impatiently. “I can never get these initials straight.”

“The Marxists: People’s Party of Kinjanja, Femi Robinson and his merry band.” He craned his neck to get a view down the drive. “But they’ve all gone home now, more or less.”

“That’s something at least,” Fanshawe said ungraciously. “But how about our other problem?”

“Innocence? Ah. Yes. I’m afraid not much progress there. I had a couple more undertakers out, but they wouldn’t touch her.”

“Damnation,” Fanshawe swore angrily. “Everything’s going wrong. Listen, Morgan, I want two things from you: some sort of denial or apology from Adekunle, and Innocence out of the way before the Duchess arrives.” He spoke of her as though she were a tree that had fallen down and blocked his drive.

Morgan cursed at him under his breath. “You won’t get a peep out of Adekunle, I can tell you that right now,” he said harshly. Then, “Sorry, Arthur, lot on my mind. I’ll see what I can do.” He thought: you horrible, revolting little shit.

“Very well,” Fanshawe said in a hurt, offended voice. “Try and come up with some results for once.”

He hung up, swore at Fanshawe again, and thought grimly how fragile loyalty was. He gazed emptily at his desk top. Disaster was mounting on disaster. What was he going to do?

There was a cocky rat-a-tat-tat on his door and Dalmire came in. He looked smart and fresh and annoyingly cheerful.

“Sorry I’m late,” Dalmire said. “Got held up by a demonstration at the university. Then I arrive here and guess what? We’ve got one of our own. What’s it all about?” Morgan sullenly indicated the newspapers. Dalmire glanced at them. “God,” he said. “He’s got some cheek, hasn’t he?”

“Well, yes and no,” Morgan said ambiguously. He didn’t feel like explaining the intricacies of Project Kingpin to Dalmire at the moment. “Were they demonstrating about this,” he indicated the newspapers, “at the university as well?”

Dalmire had moved away to the window. “No,” he said. “Something quite separate. Apparently there’s some threat to close down the university by the government. They say they won’t reopen after the Christmas holidays because of general student bolshiness,” he smiled, as if his mind was on other matters. “I’ve no idea what it’s all about, but there were hundreds of students all round the admin block. It seems they intend staying up, occupying the rooms over the holidays. One of these sit-in things or whatever they’re called.”

“Christ, typical,” Morgan said in disgust, but thankful at least it had nothing to do with Kingpin.

“Ever been skiing?” Dalmire asked out of the blue.

“What? No, doesn’t appeal. Why?”

“We were thinking about skiing—me and Pris—for our hols.” A dreamy look lit up Dalmire’s eyes.

“Honeymoon, don’t you mean?” Morgan said, trying to keep the resentment and impatience out of his voice.

“No, no. That comes later.” Dalmire paused, he seemed slightly embarrassed. “Didn’t I tell you? We’re going on holiday. Leaving after Christmas. I thought it might be fun to go skiing. New Year on the slopes, a welcome in the mountains, that sort of thing.”

“HOLIDAY?” Morgan exclaimed, appalled. “But you’ve only been out here for a couple of months. Christ, my last leave was in March.”

“I’m taking it off my leave, don’t worry,” Dalmire said hastily. “It was Priscilla’s idea actually. Arthur said it would be fine.”

Morgan felt he was about to splutter inarticulately with rage like some gouty brigadier, but with an effort he composed himself. The lucky bastard, he thought, envy mixed with outrage at the gross injustice. That was what came of marrying the boss’s daughter. Dalmire, however, appeared quite oblivious of his resentment.