A Good Man in Africa (8 page)

“Everything’s fine, Pris,” he said softly, noble in defeat, trying to convey also that she was making a terrible mistake but, ah well, there you go. “Under the circumstances,” he added wryly. He removed his hand to expose her engagement ring. Priscilla snatched it away, as if his arm had suddenly turned blazing hot,
and tucked it in the pocket of her jeans. She looked down at her feet in confusion.

Morgan leaned forward. “You don’t want to listen to Denzil’s nonsense about me having a date,” he whispered. “It’s just his curious Welsh sense of humour.” He patted her reassuringly on the shoulder, then raised his voice. “Bye everyone,” he called. “See you anon.” He strode off, exulting momentarily at this superb turning of the tables until he recalled suddenly where he was striding to. His step faltered and he looked back longingly at the small circle of people he’d just left. He felt a terrible sense of isolation descend on him. Adekunle was waiting.

The small bar was the name given to the club room that overlooked the eighteenth hole. Normally it was occupied by perspiring golfers downing pints of shandy but at this time of night it was deserted. A sleepy steward slumped on the bar; Morgan wondered where Adekunle was, thankful for his discretion.

He heard his name called from the stoop. Walking out on to it he saw Adekunle’s bulk at the far end, the tip of his cigarette glowing in the darkness.

“Ah, Mr. Leafy,” Adekunle said again, coming to meet him with his arm outstretched. “I think we will have rain tonight.” Morgan shook hands with him and concurred nervously. Adekunle was a big man with bulging apple-cheeks and a well-padded jowl. He was a distinctive figure; images of his moustachioed face currently regaled hoardings throughout the Mid-West. Tonight he looked even larger than usual as he was in his full traditional costume, an embroidered, loose, knee-length cream tunic with prodigious wide sleeves that were folded back over his shoulders, matching cream pyjama trousers that tapered to the ankle and a black velvet, gold-threaded tarboosh that, in the Kinjanjan fashion, was crushed lopsidedly down on his head. The evident wealth and splendour of his outfit, plus his considerable
girth, made him seem like some all-powerful native potentate, an African Henry VIII.

“Forgive the paraphernalia,” he said. His voice was deep and educated, with a near-perfect English accent modulated by hints of American tones he’d picked up while studying at the Harvard Business School. “But I’m going on to a party rally.”

“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” Morgan ventured, his voice sounding unnaturally husky and at least two registers higher. “Did you have a good trip?”

Adekunle smiled broadly. “An excellent trip, thank you, most fruitful. London was cold and very crowded.” Adekunle paused, and when he continued the genial note was missing from his voice. “I wanted to see you … urgently. So you can imagine how delighted I was to spy you out here. I am the bringer of bad news I am afraid.” He puffed cigarette smoke out into the night. “As I feared, we have a problem. A problem with Dr. Murray.”

“I’m glad,” Morgan cleared the catch from his throat. “I mean I’m glad you were so discreet. My colleagues are out there.”

“Don’t mention it,” Adekunle said urbanely. “I fully understand your position.”

“Listen,” Morgan croaked, “would you mind if I got another drink?” He paused, unsure if he could form the following words. “Before I hear your problem.” He went into the bar, shook the steward awake and was given another whisky. He took a large gulp and rejoined Adekunle on the stoop. Adekunle lit another cigarette and asked in his unperturbed, sonorous voice, “Talking of Murray, how is your friendship with him progressing? Is everything going as planned?”

Morgan swallowed; he was glad at least to report some success. “Going quite well,” he said weakly. “As you suggested I’ve been trying to mix with him socially which is … a little difficult as he’s not the most sociable man. However, I
am
playing golf with him later this week.”

“Golf,” Adekunle said reflectively. “Excellent. Just you and Murray?”

“Yes … at least, I assume so.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Morgan said plaintively,
“but what’s this all about? I’m afraid I don’t understand anything. Why is it so important for me to become friendly with Murray? What exactly do you expect me to do?”

Adekunle looked quizzically at Morgan. “I suppose I can tell you now,” he said. “It is not unreasonable. Yes.” He paused, and then said quite quickly as though it were the most natural thing in the world, “I want you to get to know Murray because I want you to bribe him.”

Morgan wasn’t at all sure he’d heard this correctly. “What?” he said haltingly. “Murray? A bribe? You must be joking.”

“I’m not joking, my friend,” Adekunle said in a tone that effectively removed any doubt on that point from Morgan’s mind. He suddenly felt nauseous; a nightmare vision of the future was forming in his muddled brain; unrelated events in the past fell into their allotted places in the dreadful pattern; ambiguous remarks and attitudes suddenly became menacingly explicable. With some effort he managed to speak.

“You want me to bribe Murray,” he said faintly. “To do what?”

Adekunle took him by the arm and led him to the far end of the stoop. The bar lights cast a faint glow on them. In the darkness somewhere beyond the pool of light the fairways stretched out into the forest. “Let me explain,” Adekunle said reasonably. “There is a building project at our university here in Nkongsamba in which I have a very great interest—not just because of my, ah, professorial connections with the university but for other reasons as well. You see,” he went on, “the university is expanding and they want to build a new five-hundred-room hall of residence and cafeteria. The land that they want to build the hall on belongs to me. I have been expecting to sell them that land for some months now but there have been hold-ups.” He held up his hand for silence as Morgan was about to interrupt. “There is also a university committee called the Buildings, Works and Sites committee. Its job is to investigate and consider the viability of all new university building projects from the point of view of hygiene, social and environmental concerns and report its conclusions to the university senate. It is an important committee; in fact, it carries a veto on all building projects and its chairman …”

“Is Dr. Alex Murray,” Morgan gulped.

“Precisely,” Adekunle congratulated. “You are, as the saying goes, catching on.” He plucked at the embroidery on his gown. “I became aware of the problem some time ago through certain contacts I have. But yesterday, on my return from London, I was informed by my sources that my worst fears have been realised. Dr. Murray,” there was a hint of annoyance as Adekunle pronounced the man’s name; Morgan knew how he felt, “Dr. Murray intends to file a negative report on the proposed site. If he goes through with this the land will not be bought and there will be no sale.” Adekunle smiled grimly. “I feared as much,” he said. “I had to make preparations, which is why I … decided to, ah—how would you say?—engage your services in this delicate matter of persuasion.”

“You want me …”

“I want you to persuade Dr. Murray to change his mind.”

“Oh my God,” Morgan said feebly, suffering from an attack of neurotic clairvoyance. “I’m not sure …”

“Please,” Adekunle said silkily, squeezing Morgan’s arm. “Let us not talk of defeat.”

“But what’s the problem?” Morgan asked. “Why is he saying no?”

Adekunle flicked the stub of his cigarette out into the night. “There were certain objections to be expected—the proximity of Ondo village, the inconvenient course of the nearby river—but these were not major, they could be overcome without difficulty. Villagers can be persuaded to resettle, rivers can be diverted.” He sighed with exasperation. “Unfortunately for all of us, Dr. Murray is very thorough. A very thorough man.” He took a cigarette pack from a pocket in his robe. “Perhaps you know,” he said, lighting a cigarette from it, “that my family are tribal chiefs in this part of the world. In fact, we own a great deal of the land around Nkongsamba. But, alas, the expenses of political life are very considerable, and so two years ago I was obliged to sell some of my family’s land. Some land which now borders the proposed site for the new hall of residence.” Adekunle smiled emptily. “I was chairman of the Nkongsamba Chamber of Commerce at the time and so it was—shall we say convenient?—for me to sell it to the Nkongsamba Town Council. They own that land now.”

Morgan frowned. He wondered if in his naivety he was missing something very obvious. He still couldn’t see how it all tied in. Perhaps Adekunle’s ponderous euphemisms were a code he should have picked up on immediately. “Does Murray know you own the land?” he asked.

“No,” said Adekunle. “No, no. I am sure of that. None of these transactions occur under my own name,” he said condescendingly, as if suppressing his frustration at Morgan’s slowness. “I don’t think,” he went on, “that the University of Nkongsamba would spend hundreds of thousands of pounds if they knew it was going to their own Professor of Economics and Business Management. No,” he continued, “the problem lies with the Town Council. The land I sold two years ago is today the new Nkongsamba municipal rubbish dump.”

“Oh,” Morgan said, suddenly seeing. “I see.”

“They started dumping there about six months ago. At present the dump is still fairly small and insignificant and at some distance from the proposed hall site. However, in another year it will be most obvious; in fact, if they continue at this rate the rubbish will be pressing against the walls of the buildings. But if by then,” he said fake-sadly, “construction is under way it will be too late to find a new site.” Morgan was impressed by his concern for his students’ welfare. “Nobody,” Adekunle said emphatically, “nobody could know this now. Unless they consulted the town planning records.”

“And Murray has consulted the … yes.”

“You have it, my friend. A very thorough man, as I said.”

“But can’t you get them to move the dump or something?” Morgan asked hopelessly.

Adekunle gave a scornful laugh at the impracticability of this suggestion. “And where will you put thousands of tons of decaying rubbish? Besides,” he added, “since entering politics I have been obliged to abandon my more influential positions within the council for the sake of—what shall we say?—probity.” The word seemed to leave a sour taste in his mouth. “I am sorry, my friend, but there is no other way. And in any case it is vital that this deal goes through now. I cannot afford to wait.” He spread his hands. “Election expenses. And when, I mean if, we win I will need substantial reserves. No, Murray must
change his report. Without Murray there would be no problem; the land would have been sold already.” He looked at Morgan. “You are a white man, a representative of Her Majesty the Queen’s Diplomatic Service and a friend of his. I am counting on you to change his mind.”

Morgan gazed bleakly heavenwards. He felt the weight and menace of the invisible black rainclouds above him as a personal threat, a final vindictive rebuff from a surly and spiteful God. The Canutian impossibility of the task Adekunle had set him made him want to laugh hysterically; the sheer audacity of the suggestion made him want to weep with helpless despair. Did the man know nothing of Murray? he wondered. Could he not see in those stern features the moral rectitude of a latter-day John Knox?

Morgan began, gently, to explain. “If you knew Dr. Murray as well as I do, you would see the impossibility of …”

Adekunle interrupted. “Please, I do know Murray. He is a man, Mr. Leafy, just an ordinary man like you and me. He is not a god, he is not some kind of heroic figure as I think you imagine him to be.” Adekunle wagged an admonitory finger. “Don’t forget that,” he cautioned, “in any of your dealings, with whoever it may be. Dr. Murray is just a hard-working man, he has three children, schools in England are expensive.” He smiled. “You didn’t think I was going to ask you to rely only on your … your powers of rhetoric. You can offer him ten thousand pounds sterling,” he said flatly. “In any bank: Switzerland, Jersey, Guatemala—wherever.”

Morgan said nothing. He was thinking about ten thousand pounds.

“Everybody, as the saying goes, has their price. I think ten thousand pounds will be sufficient for a poor man like Dr. Murray.”

Morgan was rocked by the munificence of the bribe. Even Murray … Evil possibilities and vile scenarios began to swarm in Morgan’s head like blow-flies round rotting meat. Uppermost among them was the exquisite irony of seducing that severe self-righteous man. Just to be there, he thought, and watch the corruption spread through him like a stain. Adekunle’s broad lips were parted in a slight smile as he watched Morgan pondering.

“You may be right,” Morgan admitted. “You may just be right.”

“We don’t have a great deal of time,” Adekunle warned. “This must be settled before the elections, certainly before the next meeting of the Buildings, Works and Sites committee which is early in the new year.” He looked at his watch. “Ah,” he said. “I must leave. I will go round the back way.” He crossed the stoop to the steps that led down to the golf course. At the top of the steps he halted and turned to face Morgan.

“I don’t like to remind you of your, let us say, obligation to me, Mr. Leafy,” he said. “And I don’t think I need remind you of possible unpleasant consequences either. But you can of course—when this matter is settled—rely on my absolute discretion, and,” he smiled, preparing his final circumlocution, “shall we say my continued support in your line of work as long as you remain in my country?” He turned and walked off into the dark.

When Morgan arrived home the first fat heavy drops of rain were spattering on his windscreen. He drove the Peugeot into the garage and got out. The pale grey dust of his driveway turned to black mud in front of his eyes as the torrent from the swollen clouds in the darkness above him unleashed itself upon the earth. He watched the force of the rain battering down, clattering tinnily on the corrugated iron of the garage roof, drowning the sound of the strong wind that thrashed through the bushes and trees in the garden.