A Good Man in Africa (3 page)

Morgan felt his brain slow to idle of its own accord, a kind of fail-safe device when it became dangerously overloaded. Murray. That bloody man again. Why, why did Adekunle want him to befriend Murray? What on earth could two such utterly different men as Murray and Adekunle have in common that would be of interest to either one? He hadn’t the faintest idea.

He shook his head violently, like a man with water stuck in his ear. He put the file away in its drawer and dispiritedly turned the key in the lock. He must have seemed like a gift of heaven to Adekunle, he decided—a fat white man joyfully offering himself for sacrifice.… At this point he rolled down the reinforced titanium steel blinds around his imagination, a mental trick he had perfected; he didn’t want to think about the future and resolutely ordered his mind to ignore that forbidding dimension. He could achieve the same effect of solitary confinement, a sort of cerebral Coventry, with other recalcitrant faculties like memory or conscience which could be irritating, nagging
things in certain circumstances. If they didn’t behave they didn’t get spoken to. He closed his eyes, leant back, took deep breaths and allowed only the monotonous hum of the air-conditioning unit to fill his head.

He was on the point of dozing off when he heard a rap on his door and, squinting through his eyelashes, saw Kojo enter.

“Oh Christ,” he said impatiently. “Yes, what is it?”

Kojo approached his desk, unaffected by his hostility. “The letters, sah. For signing.”

Muttering complaints under his breath, Morgan went through the outgoing mail. Three negative RSVPs to semi-official functions; invitations to prominent Britons inviting them to a Boxing Day buffet lunch to celebrate the honoured visit of the Duchess of Ripon to Nkongsamba; the usual visa acknowledgements, though here was one rejection for a so-called minister of the Non-Denominational Methodist Brethren’s Church of Kinjanja who wanted to visit a sister mission in Liverpool. Finally there was a note to the British Council in the capital saying yes, they could put up an itinerant poet for a couple of days while he partook in a festival of Anglo-Kinjanjan culture at the University of Nkongsamba. Morgan re-read the poet’s name: Greg Bilbow. He had never heard of him. He signed all the mail quickly, confident in Kojo’s immaculate typing. Keeping the Union Jack Flying, he thought, making the world safe for Democracy. But then he checked his sneers. From one point of view it had been the mindless, pettifogging boredom of his work and the consequent desire to escape it that had made him attack the KNP dossier with such patriotic zest—and look at the can of worms that had turned out to be, he admonished himself ruefully.

He handed the letters back to Kojo and looked at his watch.

“You off home now?” he asked, trying to sound interested.

Kojo smiled. “Yes, sah.”

“How’s the wife … and baby? Boy, isn’t it?”

“She is well, sah. But … I have three children,” Kojo reminded him gently.

“Oh, yes. Of course. Silly of me. All well, are they?” He stood up and walked with Kojo to the door. The little man’s woolly head came up to Morgan’s armpit. Morgan peered into Kojo’s office; it was festooned with decorations, ablaze with cheap paper streamers.

“You like Christmas, don’t you, Kojo?”

Kojo laughed. “Oh yes, sah. Very much. The birth of our Lord Jesus.” Morgan remembered now that Kojo was a Catholic. He also recalled seeing him with his family—a tiny wife in splendid lace costume and three minute children all identically dressed in gleaming white shirts and red shorts outside the Catholic church on the way in to town a few Sundays ago.

Morgan looked at his diminutive secretary with unconcealed curiosity.

“Everything OK, Kojo?” he asked. “I mean, no problems, no major worries?”

“I beg pardon, sah?” Kojo replied, genuinely puzzled.

Morgan went on, not really sure what answer he was trying to elicit. “You’re quite … happy, are you? Everything going swimmingly, nothing bothering you?”

Kojo recognised “happy.” He laughed a high wheezy infectious chuckle. “Oh yes. I am a very happy man.” As he walked back to his desk, Morgan could see Kojo’s thin shoulders still shaking with merriment. Kojo probably thought he was mad, Morgan concluded. A not unreasonable diagnosis under the circumstances, he had to admit.

He took up his position again at the window and looked down at the driveway, trying not to think about Priscilla and Dalmire. He saw Peter, the imbecillc and homicidal Commission driver, polishing Fanshawe’s long black Austin Princess. He saw Jones walking out to his Volkswagen with the unrelentingly cheery Mrs. Bryce, wife of a geologist from the university, who acted as Fanshawe’s secretary. There were a couple of expatriate wives who did part-time clerical and secretarial work around the Commission, but Mrs. Bryce was the only regular one. She was very tall and thin and the calves of her legs were always covered with shilling-sized, angry red mosquito bites. Podgy Jones waddled along beside her. They stood for a moment next to Mrs. Bryce’s mobylette and chatted earnestly. No doubt, Morgan thought sourly, she’s telling Jones she’s “the happiest woman in Nkongsamba,” how she never grumbles and how everything is really “nice” if only you think about it in the proper way. Seeing how friendly Jones was being, Morgan half-heartedly wondered if they might be having an affair. In anywhere else but West Africa that notion would have raised shouts of incredulous
laughter, but Morgan had known stranger couplings. Feeling vaguely grubby as he did so, he tried to imagine Jones and Mrs. Bryce making the beast with two backs, but the incompatibility of their respective physiques defeated his best endeavours. He turned away from his window wondering why he always ended up thinking about sex. Was it normal, and were other people similarly preoccupied? It made him depressed.

If Mrs. Bryce was on her way home, he reasoned, trying to shake the mood from his shoulders, then Fanshawe must have packed up for the day, and he had every intention of following suit. He was in the process of unslinging his lightweight tropical jacket from the hanger on the back of his office door when the internal phone on his desk rang. He picked it up.

“Leafy,” he barked aggressively into the instrument.

“Ah, Morgan,” said a plummy, cultured feminine voice on the other end, “Chloe here.”

For a couple of desperate seconds Morgan was convinced he knew no Chloe, until he suddenly linked the name with the person who was Fanshawe’s wife: Mrs. Chloe Fanshawe, wife to the Deputy High Commissioner in Nkongsamba. The mental lapse came about because Morgan never thought of her as Chloe, and only seldom as Mrs. Fanshawe. Usually the kindest epithets were the Fat Bitch, or the Old Bag. The problem was that they hated each other. There had been no overt hostility, no bitter confrontation, no single act that set off the conflict. It was an understanding that they had both seemed to reach quite spontaneously, entirely natural and unsurprising, as if it were some unique genetic accident that had brought about this animosity. Morgan sometimes thought it was quite mature of them tacitly to acknowledge it in this unfussy way; it made co-existence less complex. For example, he knew instantly that this pointed exchange of Christian names in fact meant that she wanted something of him; so, guardedly, he replied: “Hello … ah, yes, Chloe,” testing the name on his tongue.

“Not busy are you, Morgan?” Ostensibly a question, it clearly functioned as a statement; no response was required. “Care to pop over for a sherry? Five minutes? See you then. ’Bye.” The line clicked.

Morgan thought. For a brief moment an unfamiliar elation bloomed in his chest as he considered that it might have something
to do with Priscilla, solitary offspring of the Fanshawe loins, but the sensation died as abruptly as it had arisen. Dalmire had been crowing in his office not twenty minutes ago—nothing could have changed that quickly.

Wondering what she wanted, Morgan pulled on his jacket and walked through Kojo’s office and down the stairs. The sudden transit from air-conditioned chill to late-afternoon heat and humidity affected him as shockingly as it always did. His eyes began to water slightly, he was suddenly aware of the contact between his flesh and the material of his clothing and the wide tops of his thighs chafed uncomfortably together beneath his damp groin. By the time he reached the foot of the main stairs and had walked through the entrance vestibule and out of the front door, all the benefits of his afternoon’s cool comfort had disappeared. The sun hung low over Nkongsamba making the storm clouds menacingly dark and its glare struck him full in the face. The sun shone large and red through the dust haze of the Harmattan—a hot dry mistral off the Sahara that visited West Africa every year at this time, and that cut the humidity by a negligible few percent, filled the air and every crevice with fine sandy dust, and cracked and warped wood and plastic like some invisible force-field.

Morgan turned around the side of the Commission and walked down the gravelled path towards Fanshawe’s official residence some hundred yards away in the spacious grounds. The Harmattan had withered every blade of grass to a uniform brown against which the clumps of hibiscus and thickets of bougainvillea stood out like oases in a desert. To his left behind a straggling line of nim trees were the Commission’s servants’ quarters, two low concrete blocks that faced each other across a bald laterite square. Morgan could see, set up around the smoke-blackened verandahs of the quarters, the traders’ stalls bright with fruit and vegetables, and he could hear the singing of women as they pounded clothes at the concrete wash-place at the top end of the compound, the crying of children and the clucking of mangy hens. There were officially six dwelling units for the Commission’s staff but lean-tos had sprouted, grass shelters were erected, cousins, odd-job gardeners and nomadic relations had turned up, and on the last count forty-three people were living there. Fanshawe had asked Morgan to evict all unauthorised
inhabitants, claiming that the noise level was becoming intolerable and that the rubbish dump behind the quarters was unsightly and encroaching on the main road. Morgan had yet to do anything about this, and he doubted strongly if he ever would.

He cut across the lawn to the front of Fanshawe’s house. He looked for Priscilla’s small Fiat and his heart leapt when he saw its rear poking out of the garage to the right of the house. She was at home then, he thought, unless Dalmire had taken her golfing. Self-consciously he adjusted the knot of his tie.

The Deputy High Commissioner’s residence in Nkongsamba was an imposing two-storeyed building. There was a porticoed entrance above steps which led up to a long stoop with a row of French windows running the length of it. Inside were high-ceilinged airy reception rooms, and the back of the house looked down upon one of the more select suburbs to the south-east of Nkongsamba. The sun was about to sink into the thunder clouds to the west and was casting dramatic beams onto the whitewashed façade.

Morgan was on the point of climbing up the steps when Fanshawe leaned over the stoop balustrade. He was wearing a lurid blue Chinese shirt with a round collar that was dotted with purple ideograms.

“Evening, Morgan,” he said briskly. “Anything I can do?” Obviously he knew nothing of his wife’s phone call. This was a bad sign; Morgan felt worry tremors shiver through his body.

“Chloe … Mrs. Fanshawe asked me to look in,” he explained.

“Really?” Fanshawe said as if unable to comprehend this aberration on his wife’s part. “Well, you’d better come on in.”

Morgan walked up the steps. Fanshawe stood beside a red plastic watering can. “Watering the plants,” he said conversationally, nodding towards several crude black earthenware pots overflowing with fecund greenery. With an outspread palm he indicated the open door. Morgan went in and sat down.

He found it hard to fix or even identify his feelings about Fanshawe; they wavered between the three poles of nostril-wrinkling contempt, total indifference and temple-throbbing irritation like one of those executive toys where a wire-suspended ball vacillates between three magnets. He was a thin, ascetic-looking man with balding grey hair brushed straight back from his forehead. He had a tiny, meticulously pruned moustache which maintained an exact horizontal line equidistant between
his nose and upper lip. Its obliviousness of facial contours made him look as if he was always about to break into a smile even when he was at his most earnestly pro-British. Consequently, Morgan found it almost impossible to take him seriously. Fanshawe was a Far East man and had spent his working life in consulates and embassies in such exotic places as Sumatra, Hong Kong, Saigon and Singapore. Nkongsamba was his last posting before his retirement and he interpreted it as a definite slight. He had almost two years left to serve and the prospect of eking them out as a Deputy High Commissioner in such a God-forsaken, insignificant spot was something his professional pride would not let him take easily. He nurtured a secret dream of a dramatic last posting, a brilliant finale to an uninspired career. This brought about periods of evangelical zeal in his administration of the Nkongsamba Commission, like a model prisoner on death-row hoping his good behaviour will bring him a last-minute reprieve. It also made him very depressed about living in Africa, particularly in a spot so comparatively uncivilised as Kinjanja. “Culture shock,” he had mournfully told Morgan on several occasions, referring to his arrival on the dark continent. “Like a blow between the eyes. I don’t think Chloe will ever recover.” Both Fanshawes were given to lyrical outbursts about the grace and dignity of the East; they would talk ecstatically about the centuries, the eons of culture and disciplined development the East had enjoyed. “Far more civilised than us, old man,” Fanshawe would intone. “And the African, well, what can I say?” Here would come a knowing smile and a cocked eyebrow. “A beautiful, elegant person, your Oriental. Harmony, you know; that’s at the back of it all. Yin and Yang, that’s right, isn’t it, darling? Yin and Yang,” he would call unselfconsciously across a crowded cocktail party to his embarrassed wife. Fanshawe had forced himself to believe all this, Morgan had come to realise, and like all zealots was incapable of even recognising that any other point of view existed, and so Morgan had reluctantly given up trying to draw him into discussions about the grace and harmony of Genghis Khan, Changi Jail and Pearl Harbour. Fanshawe may have convinced himself, but as far as his wife was concerned Morgan knew instantly it was sheer affectation.