Read A Good Man in Africa for Free Online Page A
Authors: William Boyd
traders lined the route. He passed an AGIP filling station, a shoe factory and a vehicle park and then suddenly he was in the town, busy and bustling as people and cars made their laborious way home after work. There were some larger concrete buildings on the outskirts, covered in wrought-iron work and standing in their own low-walled gardens. Strangesweet burning smells were wafted into the car’s interior through the open window.
He slowed the car to walking pace as the streets narrowed and joined the creeping honking procession of cars that clogged Nkongsamba eighteen hours out of twenty-four. He let his hand dangle out of the window and thought aimlessly about the day and the massed ranks of his current problems. He asked himself if he was really that bothered about Priscilla and Dalmire, if it really affected him that much. He got no clear answer—there was too much bruised masculine pride obscuring the view. He drove on past the swarming mud huts set a little below the level of the road, past the blue neon-lit barber shops, soft drink hoardings, the ubiquitous Coke signs, the open-air garages, furniture shops, tailors sewing furiously on clacking foot-powered machines. He saw the looming flood-lit façade of the Hotel de Executive and his heart sank as it had become used to these past two months, as the memories of his first confidential meeting with Adekunle—held within its walls—hurried into his mind. Tin advertisements glittered around its door, reflecting the lights that were going on now dusk was settling on the town. He heard the raucous blare of American soul-music emanating from within its courtyard-cum-dance floor. “Tonite!!” proclaimed a blackboard propped outside the entrance. “Africa Jungle Beats. JOSY GBOYE and his top dandies band!!!! Fans! Be There!” Morgan wondered if Josy Gboye had been playing that fateful evening.
He turned off the main road and went bumping over potholes up a steep street that led past the Sheila Cinema, which was offering Michele Morgan and Paul Hubschmid in
Tell Me Whom to Kill
and
Neela Akash
, billed as a “sizzling and smashing Indian film.” He drove by the cinema and pulled the Peugeot into the forecourt of a chemist’s shop. He tipped the attendant a few coins and walked along the road, ignoring the small boys running and chanting by his side. They were shouting “Oyibo, Oyibo” which meant white man. It was something every Kinjanjan child did almost as a matter of course; it didn’t bother him, it was just a persistent reminder that he was a stranger in their country. He shook off his escort and two minutes’ brisk walking brought him to a newish row of shops. There was an optician’s, a Lebanese boutique and a shoe shop; above them were three flats. Hazel lived—courtesy of Morgan—above the boutique.
He looked quickly about him before running up the steps at the side of the building to the first floor communal passageway at the back. He took out his key and opened the door. The first thing he noticed was the smell of cigarette smoke and his tetchy mood sparked into anger as he had expressly banned Hazel from smoking now that he had given it up himself. The room was also dark as the shutters were closed. He groped for the light switch and flicked it down. Nothing happened.
“Nevah powah for heah,” said a voice.
Morgan jumped, alarm making his heart pound. “Who the hell is that?” he demanded angrily, peering in the direction of the voice, and, as his eyes became accustomed to the murk, made out a figure sitting at the table. “And where’s Hazel, for God’s sake?” he continued in the same outraged tone, stamping across the room and throwing open the shutters.
He turned round. The unexpected visitor was a lanky black youth wearing a yellow shirt open to the waist and disgustingly tight grey trousers. He was also smoking a cigarette and wearing sunglasses. He raised a pale brown hand in Morgan’s direction.
“Howdy,” he said.
He slowed the car to walking pace as the streets narrowed and joined the creeping honking procession of cars that clogged Nkongsamba eighteen hours out of twenty-four. He let his hand dangle out of the window and thought aimlessly about the day and the massed ranks of his current problems. He asked himself if he was really that bothered about Priscilla and Dalmire, if it really affected him that much. He got no clear answer—there was too much bruised masculine pride obscuring the view. He drove on past the swarming mud huts set a little below the level of the road, past the blue neon-lit barber shops, soft drink hoardings, the ubiquitous Coke signs, the open-air garages, furniture shops, tailors sewing furiously on clacking foot-powered machines. He saw the looming flood-lit façade of the Hotel de Executive and his heart sank as it had become used to these past two months, as the memories of his first confidential meeting with Adekunle—held within its walls—hurried into his mind. Tin advertisements glittered around its door, reflecting the lights that were going on now dusk was settling on the town. He heard the raucous blare of American soul-music emanating from within its courtyard-cum-dance floor. “Tonite!!” proclaimed a blackboard propped outside the entrance. “Africa Jungle Beats. JOSY GBOYE and his top dandies band!!!! Fans! Be There!” Morgan wondered if Josy Gboye had been playing that fateful evening.
He turned off the main road and went bumping over potholes up a steep street that led past the Sheila Cinema, which was offering Michele Morgan and Paul Hubschmid in
Tell Me Whom to Kill
and
Neela Akash
, billed as a “sizzling and smashing Indian film.” He drove by the cinema and pulled the Peugeot into the forecourt of a chemist’s shop. He tipped the attendant a few coins and walked along the road, ignoring the small boys running and chanting by his side. They were shouting “Oyibo, Oyibo” which meant white man. It was something every Kinjanjan child did almost as a matter of course; it didn’t bother him, it was just a persistent reminder that he was a stranger in their country. He shook off his escort and two minutes’ brisk walking brought him to a newish row of shops. There was an optician’s, a Lebanese boutique and a shoe shop; above them were three flats. Hazel lived—courtesy of Morgan—above the boutique.
He looked quickly about him before running up the steps at the side of the building to the first floor communal passageway at the back. He took out his key and opened the door. The first thing he noticed was the smell of cigarette smoke and his tetchy mood sparked into anger as he had expressly banned Hazel from smoking now that he had given it up himself. The room was also dark as the shutters were closed. He groped for the light switch and flicked it down. Nothing happened.
“Nevah powah for heah,” said a voice.
Morgan jumped, alarm making his heart pound. “Who the hell is that?” he demanded angrily, peering in the direction of the voice, and, as his eyes became accustomed to the murk, made out a figure sitting at the table. “And where’s Hazel, for God’s sake?” he continued in the same outraged tone, stamping across the room and throwing open the shutters.
He turned round. The unexpected visitor was a lanky black youth wearing a yellow shirt open to the waist and disgustingly tight grey trousers. He was also smoking a cigarette and wearing sunglasses. He raised a pale brown hand in Morgan’s direction.
“Howdy,” he said.