An African Affair by Nina Darnton Read Free Book Online Page B

Barracks by yourself. You need a driver.”
    Usually deferential, his insistence gave Lindsay pause.
    “Where did you find him?”
    “He once work for my first employer at the British embassy. He is very good driver. He know the ropes. Believe me, madam. He will help. They take you more serious if you come with driver.”
    She waited, still unsure.
    “He has four children, madam. He need work.”
    She sighed. “Okay. But I can’t meet him now. Just give him the keys and ask him to wait for me in the car.”
    “Very good, madam.“
    When Lindsay walked out of the house, a young man with closely cropped hair jumped out to open the door of the Peugeot.
    “I be call John, madam,” he said.
    “Okay, John. I’m glad to meet you.” She settled back in her seat. “We are going to Dodan Military Barracks.”
    “I know, madam,” he said grimly. It took them an hour to get there. When they arrived at the gate, Lindsay gave John her pass. He showed it to the guard, who scrutinized it for what seemed a very long time. Still unconvinced, the guard peered in the window at Lindsay without saying a word. Finally satisfied, he waved them through. John looked nervous as he got out of the car and opened her door.
    “Please, madam,” he said. “Be careful.”
    “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll come back as soon as the interview is over.”
    Lindsay made her way to the squat brick building that housed the general’s private office. The first thing she noticed in the waiting room was that it was almost bare. There was no attempt to evoke authority with the solid mahogany British colonial furniture she had expected; the room was furnished only with a few modern, inelegant chairs and four cheap metal desks. Behind each was a secretary. Two were on the phone, engaged in what appeared to be personal conversations, and two were polishing their nails and chatting to each other in Yoruba. When Lindsay finally succeeded in getting one of the women to look up, she encountered an expressionless stare. The woman rudely gestured for Lindsay to sit down, while continuing to talk on the phone. Lindsay chose one of the hard-backed chairs and settled in to wait. In addition to the stock portrait of the dictator that hung in every government office and private shop, the walls bore photographs of him shaking hands with various African leaders. Some of the photos hung crookedly, and she had to suppress the urge to straighten them. After about twenty minutes, a phone rang. The secretary picked it up and rose, gesturing for Lindsay to follow her. In all that time, she realized, not a word had been spoken to her.
    The president’s office was more imposing. General Olumide sat behind a vast ebony desk, flanked by green and white Nigerian flags bearing the country’s seal (a unicorn holding a crest) and next to a life-sized oil portrait of himself in a uniform glittering with medals. He faced three separate black dial telephones as well as an important-looking red one, which she surmised gave instant access to his troops.
    He got up and crossed the office in two great steps and thrust out a large hand. His grip was hard.
    “Well, well, we meet at last,” he said, his voice deep and mellow, his gaze direct and warm.
    He ushered her to a comfortable chair, taking an easy chair across from her for himself.
    “So, Lindsay—I hope you don’t mind my using your first name, we tend to overlook formalities in Africa—how are you enjoying our country?”
    “Oh, it’s fascinating,” she said.
    He smiled. “Oh, I know some of our problems are difficult for you Westerners to get used to,” he said kindly, “the crowds, the heat, the communication and electrical problems, but we are working on improving conditions as much as possible. That is one reason we need help from a great, developed country like your own.”
    She smiled, surprised. Although she had seen photographs, nothing had prepared her for his stature and magnetism. His ebony skin was