A Good Man in Africa

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‘Good man,’ said Dalmire, gratefully accepting the gin Morgan Leafy offered him, ‘Oh good man.’ He presents his eager male friendship like a gift, thought Morgan; he’s like a dog who wants me to throw a stick for him to chase. If he had a tail he’d be wagging it.

Morgan smiled and raised his own glass. I hate you, you smug bastard! he screamed inwardly. You shit, you little turd, you’ve ruined my life! But all he said was, ‘Congratulations. She’s a fabulous girl. Lovely. Lucky chap.’

Dalmire rose to his feet and went to the window that looked over the Deputy High Commission’s front drive. Heat vibrated up from the parked cars, and a dusty even light lay over the view. It was late afternoon, the temperature was in the low nineties, Christmas was less than a week away.

Morgan watched in disgust as Dalmire tugged and eased his sweaty trouser seat. Oh Priscilla, Priscilla, he asked himself, why him? Why Dalmire? Why not me?

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