Solo

One-man band.’
    ‘I’ve a ready supply of volunteers when the need arises,’ Adeka said, with a weary smile. ‘But most of my funds have gone. I gave up my practice two years ago and as we all know, money – alas – doesn’t grow on trees. Also, we find ourselves very harassed by the state. Inexplicable electricity failures, visits by aggressive bailiffs claiming we haven’t paid our bills, break-ins, vandalism. All this costs me. AfricaKIN isn’t welcome – Her Majesty’s Government has made that very clear.’
    ‘Maybe you should move to Paris,’ Bond said.
    ‘I’ve thought about it, believe me. Without our French friends . . .’ He stopped. ‘I wouldn’t be talking to you, Mr Bond, if you didn’t work for a French press agency.’
    ‘I’m very grateful.’
    ‘So, what takes you to our benighted country?’
    ‘I’m flying in to Sinsikrou, yes – but then I plan to make my way south, to Dahum. I want to interview your brother – which is why I’m here.’
    The kettle had boiled and Adeka made himself a cup of tea – no milk, no sugar. He sat behind his desk and looked at Bond, candidly, silently for a second or two, as if weighing him up, analysing him. Bond sat there, happy to be scrutinised – for some reason he liked Gabriel Adeka and admired his futile ambitions, his sacrifice, his crazy integrity.
    ‘Why do you think I might be able to help you?’
    ‘Well, you are his brother.’
    ‘True. But I haven’t spoken to my “little brother” since Dahum seceded in ’67,’ he said with heavy cynicism. ‘Solomon can be very persuasive. He told me what he was planning to do – to secede, to establish a “new” country, keep the potential oil revenues for the Fakassa people. He had very, very big dreams. I begged him not to do it, told him it would be a disaster for the Fakassa, a kind of race-suicide.’ His face tautened. ‘I derive no satisfaction from being proved right.’
    ‘So why didn’t he listen to you?’
    ‘You wouldn’t understand, Mr Bond. You have to be a Fakassa to have that depth of feeling, that closeness . . .’ The words seemed to fail him. ‘We’ve lived in the Zanza River Delta for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. It’s our homeland – our heartland – in every passionate, instinctive sense of the words.’ He smiled, emptily. ‘I don’t expect you to know what I’m talking about. You’re not African.’
    ‘No, I can understand,’ Bond said. ‘You make sense. There’s no need to patronise me.’
    ‘I apologise. Do you own a house?’
    ‘I have a flat.’
    ‘Do you like living there?’
    ‘Very much.’
    ‘What would you say if your neighbours came in one day and took away your carpets and your furniture, your treasured possessions?’
    Bond shrugged. ‘It doesn’t relate. The Zanza River Delta is part of Zanzarim.’
    Adeka looked a little contemptuous. ‘Zanzarim, and before that, Upper Zanza State, and before that Neu Zanza Staat was a construct of European colonialists. They only arrived a few decades ago, at the end of the last century. They drew the country’s boundaries on a whim one afternoon when they had nothing better to do.’ He grew more serious. ‘To the Fakassa people the Zanza River Delta, our tribal homeland, is our birthright. It has no connection with twentieth-century neocolonial politics or the venal ambitions of European adventurers. Can you understand that?’
    ‘Yes, I think so.’
    Adeka yielded a little. ‘All the same, my brother, Solomon, should never have tried to create an independent state. It was madness. I told him so. We fought, spoke very harsh words to each other and we haven’t seen each other since.’
    ‘Your arguments didn’t impress.’
    ‘He couldn’t see sense. Wouldn’t. Not surprisingly.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Have you any idea how much oil lies beneath the Zanza River Delta, Mr Bond?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well, I suggest you try to find out – and then calculate roughly how many hundreds of millions of dollars will go to whoever owns it.’
    He stood up. ‘I can’t help you, I’m afraid. You’ll have to find someone else who can introduce you to my brother. All I ask is, if and when you reach Dahum, you tell the world exactly and honestly what you see there.’
    Bond rose to his feet. ‘You can count on that,’ he said. ‘We’re not in the propaganda business.’
    Adeka led him back downstairs and at the door handed him his business card.
    ‘I’d be