An African Affair Read Free

obvious suspect. Others said it was the work of northern fundamentalists who had been agitating for Islamic law. Lindsay told her bosses that she had already developed a network of sources among dissidents. She insisted this could be a very big story, with international repercussions, a Pulitzer contender. Rainey relented. Pulitzer talk always brought editors around.
    Maureen’s brief was more specific—a story on the main opposition leader, Femi Fakai, who had promised an interview with the Western press. Since the AP had no resident correspondent, she had also been assigned to write some features on the Nigerian economy and oil production.
    The two women had been close friends since high school. They chose the same college—the University of Wisconsin at Madison—and joined the school paper together. In their senior year, both wanted the job of editor, and the board, finding it impossible to choose, split the job between them. Though different in many ways, they worked well as a team. Maureen, barely five feet tall, with curly brown hair and striking blue eyes, was feisty, outspoken, and honest to a fault. She could hone in on the holes in a reporter’s story but needed Lindsay’s diplomatic talents to communicate her criticisms. Lindsay, whose parents had changed their name from Kaminsky to Cameron, was lively, witty, flirtatious, and pretty. She had a tall, graceful body, long, straight auburn hair, and hazel eyes, qualities which made her popular in spite of her ambition and academic success.
    After college, they went into journalism and became indefatigable reporters, but at thirty-six, Maureen had achieved a more well-rounded life. As Lindsay’s mother never tired of pointing out, Maureen was married—to Mark, an American diplomat she met in Warsaw. Her mother might have changed her name, but she still had Kaminsky values. Even after her divorce from Lindsay’s father, she had absolute faith that marriage and babies defined success for a woman.
    “Hi,” Lindsay said, coming into the kitchen. “You just get up?”
    Maureen shook her head. “I couldn’t sleep. Any tricks for dealing with this heat?”
    “Yeah,” Lindsay answered. “Go back to London.”
    It wasn’t really funny, and Maureen was too tired to pretend.
    “The only thing I’ve found that helps is a bath,” Lindsay said. “The water isn’t cold, but if you don’t dry off, the evaporation cools you off.”
    “I’ll try it,” Maureen said, obediently trudging upstairs. “They never told me about this in journalism school,” she added over her shoulder.
    Lindsay started to laugh. “No? Jesus, I had a whole course in it. It was called ‘Resourcefulness in tight spots.’ Go back to bed as soon as you can,” Lindsay called after her. “You’ll need all the sleep you can get. You’re in West Africa. You never know what this place is going to throw at you.”

CHAPTER 2
    Lindsay awoke at 7 A.M., hot and sweaty. She showered and dressed in a pair of cotton drawstring pants and a white linen shirt and pulled her long hair back into a ponytail.
    Walking down the hall, she quietly peeked into the guest bedroom. Maureen was still asleep, her face damp with perspiration. Sensing her friend’s presence, Maureen opened her eyes and immediately shielded them from the bright sunlight streaming in through the window.
    “I’ll make some coffee,” Lindsay said.
    In the kitchen, she boiled the water and poured it into a large fourquart tin filter to eliminate the silt. Maureen staggered in and sat at the table.
    Lindsay poured two cups and handed one to Maureen.
    “I’m impressed,” Maureen mumbled, her voice still thick with sleep. “And just think—I used to say that you couldn’t even boil water.”
    “Yeah, well, next time check your facts. I happen to be a gourmet water boiler.”
    They moved to the living room. The power had come on and the ceiling fan was slowly turning, moving the torpid air without cooling it. Lindsay sat on a