There is something intrinsically wrong about enjoying tender rolls of smoked salmon, and canapes of avacado and succulent beef on the lawn of an African presidency. It is the second time in a week I have eaten fabulous food at the expense of the Senegalese state. Perhaps what feels wrong is how pleasant it is. Or how gullible the average man on the street seems when I step outside. I know it's nothing in comparison to the extraordinary extravagance of some of Africa's dictators long since gone, but I don't know how to comfortably be a part of it anyway.