Today I went down to the big shiny office which is taking care of the Islamic summit, due to take place in Dakar in one week. So far, only five Islamic heads of states are confirmed to attend. The Senegalese government has started closing petrol stations which lie on the airport road where the Arab presidents will travel; journalists surmise that threats have been made against the presidential cavalcades.

I have to have a police check for my press accreditation. All ten fingerprints must be taken, tomorrow morning. But I am out of town tomorrow morning, and I went down to the office, for the second time today, with a heavy heart.

I explained the situation, that I am all alone in the office and I can not come tomorrow to be fingerprinted. Is there any way around the problem?

"No."

I talk a bit longer, and the lady I am talking at turns away from me and makes a phone call, which has nothing to do with my situation. A junior-looking man pretends to pay me attention in her place, and he just shrugs and says there is nothing that can be done. If I am not in the office at 8 tomorrow morning, then I will not be able to cover the summit.

In walks a man I recognise. He is fat and smiling. I remember him from a press conference, more than a year ago. He had tried his best to chat to me, in that charming but slightly conniving Senegalese way which suggests it is much more than chatting. Luckily I didn't suck my teeth at him, a bad Senegalese habit I have picked up.

"I will sort everything out, don't worry," he said, smiling through a sandwich. "I'll take care of it."

With that, I handed him my phone number, office and mobile.