I thought I had malaria so I went to the clinic to have a malaria test. It came back negative, so that's not the reason that I am tired the whole time and can only work till midday.

But while I was worrying that some horrid disease was incubating in my blood stream, I missed the signing of a contract between a big agricultural co-op and the government. It's not like I even knew about it: imagine that the man who deals with the press at the ministry would do something so helpful as to telephone me when big things like this are happening. That would make life too easy.

So yesterday morning, seeing that the rest of the news-wire world had covered the event, I rang around a few people to try to get information on the what and how of this deal. I read it three times in different newspapers, but being a thorough kind of journalist I needed to get the info from the horse's mouth. So in the heat of the midday sun, I went off the the ministry to speak to the person whose job it is to speak to the press about this information.

Arriving at the gate, I was met by a gruff guard.

"Who are you?" he growled.

"I am Rose Skelton," I said.

"What do you want?" he asked, and I told him I had a meeting with Mr So-and-So.

"Which country do you come from?" he barked, frowning from under his blue peaked cap.

What the hell difference does that make, I wanted to ask him.

"Ang-a-la-terre," I said in my Senegalese French.

"Oh, OK," he said, still not smiling, and let me through the gate.

I went up tp the guy's office. He wasn't there. A young man came to help me knock on the door, as if two people knocking would bring him back. I rang him on his phone.

"I'm coming!" he said, and then appeared a second later wearing a whilte boubou from the floor above. I was sweating at this point, wondering why government buildings always have a lot of expensive air-conditioning units but at the same time always leave the outside doors open.

I went into this gentleman's office. It was the typical scene, stacks of old newspapers, empty mineral water bottles balancing on top of the stacks, dog-eared and yellowing printed documents everywhere, a telephone somewhere on the desk, just the curled wire visible, an old computer, not switched on, and some cardboard files from which he started to hunt around for the document I needed.

I passed him my business card; he didn't give me on in return. "They've just run out," he lied.

I told him what I needed. Figures, and lots of them.

I knew at once from the far-away look in his eye he wouldn't give them to me, either because he didn't know them or he wasn't authorised. We had not written letters and had them stamped and legalised, so I was surprised that he had even agreed to see me.

He started to talk, to fend me off, to stop me from asking questions, to draw out the meeting so that I would go away and leave him alone.

"First the minister thanked the head of state, Maitre Abdoulaye Wade..." said my friend, telling me the gory details of the signing ceremony.

I let him ramble on, until he came to a pause, and I asked him how much the signing was for. At this point I had nothing I could publish.

"Well..." he said, uncertain.

"I saw in the newspaper that it was eighty million dollars," I said, hoping to help him out.

He jumped at the chance to throw me off completely.

"Ah ha! So you saw it in the papers. ALL the press was there yesterday so you can take it from them." He was speaking quickly now, knowing he had found the thing with which I could not argue.

I reminded him that not all the press was there. I was absent. I also reminded him that it was his job to tell me about these things. But looking around the room, realising he did not even know where his telephone was, I knew it was too much to ask that he do something like that.

"But I can't copy other people's work," I protested.

"Maybe we should call the director of the cabinet," was his next line. With which he started searching for the phone. On finding it minutes later and dialling all sorts of numbers, he eventually got through to the person who would be authorised to get authorisation to speak to me.

My man picked up my business card and mumbled into the phone that he had 'someone' (a journalist, I would have said) here who wanted information. What company is she from? Let me see...

"Rose....e-skelton...west.....Africa....corre-."

I stopped him. That was my title, not my company. I pointed to the name of my company written clearly beside my name. He gave a sharp jab with the phone as if I was intruding on his private space. I realised I had been rude, but then, well, this my chance to get the information I needed to get paid that day and he was ballsing it up left, right and centre.

I heard the man on the other end of the phone ask him to pass the receiver to me. I gave encouraging looks to show that I would behave well if he gave me the phone. My man resisted; the other man persisted. Finally, reluctantly, he gave me the phone.

"Which company are you from and where is it based?" asked the man on the other end of the phone directly and clearly.

I told him and he said,

"Fine. I will see what I can do. Give me your number and I will call you back."

Done. I handed the phone back. I knew he would never call me, but I liked this line of tact, it was better than the one that wasted everyone's time.

I went home without the information. I will never have it. I will never be invited to the next thing, unless I happen to hear it from another journalist. And I will probably never get used to working in this country.