Today I had success at one of the ministries. I was preparing myself, had long ago steeled myself, for the shaking of the head and the "he'll call you" followed by phone silence that I was expecting to receive. I have never got a minister to talk in Senegal, why should it be any different here?

Indeed, yesterday, I was met with red tape. "If he wants to see you, he'll give you a ring," said one secratary, and then scowled as I tried to tell her why it was good for him to talk to me. She scowled me out of the office, making sure I would never come back.

But this morning I was lucky. I found the public relations man, surrounded by the obligatory newspapers and a poster of Jesus.

He suggested we go up to the fourth floor and see the minster himself. I was ready for the scowling and the intense feeling of failure as I yet again don't manage to get any information, but when I arrived in the large, softly furnised yellowing room, I was shown straight in to see the minister.

He sat, big belly almost like another person in the room, at his desk and seemed delighted to see me. He was eating a muffin, told me that his wife had told him in bed this morning that he was getting fat, and then said he was sorry not to be able to offer me tea, but he had taken his tea cups home incase he was no longer minister come Monday morning.

I asked if we could meet to do an interview.

"Yes! Right now!" he shouted, and then laughed. "Ah ha! I have caught you on the wrong foot."

About an hour into the interview, which was immensely entertaining, five of his ministry came into the room.

"Gentlemen," he boomed. "There are five of you here including the director. Is something the matter?"

They looked nervous. Clearly there was, but they weren't going to announce it infront of me.

"Um, Sir, it's about that contract," said one of the group.

"Well get me my lawyer then, we need her here!" he contined to bellow, the heavy wooden furniture seeming to rumble in the wake of his voice. "And come back later! I am doing an interview."

When we finished the interview, he studied my business card and saw the photo on the back.

"You will give this to me for free?" he asked, delighted when I said yes.

"And you are a photographer? then you must take my photo please."

I happened to have my camera in my bag and, in total disbelief that a minister was asking me to photograph him, I took a photo, first of him looking serious and ministerial, and then, when I asked him why he didn't smile, of him roaring, positively quaking, with mirth.

In all the time i have traipsed in and out of ministerial offices and sat in the boxy, disorganised rooms of so-called public relations people who can't tell their telephone from their tea cup, this is the first time I could even imagine doing something like taking a photo. When I get home I will print them as a reminder of how miracles do happen.