IN THE ROOM , Myriam, dressed as if we were going out on the town, was sitting in the armchair, awaiting my return. No, she wasn’t worried, she knew I’d be back, and that I had things to do. She asked no questions. I looked at my e-mails. My money was been transferred from Holland and the bank in Kinshasa promised I would be able to draw from my account in Bunia. All the same, I was advised to bring several hundred euros in cash just in case.
Posting from Agence France-Presse: “Thomas Kabanga is expected in Bunia tomorrow after his liberation for procedural reasons by the International Criminal Court. At the Schiphol airport, the militia chief declared that he would resume his political work for a prosperous and autonomous Ituri region. The United Nations forces have reported movement among the population. Inhabitants of Lendu origin appear to be leaving the city.”
What am I going to do in that mess?
In the dining room, the waitress spoke only to me. “What will Madame have as an entrée?” Myriam is swathed in her Somali robes. She replied that she’d have the same thing I was having. “I like everything you like.” She didn’t waste a second on the corpulent Dutch waitress. “Those people don’t exist for me anymore.”
“What are we going to do in Bunia?”
“We’ll see.”
“See what?”
“What I can do about Kabanga.”
“What can you do?”
“I don’t know. But I know I can’t just watch.”