TODAY WE WERE going to eat chicken and noodles. The generator went back to work. The beer was still warm. Myriam left to buy fabric. The chubby Lebanese was sweating profusely, and when he sat down at my table without introducing himself, I choked back a wave of nausea. “Karim,” he said, and offered a damp hand. “Claude,” I reciprocated.
“So you’ve come to Bunia to do business.”
“Yes, I’m considering the possibilities.”
“Maybe I can help you. Mostly I’m in diamonds, but pretty soon things will be opening up in gold and coltan. We need friends and extra cash.”
“We?”
“Friends, important people, politicians who want to give new life to the local economy.”
“I don’t know anything about Ituri. Who do you mean, what group are you talking about?”
“I’ll be speaking to you, Claude, when the time comes.”
I knew very well whom he was talking about. Joseph got me the latest MONUC reports. Since his return, Kabanga has chosen the way of discretion, but the Hema merchants who had always dominated the city’s economy were meeting in his villa. That was the same group that took power in 2002, pillaged the gold mines, trafficked in diamonds, and controlled the coltan market.
“Mister, Mister…”
A little, frizzy-haired, red-headed boy was pulling on my sleeve. Ten years old, maybe, black skin and black eyes that stared up at me. He asked me if he could have some chicken please, Mister. I ordered chicken and noodles and he swallowed them down. He gave me a scrap of paper and I read it. “Hi boss, forget my parents. They don’t want me. They weren’t kidnapped. They wanted money. I found Marie, Aristide, Béatrice too and other child soldiers. We have guns. We are training to make justice. You will be proud of us. We’re like you, we want justice. When we’re ready, I’ll send you another message.”
Benjamin, since that was his name, told me, as his mouth overflowed with noodles, that I had to answer. In spite of the overwhelming heat, I felt cold shivers. I was shaking. Stumbling over the words, as if for the first time in my life writing was an obstacle course, a hundred-metre hurdle, I tried to compose.
“Josué, justice isn’t revenge. Justice is what’s fair and proven [I’m writing stupidities, he won’t understand any of this]. Take the time to think about it. Murdering a murderer isn’t justice [again, I’m sure he won’t understand]. Don’t do anything until we talk. Justice must be just.”
But I’m here because justice wasn’t just.
“Where’s Josué?”
“I don’t know any Josué.”
Benjamin wanted a beer before he left. I ordered him one.
Myriam returned, disappointed. The market didn’t have much to offer.
She wasn’t as upset as I was by Josué’s letter. In fact, she wasn’t upset at all.
“Is Kabanga guilty?”
“Yes, according to the proof we had.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Here, I know, there is no problem. Josué and the rest of them know, in their flesh and their souls, that Kabanga is guilty. But revenge, even when it’s justified, isn’t justice. There is the rule of law.”
“We left the Court because the rule of law prevented justice being done, Claude.”
Ever since I left The Hague, I have wondered how I would react when I came face to face with Kabanga. You have to understand. The man was my intimate enemy. I spent three years of my life noting down and explaining and describing his vices, his turpitude, and his crimes. Let’s just say that my hatred was reasonable and well documented.
Then, suddenly, he walked into the restaurant, and he seemed as normal as I was, imposing and handsome like in the photos, wearing a white écru linen jacket. Lately he had become a pastor, and he was sporting an enormous cross, the kind the Pope wears on his chasuble. I felt nothing, only curiosity. Was I incapable of emotion? The man I had been hunting for three years was shaking hands with the crowd like a candidate running for office, with dignity and elegance. Everyone greeted him with respect.
He introduced himself. “I am Thomas Kabanga, pastor of the Evangelical Church of Bunia. May I?” I said nothing. He sat down and ordered rice and beans. His two bodyguards took a table next to ours. The pastor needed tight security. We ate in silence and I wondered what kind of mess I’d gotten myself into. There I was, breaking bread with Kabanga.
“Some friends have told me you’re Canadian. What a big, beautiful country. Those same friends also told me you wish to invest in Bunia. That is surprising. Here, only oil and mining companies from Canada dare to tread. Your wife is a beauty.”
Myriam lowered her eyes.
“Mr. Canadian, I am the protector and pastor of Bunia. I preach the word of God and I protect the people of my community. In the past I was forced to use violence, but I believe that time has passed. As my friend Karim told you, we need support to better develop our region. We would be happy to have you among us. If ever you need advice, I am at your service.”
He rose. His hand cut through the air in front of me; that might have been his blessing. He offered his hand. I hesitated, then shook it.