Chapter 4

The nuts from a palm tree don’t fall

without dragging a few leaves with it.

—Congolese proverb

The man who carried my suitcases to the room bowed his head slightly and extended his right hand to receive the generous tip I gave him, flashing a smile that uncovered his teeth filed into sharp triangular shapes.

“Mèsi mingi.”

“Elokoté, you’re welcome,” I said, happy to use the Lingala expression I had learned at Marie Madeleine’s home.

I looked around my room in Paix Retrouvée. The guest house that Ngwendu recommended had belonged to a Belgian family before the country’s independence and had since been transformed into a commercial lodging. The simple furnishings in the room consisted of a wooden table and chair, two twin-size beds, and a nightstand between them. There were no dressers or closets, nor carpets covering the cement floor. I left my two suitcases on one of the beds then opened a door to a small bathroom with chipped-paint walls.

That night I tossed and turned and finally dozed off until thunder woke me. When the wind’s violent howls turned into whispers, I got out of bed. As my feet landed in a puddle of water that had leaked in through cracks in the window, I let out a cry of disgust and returned to bed, gazing at the ceiling that so desperately needed to be painted.

A sudden desire to call home emerged as I realized that Mom and Dad were probably worried by now because I hadn’t contacted them since I left Dakar. The manager told me that I should go to the post office in order to place the call. I filled out the mandatory form and waited to be connected. I finally dozed off in the unbearable heat of the poorly ventilated room. A guard tapped me on my shoulder and told me the office was closing for lunch and that I could return in a few hours, and I did. When I questioned the clerk, to whom I had given the form, he told me that he still couldn’t get the call through. I waited there until closing time.

At the guest house, I ran into the manager. “How’s your family?” he asked.

“The clerk kept telling me he couldn’t get through,” I answered in a voice filled with exasperation.

“I suppose you didn’t give him a matabiche.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He touched his chin. “It’s a tip people expect before they do you a favor.”

“But he’s not doing me a favor. It’s his job to make the connection, isn’t it?”

“If you really want to speak with your family, give him ten zaires with the completed form, and you’ll see.”

I returned to the post office the next morning, filled with renewed optimism. The clerk smiled at the sight of the bill, and I was connected to New York in less than five minutes. As I listened to the phone ring, it occurred to me that it was only four o’clock in the morning in New York. I had thought it best to call when they still had sleep in their eyes; that way they wouldn’t ask too many questions. By the second ring I was tempted to hang up, nervous about what I would say. But I was glad I didn’t because hearing their voices brought me more joy than I expected.

“Latham was planning on calling the Zaire mission tomorrow to trace your whereabouts. We were worried,” Dad said.

“Are you making interesting friends?” asked Mom after a few minutes of catching up.

“Oh yes, some very interesting ones,” I said, thinking about Marie Madeleine and her family.

“How about the job?” Dad wanted to know.

“I haven’t started yet. I’m doing some cultural immersion first.” It was getting harder for me to mask the truth, so I became eager to get off the phone. I told them I only had a few seconds left, promised to call again, and hung up in a hurry.

 

* * *

 

My soul was wrapped in darkness when I woke up in the middle of the night. I sat on the porch, staring at the leaves shimmering on the trees in the front yard. The whisper of a cool breeze, flirting with the leaves, broke the stillness of dawn. I felt Lamercie’s presence next to me and wished I could communicate with Nlunda a Kinkulu’s spirit, the way she could. My restless soul suddenly woke from despair and echoes of ancestral drums vibrated in my mind as a river of determination flowed in my veins.

The silhouette of a woman elegantly dressed in the traditional wrapper approached. Her cautious steps were like those of an adolescent coming home after curfew. As she got closer, she smiled and said, “You’re the woman from America, right?” But before I could answer she went on, “The manager told me about you this morning. My room is next to yours.” She paused and yawned. “Sorry, I’m beat. I had to work double shifts because my colleague couldn’t make it to work.” She held her back, then stretched her upper body. “I’d love to talk with you more. Can you have breakfast with me at La Voix du Zaire? That’s where I work.”

“Sure.”

“I have to get some sleep,” she said, pushing the door open. “Lobi, eh.”

“Yes, see you tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

The taxi drove us through a street that was more like a mud river that the early-morning rain had left behind. As the car turned on Kasa-Vubu Avenue, echoes of OK Jazz and Tabu Ley blasted. La Voix du Zaire, with its twenty floors, starkly contrasted with shacks in the surrounding shantytown.

“That’s an impressive building,” I said to Amba, stepping out of the taxi.

“It’s not occupied to its fullest capacity.”

“Why is that?”

“We don’t have enough technicians to operate the sophisticated machines. A total waste.”

While waiting for our order in the employees’ cafeteria, Amba examined her face in a compact mirror. “How did you land in Kinshasa?” she asked. “People don’t come here to visit. I mean, it’s hardly a vacation place. Foreigners are usually here to work.”

“I did come to work but it’s turning out to be some kind of vacation.”

“What happened?”

“The director of the Arts Institute invited me to start a dance program,” I said. “But my contract hasn’t come through.”

“That’s Zaire for you.”

“I’m thinking about packing my bags.”

“To go back home?”

Even though I missed the security of home, going back would be conceding defeat. “No, I’d try to get a job in Dakar.”

Amba waved to a couple that walked by. “My father sent me to Liège where I went to school and lived with missionaries,” she said. “I could never make it to class because I was always tired from cooking, cleaning, washing, and ironing for them. So I ran away. Life was even more difficult for me, until I met some people who helped me get on my feet.” She sipped coffee and continued, “Being here is not that much better either. Life is so rough; people blame it on independence and wish colonization would come back. If this is independence, who needs it?” She broke into cynical laughter. “Have you tried finding out why the commissaire d’état hasn’t done anything? Your dossier is complete, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s strange. I know the Arts Institute needs a dance program and they don’t have any other job applicants.”

“How do you know this?”

“I get around.”

“Every time I try to get the commissaire d’état on the phone, his secretary tells me he’s not there or he’s in a meeting.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand.” Amba leaned forward. “I’ll ask the general for the number to his direct line.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

 

* * *

 

“Mbote,” she greeted me hours later when I opened the door to let her in. “I have the number for you. Throw on some clothes, and let’s go for some beer and food.”

The restaurant was another private home transformed into a business that catered to middle-class professionals. Their menu featured local food like fufu, chikwangue, saka saka, soso, makemba, and loso.

“Lotodo, pili pili,” Amba called to the young girl who waited on us, asking for hot pepper sauce. As soon as the waitress was out of sight, she looked around the room. “There’s a lot of controversy around the commissaire d’état, Citoyen Bolingo. People wonder if authenticity means the same to him as it does to the maréchal,” she said in a lowered voice.

The young girl brought the pili pili to the table and left.

“Citoyen Bolingo is a very powerful man. Even the maréchal respects him.” She unfolded the banana leaf to uncover the chikwangue.

I listened to her without interest, too busy thinking about what I was going to say to the commissaire d’état when I called him the next morning.

“The general contacted him,” said Amba, “and just as I thought, his secretary hadn’t told him about your phone calls.”

“Why would she do that?”

“She’s a bitch!” she smirked.

“Come on.”

“Citoyen Bolingo told the general he’d heard about you from the UN ambassador and thought you were still in Senegal.”

“He never got my dossier?”

“His secretary obviously made sure of that. There’s a rumor that she’s madly in love with him and thinks every woman is a potential threat.”

“I still don’t understand why she would do that.”

“The woman is obsessed.”

 

* * *

 

He picked up the phone on the second ring. “Citoyen Bolingo speaking.”

“This is Iris Odys. I’m sorry to bother you. I got your number from—”

“Ah! Mademoiselle Odys,” he interrupted. “I should be the one to apologize to you. I’m sure you have a poor impression of our Zaire.”

“Not really,” I said, to be polite.

“I’ll personally make sure your paperwork is taken care of.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

A day later, I received an invitation from the commissaire d’état to come to the director’s office to sign my contract. As an expatriate, I was entitled to a furnished villa, a standing guard, a servant, and a car. Immediately after signing the contract, I moved out of my desolate room to a three-bedroom villa with two bathrooms, a large living-dining room, a veranda, and a backyard. Amba helped me buy plants, paintings, malachite and ivory sculptures. African fabric pillows and upholstery completed the décor. My photograph of Hagathe once again found its place on my night table.