A Look into My Life — Chapter Nine

Around that time, I must have been seventeen years old, I began considering what I might study at university. One afternoon, I came from school and I found Mother unusually excited. It was good to see such energy in her; it suggested that she was still closer to life than death. "Guess who came by today", she exclaimed as soon as I entered the house. I said I did not know, and she announced that Monsieur l'Abbé had returned. I had no idea who she meant. "Who is that", I asked, rather grumpily. She reminded me that he was my uncle, a relative of my father. He was a priest, and had traveled to Europe, where he had lived all these years. "The one that brought you the Lego set, remember?", she added. I did not remember. The reference to my father immediately triggered my hostility. Why, I asked Mother, was this man appearing now, where had they been? Mother explained that he had lived in Belgium and had not had access to me. Now he wanted to establish a relationship with me and perhaps finance my studies abroad. I remained sceptical. Good things did not happen to me. Mother, alarmed, saw the bad attitude gathering and warned me to behave politely when he came to see me this afternoon.

I did not expect him to come, but at about five in the afternoon he showed up. I was standing in the veranda, watching him walk towards the house, my attitude a bit standoffish. Mother ran past me and towards him, and gave him a warm hug. Then she introduced me. He looked up, then walked up to me and kissed me on both cheeks. I liked him immediately. He was short, very dark-skinned, with a calm demeanor and vaguely resembled me. I sat with Mother and him in the living room, prepared to attack if either said something irritating. In those days, I wore wounded righteousness like a uniform and took a perverse pleasure in anger.

Monsieur l'Abbé proved to be an excellent psychologist. He sensed the dangerous subjects and avoided them without appearing evasive, or dismissive of my experience. He asked if my father took care of us. When my mother said no, he briefly expressed disapproval of his behavior, thus winning me over. He had declared himself to be on my side. He asked me what I wanted to study at university. I relaxed and told him that I hoped to study Medicine. He suggested that I rather study Law in Belgium. I couldn't believe my ears, and I couldn't really believe what was happening. The possibility of me finding a benefactor capable of sending me to study Law at the Catholic University of Louvain seemed so precious and improbable that I dared not examine it too closely, lest it becomes frightened and flies away.

Monsieur l'Abbé lived at a monastery near our house in Carrefour, at the corners of Shangungu st and Kato st, and visited regularly. He asked me to call him Uncle Theo. Whether he was technically my uncle or cousin mattered less than the fact that he was there. I felt I had finally been offered a father figure. Mother soon spoke of my European education as though it had already happened. When I joked that I would believe it only after placing both feet inside a Belge university, she was outraged and accused me of behaving like the biblical Thomas. She said I had little faith. Uncle Theo visited the following day and Mother told him of my doubts. He assured me that he was already supporting several young people in Belgium. Why, he asked, would he neglect his own flesh and blood? Those words mattered even more than his promise. He had claimed me as his own. Thereafter he visited almost every evening, encouraged my studies and told me stories of Europe. A filial affection grew rapidly.

I realised after some time that Uncle Theo was very ill. He visited more and more often, and would tell me many stories. He clearly wanted to make up for the lost time. Every other day he came to see me and asked that I prepare a concoction he knew would cure him. He did not tell me what he suffered of. Therefore when I knew he was coming, I picked up Madacascar Periwinkles, boiled them for 20 or 30 minutes, and poured the liquid into a bottle for him to take home. I was sad to see him suffer. 

One day, he came to say goodbye. I was shocked. I did not know he was leaving. Upon seeing my crestfallen face, he quickly assured me that he was coming back soon, he was just visiting the Kayeye village in order to kickstart the construction of a parish. I was surprised by the depth of my sadness. A dark cloud descended upon me, and somehow I sensed I would never see him again. I wonder why I felt that way. I earnestly prayed that the train he was to take would get him there safely. I prayed that he would not succomb to the anopheles, the deadliest mosquitoes in the world. I prayed that he would not be harmed by snakes, spiders, witchcraft, or anything else. I prayed like I had never prayed before, that God would return him safe to us. I studied harder while waiting for his return, just as he had asked me to.

After writing my State Examination, I waited for the results. University applications closed around the same time the results were released, so pupils usually applied in advance and hoped they had passed. Mother advised me not to register locally because Uncle Theo intended to send me to Europe. I told one close friend that I would not attend UNILU (University of Lubumbashi), as I would be studying abroad. He spread the news, and before long many people knew that I was supposedly leaving the country.

One morning, while we were still awaiting the results, two friends came to visit. As we were sitting in the patio, I saw Mother appear at the gate. I was instantly alarmed, she almost never came home so early, unless she was ill. As she drew nearer, I noticed that she was slightly staggering. I wasn't listening to what my friends were saying anymore. I was staring at my mother. When she drew level, she spat more than she said these terrible words: “Monsieur l'Abbé est mort!,” before bursting into tears. I was stunned. I asked my friends to leave and locked myself in my bedroom for days. My greatest concern had been to pass and make Uncle Theo proud. Suddenly the future he had offered me disappeared with him, not just a future in Europe, but also a future with a father.

I mourned him privately for many nights. Perhaps tears come more easily after sunset because the world grows quiet enough for sorrow to speak. One night, Mother knocked on my door. Her eyes were red. “I am also crying for Monsieur l'Abbé, you know. I'm so sorry Son” she said. We did not hug in our house, but compassion filled her face. She understood that I was not merely mourning a lost education in Europe. I had loved Uncle Theo.

Uncle Theo passing had been a blow. Deeply affected, I resolved to study in my hometown. Applications had closed, so I had to wait the year out and apply the following year. I was fighting again with Mother, so I decided to look for a job and spent as little time as possible at home. I also desired to leave home. I was starting to find Mother deeply irritating. I felt like she did not understand what to have a child was all about. I thought she was completely disinterested in me as a person, and valued more her church, her work and her family. I felt like a burden and stayed away from home as much as I could. I was a homebody, and I'd rather stay at home and read a book than go out and swallow the dust of Lubumbashi's streets. But I went out everyday anyway, and only came home late, reluctantly. I spent my nights at Betamax, the local cinema, until after midnight when the last porn movie ended. I did not care, I dared anyone to challenge me. The country was at war again at the time, and I met more than once soldiers doing the rounds. I was stopped often in the middle of the night, and in hindsight I am grateful that I was not killed. Some nights I did see Mother's lights still on when I came back, and I was then animated with a bitter sense of satisfaction at the idea that she was at least worried now and again about me. I was cruel of course, my opinion at the time was that she did not know how to be a wife, or a mother. She had failed her husband, and she was failing her son.

Mother decided to sell part of her property to send me to South Africa. Former classmates had begun mocking me over the failed trip to Brussels, and I announced that I would not attend UNILU.

The humiliation had sharpened after I met a former schoolmate one night while going to buy Mother some Berliners. The girl, whom I particularly disliked, laughed and asked why I was still in Lubumbashi after boasting that I was going to Europe. I did not reply, but understood that my friend had spread the news and was part of those that mocked me. That night, the thought of staying in Congo became unbearable and I asked my mother to send me to South Africa. I unfairly blamed Mother. I reminded her that studying abroad had been her idea and that she had introduced Uncle Theo into my life. She had shown me a bright future, I argued, and now needed to devise another plan.

Mother revealed that South Africa was a cheaper alternative. “But you have no money,” I objected.

She said she intended to sell the unused portion of our enormous yard. The idea horrified me, but I could see no other way to finance the journey. We agreed that I would begin local university studies while she arranged my departure.

We lived in a desirable area, so the land sold quickly. Mother arranged for her friend's son to receive me in Johannesburg. I had never left Lubumbashi, and the prospect was both exciting and frightening. Obtaining a passport and study permit, however, took longer than expected.

While we waited, relatives heard that Mother had sold part of the property and assumed she had become a millionaire. A bunch of them moved into the house, seeking financial assistance. Mother decided to invest some of the funds in a brick-making business so that the money might grow before I travelled.

I supported the idea in principle but objected when she hired my cousin and his team. They had made unbaked bricks for Grandmother in Katuba, but our project required properly fired bricks. I argued that they lacked the necessary experience. Mother ignored my warning and employed them anyway. She asked me to go see Grandmother and inspect the beautiful bricks had made for her. I took a taxi to Katuba, arrived at Grandma's house, and was immediately disappointed.

One morning, as we were both getting ready for the day, I tried to talk to Mother again one last time, in order to convince her that this was a bad idea, but she was obstinate and unhappy, and claimed that I was opposing the project because I did not like her family, which in turn made me very angry. Eli, the brick layer, was one of the very few family members I genuinely loved in the family, and I greatly respected her mother, who was my mother's cousin. I was also furious because the investment came from money intended for my education. I knew she wanted the best for me, but I considered her a poor businesswoman and believed that only a dramatic protest would make her listen. My cousins overheard our arguments and probably thought I disliked them. I did not. I simply believed they were unqualified for that particular project.

My mother's habit of never listening to me disgusted me. I ran to the pharmacy. It was early morning, it was closed, but I angrily banged on the door. In Congo, some shopkeepers slept at the back of their shops. The vendor came out, still sleepy. I bought 20 aspirins, went home, swallowed them with water, and then left for work (I worked as a my telephone operator, very few people had cellphones during that time). I became very ill during the day, and thought I was dying. My christian background kicked in; I fell on my knees, asked God to forgive and welcome my in His Kingdom. The "cabine publique", as we called our shop, was not busy that day, which was just as good as I could hardly walk or talk. Around 3, I phoned my boss, Raoul, and told him that I was ill and was about to close the shop. I did not want to die in his shop, I had only gone to work that day to escape my own home. He quickly came and instructed me to go rest. I thanked him but just as I was walking out the door, I fell to the ground and vomitted. I suddenly felt significantly better, but remained deaf for many days.

Once the bricks had been moulded, they needed firing. Selling them unbaked would have rendered the enterprise pointless. Mother decided to cut down the trees around our home for fuel. Those mango, avocado and fir trees had taken years to grow. They had fed us, shaded us and kept me company throughout childhood. Again, I was livid. When men arrived and began cutting them down, I felt as though the soul of our home were being destroyed. I had reached an age when I expected my opinions to matter, especially in decisions concerning my future. Instead, I felt automatically dismissed. The brick business became another wound in my relationship with Mother. I began wondering whether she had sold the land for my education or for a family business over which I had no influence.

The kiln (which we called the oven in my country) was built by stacking the unbaked bricks with channels for the flames, coating the structure with mud and feeding large logs through openings at its base. I had previously enjoyed watching bricks being fired, but this time I locked myself in my room and sulked. The following morning I went out to inspect the oven, and I immediately knew that the job had been botched. I wasn't that clueless about the brick laying business. I was a lanky, skinny, slightly effeminate boy, but I was tough, reasonably intelligent, and had been involved to some degree in the business. I knew how well baked bricks looked like, even through the mud that covered the kiln. I said nothing, and once again vowed to never speak to my mother again.

The business failed completely. Rain reduced the kiln to a vast pile of mud, and there were no usable bricks to sell. Mother had not spent every cent, but most of the money was gone. A cousin joked that she had consumed my school fees before I had even begun studying. The remark wounded me.

Meanwile, Aunt Sony arrived from Zambia with several of her children and demanded money for her own business. When Mother said there was little left, Sony settled into the house and waited. She was loud, forceful and difficult, and her presence intensified the tension. The house was filled with relatives, children and visitors. Perhaps I was selfish, but I was desperate for space and felt lost in a sea of hostile, ironic faces.

Everything came to a head one evening. The house was tense, the brick business had failed, my studies abroad seemed increasingly unlikely, and Mother was ill beneath the weight of everybody's demands, including mine.

Aunt Sony stationed herself outside Mother's bedroom and prevented people from entering. I considered this hypocritical because I believed her own demands had contributed to Mother's condition. Mother's feeble voice could be heard behind her closed door as Sony occasionally went in and argued some more.

Whenever Mother was ill, I wanted to sit beside her, regardless of our quarrels. She had sometimes called me at night, and I had learnt to wake at the faintest sound. I would stay while she prayed and sang until she promised, “You can go now, Itsho. I will not die and leave you tonight.”

But that night, when I tried to enter, Sony blocked me. “Get away from here,” she snapped. “My sister is resting and does not wish to see you.”

I was dumbfounded. Mother had always wanted me near when she was ill. Sony planted herself before the door and dared me to pass. I lost control.

I screamed, broke objects and drove almost everyone from the house. I kept a large stone nearby in case the confrontation became physical. Thankfully, it did not. Even so, I behaved in a way that still fills me with shame.

After everyone except Grandmother had gone, I retreated to my room to devour the bitter fruit of victory. I knew I had acted cruelly, but I also knew that our life in the crowded house could not continue unchanged.

The uproar worsened Mother's condition. She stumbled onto the veranda and collapsed into a chair, gasping for air. Grandmother knelt before her, weeping. They fell into each other's arms, as though saying goodbye. My Grandmother screamed my name, and I rushed outside. Mother saw me behind Grandmother (still in her arms) and extended her hand. I seized it, fell to my knees and burst into tears.

I then ran for a taxi. Most of them stationed in front of the Snel offices, ten minutes away from my house. By the time I returned with one, Mother had lost consciousness. I carried her to the car, startled by how light she had become, and we rushed to the Don Bosco hospital. I again carried her out of the vehicle, she was placed on a stretcher and taken inside. 

The night still feels like a nightmare. Mother survived, but I believed I had nearly killed her. I also feared that, had she died, her family would have remembered only my role in the crisis.

After Mother was taken inside the hospital, I stood outside in the garden, waiting; One of the patients, who was sitting on a bench, called my name. It was Patient, my closest friend, dressed in hospital clothes. He had been admitted with severe stomach pain. When he asked why I was there, I opened my mouth but could not speak. He waited quietly. His calmness was a welcome stillness after the emotional storm. I began to cry for the second time that night, and he gently patted my back before leading me to the bench.

The house became quiet again, but both sides remained wounded. I knew the family now described me as evil, spoilt and unwilling to share my mother. I cared little for the judgement of people I had never liked. In my view, they had refused to leave their sister's shadow. Mother had stretched herself emotionally and materially to support them for many years, yet many disappeared when poverty struck and returned when they heard that she had money from the sale of her property. I wanted to forget them. Mother recovered, and I visited her each morning before going to university. I kept my mobile phone on constantly in case she relapsed.

University brought a welcome change of scenery. I reunited with former classmates, made new friends and, for reasons I could not explain, became less shy. T, my old crush, was there, and we became friends again. I still loved her secretly, although I accepted that her fiancé was the man she had chosen. I enjoyed her intelligence and bold humour whenever I could, like precious manna. Somehow, I also befriended some of the most admired students in our auditorium. Campus life allowed me to imagine myself as sophisticated and courageous. One day, I borrowed a suit from my friend Charles for a test that required formal dress. When Mother saw me afterwards, she stared with quiet admiration, as though she had suddenly discovered that her child had become a man.

One rainy afternoon, I sheltered beneath a shop awning and encountered Carine, a family friend whose mother had once been close to mine. We greeted, and immediately after she asked, loud enough for everybody to hear, why I had almost killed my mother with my demands of going to Europe. The strangers sheltering with us immediately became attentive. I wanted to explain that studying abroad had been Mother's idea, not mine, but Carine had already reached her verdict. I smiled, offered a polite word and walked back into the rain. I preferred getting soaked to arguing with someone determined not to understand.

By then, I had largely abandoned the idea of leaving Congo and was beginning to enjoy university. The campus promised friendship, adulthood and, in my imagination, sex. Its sanitation, however, was appalling. Hundreds of students crowded into ten neglected residential blocks. The toilets did not work, so residents bathed from buckets in their rooms and used a nearby bush, grimly nicknamed Block Eleven, as an open-air latrine. On my first day, while avoiding the humiliating initiation rituals imposed on newcomers, I followed other students through that bush. It felt like walking through an open sewer. I apologise for the unpleasant image, but those were the conditions in which students lived.