A Look into My Life — Chapter Seven

We heard of Laurent Kabila's rapid progress through the country as his forces defeated Mobutu's army province after province. At first, I did not believe he would reach Lubumbashi. Mobutu, the only president I had ever known, seemed all-powerful. Although he had plunged a beautiful and wealthy country into unspeakable misery, I still viewed the presidency romantically and initially supported him. Then, while visiting Mathy in Katuba, I saw Kabila on television for the first time. His appearance startled me, yet his broad, inviting smile fascinated me. He seemed approachable, almost ordinary, and walked close to the people, unlike the distant and aristocratic Mobutu. I began supporting his cause, although the uncertainty he represented still frightened me. As his forces approached Lubumbashi, events accelerated.

One morning, all the pupils from Kipushi, a town about thirty kilometres away, failed to arrive at school. We exchanged grim, knowing looks. Kipushi had been taken. War was now knocking at our door with its threat of violence, destruction and death. Shortly after seven, the headmistress rang the bell twice. She normally rang it once to assemble us, but two rings meant that we had to leave immediately. We clustered together, taking comfort in one another. Our class had become a kind of family, and we knew that after parting we might never meet again. As I was anxiously walking home, I noticed that people lined the Kilela Balanda road, excitedly talking as though they were awaiting a parade rather than an approaching army. At home, Mother was filling every available container with water. She sent me to buy candles and matches because people said that electricity and water always failed during fighting. Then we locked ourselves inside and waited.

For two days, fighting raged outside the city. The electricity and water remained on, so we followed events on Radio France Internationale (RFI) while the local broadcaster continued announcing imaginary victories for Mobutu. His special forces defended Lubumbashi desperately and, for a moment, almost heroically. They continued until defeat became undeniable, then abandoned their weapons and uniforms and fled into the city with Kabila's soldiers behind them. Even while artillery sounded and occasional bullets flew, people poured into the streets to welcome the newcomers. Suffering had made them fearless. It was clear that Kabila was the instrument, but the population itself had rejected Mobutu.

When RFI confirmed that Mobutu had lost Lubumbashi, Mother and I thanked God. Nobody we knew had died, no aircraft had bombed our neighbourhood and destruction had been limited. Although we barely spoke, the danger drew us closer. We lived alone and understood how easily we might have lost each other. Rumour said Kabila had deliberately kept most of the fighting outside the city to protect civilians. Whether or not that was true, the relatively peaceful capture made us admire him even more.

That evening, the city became quiet and eerie. We pressed our ears to the little radio, hungry for news and apprehensive about life after Mobutu. After sunset, unfamiliar official voices announced a transitional government and urged everyone to remain calm. The worst seemed over, although fighting continued near the airport throughout the night. Gradually, we settled into the new order while Kabila continued towards Kinshasa, the capital.

After the war, I realised that my school shoes were falling apart. I was now a teenager, intensely concerned with how I looked. I wanted to impress girls and gain the approval of my peers. Our uniforms were identical, but wealthier pupils distinguished themselves through fabric and footwear. Their white shirts were whiter, their shoes expensive, their skin glowing and their bodies well fed. The mandatory uniform only demonstrated that rich and poor did not look the same, even when draped with the same cloth.

I was clean and reasonably presentable, but my shoes betrayed me.

The sole had begun separating before the war. I stitched it back with a shoemaker's needle, but walking to school quickly tore it loose again. Each repair enlarged the old holes until the right sole hung by a thread and changed the way I walked.

I dreaded being called to the blackboard because everyone would see my shoes. I especially dreaded the teacher who taught Mathematics, for he usually covered the board with excercises, and expected each one of us, one by one, to go to the "estrade" and solve them. This gave me so much anxiety that I could not focus on school work, but rather spent that time praying that the bell would ring and signal the end of the lesson. Inevitably, the teacher summoned me to the front. I dragged myself forward, feeling forty-eight pairs of compassionate eyes following me. By then, we were teenagers, and my classmates were mostly kind, but their pity hurt more than mockery.

The next day, I refused to attend school. Mother understood my shame but could not accept my absence. She ordered, shouted and pleaded. I replied that I would return when she bought me shoes. She had only ten dollars, reserved for the church's rent. I suggested that she use it. She refused, and I announced that I would wait for her next salary.

A week passed. One evening, Mother confronted me on the veranda and again ordered me to attend school. Something in her eyes had changed. When I repeated my refusal, she slapped me. She rarely used physical punishment, and I was already much taller than she was. Shock and indignation blinded me. I ran out of the yard and walked for three hours while gunfire cracked through the night (after the war, we still heard gunfire going off throughout the city, I am sure if pockets of fighting still went on). I felt no fear, only rage. She did not have to wear my shoes or face the pupils, I thought. I had endured unpaid fees, missing books and walks through heavy rain without an umbrella. At the time, I failed to recognise that her insistence came from love and concern for my future. Shortly after midnight, I reached my aunt's house in Katuba, where Mathy lived.

Katuba was a poor, densely populated part of Lubumbashi. Many homes, including my aunt's, had no electricity, and only the main streets were tarred. Indoor toilets were rare. Families used simple backyard privies that also served as showers, often screening the entrance with a cloth secured by bricks.

Yet Katuba was vibrant. Children organised singing and dancing competitions, neighbours chatted across low hedges, and the large market came alive beneath countless oil lamps. Vendors shouted or sang to attract customers, and laughter was never far away. At dusk, dust rose from the crowded streets and gave the neighbourhood an almost magical haze.

By the time I arrived that night, everyone was asleep. The streets were completely dark, and gunfire still sounded in the distance. A dog lay across my aunt's doorway. Since there was no gate and I was terrified of dogs, I stood at a cautious distance and shouted Mathy's name.

My calls woke several dogs, including the one at the door. It barked but did not charge. I continued shouting, my voice trembling at the thought of sleeping outside. At last Mathy opened the door, still half asleep and apparently unsure whether I was real.

“Itcho?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes,” I replied, almost weak with relief.

Knowing my fear of dogs, she came to me, took my hand and led me inside.

I remained in Katuba for two days while Mother searched frantically among relatives and friends. When she finally found me at Grandmother's house, she looked broken. She smiled sadly, apologising without words for striking me. At the time, I felt vindicated, almost triumphant that I had brought such a strong woman to her knees. Today that victory leaves a bitter taste. Mother apologised and humbly asked me to return home. I wish I had responded with greater compassion, respect and love.

We did not return together. Mother went ahead, and Mathy accompanied me later. The following morning, the argument resumed because I still had no wearable shoes. Mother again expected me to attend school. I felt exhausted by what I regarded as a mediocre life and by everything I lacked: a father, decent clothes, television and emotional warmth. Usually I shouted back, but that morning I said nothing and walked away. My silence alarmed her. She followed me and found me preparing to drink water mixed with what we called carbide, a white substance used to repel snakes and believed to be poisonous. When mixed with water, it hissed, smoked and released a powerful smell. I was sixteen, furious and desperate. Part of me wanted to die; another part hoped someone would stop me. Mother screamed and knocked the cup from my hands. That same day, she found money for new shoes.

I was delighted with my new shoes. They were purple and black, shiny and wonderfully flamboyant, but also cheap and thin as paper. After only two days at school, they began falling apart. I tried to stitch them, but they were beyond saving.

Mother had borrowed money from Mrs Marie-Michelle to buy them, so I hid the damage. One afternoon, Mother took me to town for a reason I can't remember. we ran into Mrs Marie-Michelle. Mother called out warmly and asked me to thank her. I did so while praying that neither woman would look down.

They both did.

Mother's face hardened. In the middle of town, in front of Mrs Marie-Michelle, she severely reprimanded me, and accused me of destroying the shoes deliberately so that I could demand another pair. She repeatedly called me a bad child as passers-by slowed to watch. I felt crushed by the injustice and humiliated by the public spectacle. I was the one who had to walk in those shoes, so why would I intentionally ruin them?

Rather than argue before an audience, I turned and quickly walked away, seething and once again vowing never to speak to her. 

After Mother was paid, she bought me a solid pair of second-hand shoes. They smelt new, looked new and transformed my appearance. I no longer feared walking to the blackboard, especially when girls were watching. I cherished them.

One public holiday, my cousin Odilon visited. Mother had to go to work. I asked her if we could harvest the beans from the garden and boil them, but she told us to wait because they were not ripe. We were hungry. Five minutes after she left, we went to the garden, picked and boiled them anyway.

While we were outside, someone entered the house and stole my beloved shoes. I discovered the loss that evening; I sat down crying. My mother was livid with anger and ordered us to search the whole house. Odilon searched harder than anyone, perhaps because he feared suspicion. To my shame, I did briefly suspect him. The coincidence felt too neat. He left sadly the following day, probably regretting his visit.

Afterwards, small items continued disappearing from the house: cutlery, clothes, towels and food. Our house was vulnerable. Goats had opened gaps in the hedge, one interval between the veranda bars was unusually wide, and a broken pane allowed someone who knew the house to reach through and release the fork that fastened a door from inside.

I concluded that the thief had once lived with us. One morning, while Mother was at work, I locked the doors and hid in my bedroom, pretending that the house was empty. Within an hour, I heard scratching inside the veranda, followed by the fork striking the floor.

I ran to the door and came face to face with my cousin Odon, now a street child. We were the same age, and I did not fear him. We had fought before; although one year my senior, I was stronger. I ordered him out, and he left. Poor child... my heart breaks when I think of him, young, orphaned, homeless. I will, maybe one day, write his story, his losses, his suffering. He is still alive, we communicate regularly. Not that I am comparing, but his suffering was far greater than mine. All our parents have died, and he and I have done our best to have a second go at love.