A Look into My Life — Chapter Ten

Purely on faith, Mother sent me to Kinshasa to apply for a South African study permit. She had almost no money left, but no one was more determined to get me out of the country. Perhaps she believed that distance would also give us relief from each other. Certain dates remain engraved in the mind without effort: one's birthday, the day one leaves home, the day one leaves one's country and the day one loses one's mother. The last of these still feels as though a hot iron were pressed against my heart.

Mother and I quarrelled over almost nothing on the day I left for Kinshasa. She had told me to be ready by eleven, yet she only arrived around noon. The delay and lack of communication made me irrationally suspect that she was sabotaging the journey. We travelled to the airport in angry silence. She barked instructions at me because I had never flown and did not understand the procedure. The whole time I waited to board, I sat by myself in a huge room filled with strangers. She briefly appeared when boarding time came, coldly shook my hand and walked away. I stood there, stunned, watching other families kissing and hugging all around me. I turned and boarded.

The aeroplane disappointed me immediately. We had used the cheapest flight, operated by a company called CAA. It was much smaller, darker and more crowded than the elegant aircrafts I had seen in movies and magazines. I thought I was inside a fula-fula, those impossibly crowded buses we see in Kinshasa. A beautiful woman sat beside me. As soon as we took off, I began missing home. I was going to an uncle I did not really know, whom I had only seen once or twice in my life, and would be surrounded by the same people I did not like. I realised that I was leaving everything I had ever known, both good and bad. More painfully, I felt that Mother and I had wasted our years together tearing at each other instead of loving one another. I wanted to repair everything, but I was already in the air.

The little aircraft felt unstable and repeatedly seemed to drop. Each time, I clutched the armrests and wondered whether we were falling from the sky. The woman beside me noticed my fear and kindly talked to me until we reached Kinshasa late that night.

I sensed the capital's size as soon as I left the aircraft. The ground seemed to vibrate with activity. People appeared quicker, sharper and less trustworthy than those in Lubumbashi. Aunt Toto and several distant cousins collected me and spoke condescendingly to me as someone from a provincial town. My unfortunate reputation had arrived before I did.

I sensed that my relatives were thinking, “At last the little brat will learn what it means to live away from home.” Nostalgia struck immediately. Kinshasa felt foreign, forward and slightly shifty. The city was buzzing with activity.  Lingala sounded less refined to my Kiswahili-trained ear, although I admired the way passengers greeted everyone when entering public transport. People did not greet in Lubumbashi. The culture here shocked me. People ate outside, literally; whole meals, including breakfast, was sold at the sides of the roads, and neatly dressed people stopped to buy and sat on small seats to enjoy. In Lubumbashi, eating publicly could be regarded as undignified. Kinois seemed freer and determined to live fully despite difficult circumstances.

A few days after my arrival, a cousin with whom I had a hostile history arrived. He immediately pulled me to the side and asked why I had attempted suicide. I tried to dismiss the subject, but he called me a coward and insisted that death was the easy escape. I wanted to strike him, yet I was far from home and had no private refuge in which to recover from another battle. I shared a room with four other cousins and felt constantly exposed. I listened until he exhausted his stored resentment, then withdrew. The encounter made me regret the quarrels and scandals of my past, but regret could not change them. All I could do was look towards the future and hope that my permit arrived before Kinshasa swallowed me completely.

Communication with Mother remained difficult. Our telephone calls quickly became arguments, and she disconnected at the first sign of a tantrum. Meanwhile, her half-brother introduced me to a woman who arranged visas for his company. She was beautiful, capable-looking and drove a pick-up truck, which impressed me enormously. I became so enchanted by her confidence that I overlooked signs that she might not be intelligent. Together, we drove to the South African Embassy.

At the South African Embassy, the officials examined our paperwork and stared at the woman helping me as though she had lost her mind. She had completed forms for the French Embassy. They handed us the correct application and a long list of requirements. We needed proof of funds, a medical certificate from an expensive private hospital, an acceptance letter from a South African institution, an invitation and a 600-dollar guarantee. The helpful woman returned to her regular work, leaving me to continue alone. I realised that I might remain in Kinshasa far longer than planned.

Mother seemed to be enjoying a deserved break from her difficult child. Relatives prepared to celebrate her fiftieth birthday, and I learnt about the party from an aunt rather than from Mother herself. The distance I had once desired now felt like abandonment. Mother preferred to receive news about my application through my aunt Toto, while I wanted her to speak directly to me about my own life. Twice a week, I visited the embassy or gathered documents. At other times, I sat in the house with little to read and little worth watching on television. As the permit became increasingly improbable, I considered abandoning South Africa and applying to the University of Kinshasa.

I divided my time between Uncle Laurent's home and occasional weekends with Uncle Louis, a gentle pastor who treated Mother more as a parent than a sister. He did not judge me harshly and invited me into his crowded church apartment. During long walks, I grew to appreciate Kinshasa's relentless hustle. The streets overflowed with fruit sellers, breakfast vendors, clothes merchants, currency traders and crooks. I learnt a little Lingala but relied mostly on French. Each evening I walked farther and stayed out later. I loved the anonymity of darkness and the way it concealed whatever I disliked about myself. Yet the quiet also left me alone with my anger. I resented Mother's silence and the way other people planned my future over my head, while simultaneously feeling glad that she was enjoying her birthday and was not alone. My walks became as bitter as they were sweet.

Eventually, I gathered the required documents. Uncle Laurent provided bank statements, I completed the medical examinations, wrote a letter promising to support myself and obtained the 600-dollar guarantee through my aunt and Mother. By then, the embassy staff recognised me from my repeated unsuccessful visits. When they finally accepted the application and issued a receipt, it felt like a small victory. Even my uncle and aunt seemed relieved that I might soon be out of everybody's hair.

I returned to the embassy twice a week until, after what felt like an eternity, the study permit was granted. My passport felt warm in my pocket, as though the visa had just emerged from an oven. I clutched it while walking, afraid it might disappear. I had succeeded where others expected failure, and I was proud that I would enter South Africa legally rather than cross the border in secret. I revisited familiar streets to bid them goodbye. My aunt examined the permit from every angle, trying to establish whether it was genuine, but I could see that she was pleased for me. For a few days before departure, I walked on a cloud.