Zyphera

I don’t know. I wake up, and I do not know.

My first thoughts in the morning are confusing. Like the morning mist on Lake Kivu, a cloud of billions of tiny droplets pollutes my brain. Because when we start the day here, we never know. We do not know if we will have electricity, or if we will have running water. So, we do not know if we can take a shower. We do not know if the phone network is working. We do not know if someone will shoot today. Do you know if you are going to hear gunfire today? Maybe people will die. This…we know every day. Maybe tonight we will be in Kigali?

And I planned a lot of stuff to do today. Yep… we have to plan for the unpredictable. Anyway, that is my strategy. I plan everything, even though I know in advance that nothing will happen as planned. Maybe the road will be blocked, so we’ll stay downtown. Maybe we will be stuck on the road: a demonstration, a flat tire, or simply a quagmire. Yeah… that’s it: a quagmire! A word we don’t often use back home. Here, it works for two things: cars and alcohol. When your car is submerged in mud or your brain is submerged in alcohol, you’re stuck!

See… today I woke up at 5:30 am to go running and then go early to the hospital. But because of yesterday’s rain, there is too much mud to run. My spare tire is deflated, and I’ll not take the risk of hitting the road without a spare. So, I called a taxi driver. Today, it’s good: the network is working. That’s right: today, I’m lucky! I do not know what game you’re playing! I’ll tell you one thing: back home, something bad happens occasionally. Here, we call happiness—even when it’s thin—a stroke of luck… because it doesn’t happen often.

So, I leave Muhumba. You know, your Muhumba is a little Beverly Hills of the city. Classy… we have everything—meaning water and electricity. Okay… not all the time, but enough to save some. I know we are the rich people in the city, locked away and staring at each other. Shit… we wouldn’t want the neighbors’ poverty to affect us. It’s a little business district with the INGOs and the United Nations offices. So, I leave Muhumba. Then… I don’t know! I didn’t know there was construction work on the road to the hospital. We make a detour from Independence Square to Industrial, then Kadutu, and then we find our way back to the hospital road. Some have heard these names… few have actually navigated them! Your roads tire me.

We narrowly miss crushing a dozen kids wandering on the street. I don’t know. They seem to be skating as they slide through the mud. I’m tired of seeing people walk in the mud. And all these old, small women, moving like ants, carrying twice their own weight on their backs. It makes me think I should buy you shoes. In short, it sickens me. I feel like throwing up when I smell your misery. Because your misery smells, you know that? Even my housemaid smells of misery. My roommate asked him to take a shower. They bother me, these “expats.” You know, those white people: your pimps. Yeah, I know I’m white too. I don’t want to see them anymore. I can’t. It is beyond my control. Maybe I’m racist or jealous… I don’t know.

Dozens of trucks are delivering bread, cassava, and Primus beer. Some trucks, I’d rather not even know what is inside. Tell me: what are you hiding? Damn… yesterday was the fourth time I’ve been stopped by police officers in a week. Well… I have a new car. Maybe they think that “I have eaten,” as they say. Here, we don’t spend money: we eat it. I’m tired of wasting time with these idiots. Alright, this time I was actually wrong. The car’s insurance had expired. So I said, « Okay, I’m going to the police station to sort it out. » But when the officer recognized me, he apologized for disturbing me. For once, he had actually done his job properly!

Between big white 4x4s, motorcycles, and hundreds of pedestrians, I cross the city in the taxi. The rear trunk plays like castanets to the rhythm of the rocks and potholes in the road. The car slips on the mud. I’m not even afraid. At first, I was afraid of you; I thought my heart would stop. But finally: since we don’t know what we will die from, it’s better not to die out of fear… that would be a shame! But it bothers me: this misery, these white expats, and your children.

You make me tired, Congo. I hate you and I love you with an unexplainable love. You have reserved so many surprises for me: good and bad. Especially fears. I’ve never felt so stressed, so enthusiastic, so disappointed, angry, and excited. You made me wait hours and months before giving me any satisfaction. What’s more… I paid. An expensive price: my best years, my family, my health. Prostitute! Right, you’re a bitch, actually. Like all whores, you sell yourself. And it is because you do not respect yourself that others do not respect you. And yet, I love a whore. Shit… how did you do that? I wanted to give everything so you could become a respectable woman.

At the end of the road, I find Doc. The « M.D., » as they say. There, perched on a hill. A future Nobel Peace Prize winner, they say. Are you going to tell me that he is the good surprise? Certainly. Please, don’t tell me he’s the only one. Because there… it’s not a surprise; it’s a miracle.

You see, between Muhumba and Panzi, Baraka and Uvira, and Shabunda Kilembwe… I’ve watched you. In fact, you’re not shy… just complicated. These muzungus… they say that Kinshasa is not you… Bukavu is not you…. they say the real Congo is Bunyakiri, Mbuji-Mayi, Lulingu. Yeah… that’s what they want from you, Congo: they want all your faces to look like violence, misery, ignorance, and isolation… and then it must be sexy, too! You see, like the flaming, moist, deep forest. It looks beautiful in their pictures! I told you, you’re a whore to them.

But you have a thousand faces, and they are all yours.

You’re too complicated, Congo. It makes me tired. See, I tried a hundred solutions to your problems… and every time, you do the same thing to me! You make me believe it will work, and just when I do, you let me down! I don’t want any other. I wanted to be different in your eyes. I’ve listened to you and followed you, even when I didn’t agree. Then I tried to compromise. I’ve even forced things when necessary, as one does with a child who is too oblivious to danger. By the way… what are you, exactly? A whore or a child? I’m speaking harshly to you, eh? I wouldn’t look you in the eye if you had them. I told you: I paid. And what do you give me back? I wanted you, Congo. I have a right to happiness. I will be happy when you are happy, Congo. I don’t know. I don’t even know why I love you. You see, with my words, I reject you… and then you take me back! Maybe if I pull the elastic too hard, it will snap back on me. I left you twice. A single call, and presto, I was back again. I didn’t even take the time to forgive you. Like a teenager with a broken heart, I fell back into your arms, too happy that you wanted me again. And then, I trusted you again.

I still love you, even more. See… I speak badly just to tease you. Because now I know who you are. You do not impress me anymore, I’m not afraid anymore, and I don’t admire you anymore. I know your exact value. In fact, this is love: to love you for what you are, even if I don’t like everything, even if I don’t admire you, even if you don’t excite me. That’s all I know.

I wake up in the morning. There are two things I know: one is that I do not know, and the other is that I love you. This time, it will be by my rules. I will take some distance to observe you. I need a rest from your condition, and you… you have enough suitors waiting for you. Don’t worry, you and me, we are something. Many people think that you are lazy, childish, irresponsible… and a victim. I know you’re not. You’re more than that. So here we are! I am leaving you for a little while. Let’s say we’re taking a break. I’ll still visit you. From where I’ll be, I will work for you and for all the others. Maybe I will open a brothel. Come on… Congo, I’m just teasing you! And notice that I’m speaking to you better now!

Because people don’t respect you, I’ll show them who you are. I will teach them respect! You know, don’t misunderstand: your pimps are no happier than you are, Congo. But they don’t show it. If they did… you wouldn’t be afraid anymore. If they did, you would be the one managing their brothel. Don’t worry, Congo: I’ll build you a new house, in a nice neighborhood. Then you will raise your children in joy and peace. When you finally settle, I will guard the door, just as you have guarded mine over the years.