The Bread Scene 30. 11. 08 8:53 pm
Last night we went with our neighbors to see their son in his debut performance. He is 14 years old and has been taking sax lessons with an accomplished saxophonist. The evening was pleasant, if you don’t count Nabih’s wild side. He was very overtired and it tends to have the opposite effect. Mohamed, on the other hand, stuffed himself to exhaustion and practically fell asleep in his chair. I did notice his smile however, which revealed his dimple and lit his eyes in pure joy. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen him so free.
The music was a fun mix of American and Congolese, with a special highlight including a jingle for “Comfort,” a feminine product marketed here in Kinshasa. Apparently the saxophonist had written it, and it was being produced by our neighbor. I was introduced briefly to a minister of some sort, (political not theological) but honestly, it didn’t really mean much to me (clearly, it was supposed to.) I haven’t yet figured out all the titles or how the government works exactly (running on the Parliament system here.) The most ironic was listening to La Bamba- a Spanish song in an African restaurant that moved everyone to sing the chorus. The band members gave everything over to the student, really offering a chance for him to shine in the spotlight. While the boy was capable and even talented, I eventually came to the conclusion that perhaps there was more to this than just a simple performance.
Our neighbors are good people and I generally have a good time when we go out together, though I undoubtedly end up feeling like the peasant farmer (I’m trying to see the charm in peasant farming…) They are on the wealthier end of the spectrum and dazzle with class and fashion. They seem to have a sweet marriage, a true partnership and a wonderful way of making me feel completely comfortable. It is always an experience.
On the way home, they decided to stop for bread. I frequently feel, when riding in this car, like I am part of a Nascar test drive. That is, I feel I’m in the hands of a professional driver in every sense of the term. We were speeding down the road in a frantic rush of freedom, as the traffic had just let up, when I felt the car (violently?) swerve to the side of the road where a troupe of women walked with bags of bread.
The air inside the car became quiet as even the children were entranced by the sight. Outside the air was a fury of insistence that would put the most profitable Florida car salesman to shame. It seemed as if hundreds of women materialized, all shoving their bags of bread against the window and even into the car itself. She turned on the interior light and calmly searched for some francs. This is the kind of scene that would leave me feeling rushed and confused. But she took time to turn back and ask if I would also like some bread, unfazed by mounting vehemence outside.
The women were calmed by a word or two in Lingala and the scene ended with laughter, cheers and well wishes. She always gets the best deal and speaking Lingala goes a long way in obtaining that. It is easy to see they delight in these small exchanges, impressing the Congolese with their knowledge of local language, bridging the gap and creating the social connection. It is a necessity for the long term. She smiles back and explains how there is a bakery near by which practically guarantees a fresh loaf.
We zoom off again and I am lost in the darkness of the night sky, punctured only by the occasional roadside candlelight. I think of one of the walks I took with Nabih outside the restaurant. It was surrounded by a school and a medical centre. The school posted a sign on the gate offering employment. I wondered what it would be like to live and work in such a place, surrounded by life.
