I admit to being a pseudo-blogger. This means that I blog when the mood strikes, and therefore, may end up with news that's not exactly up to the minute. I generally require some time to mull over an idea before I am ready to stumble off to my blog and share my thoughts. Of course, having time to extricate these thoughts requires pulling down one mask at the forfeiture of others (the mommy, teacher, housekeeper ones.)
But I have returned time and again to this particular concept (another requirement of blogging material. It must haunt me to a certain degree before I can commit written word to it.) I am stuck at a bit of a cliche, but as with most cliches, it is accurate if not a bit overtired. Because sometimes there really is no other way to describe Kinshasa except as the Wild West.
It ends with this story in which the son of
There were a few days of comments and postings flying around Facebook before attention turned again to other politics. But, as I've mentioned, I have remained somewhat haunted by this. And somewhat puzzled by the reaction. After all, it seems like the way business is done here in Kin- not just for the elite, but in this case, lack of responsisbility seems the status quo for all, economic standing aside. (An ironic bit of equality.)
I can now say that I have witnessed several car accidents here in Kinshasa and, unrelated, have at least 4 African hospital experiences under my belt. While different in mannerisms, quality of care and cleanliness, there are a few aspects that remain constant. One does not begin to receive any service until money has crossed hands. This might be difficult to do if you have had the ultimate misfortune to be knocked unconscious by your accident.
It appears Kazadi's accident was graced with the presence of angels. After having been knocked off his motorcycle and thrown to the pavement, he was picked up by a passing military general and spirited away to the closest hospital. The driver sped away in his drunken state. Apparently he was stopped by the military down the road where he admitted to being drunk and then ran away from his vehicle. Both the vehicle (from a prominent NGO) and the motorcycle were taken into the military compound and kept there.
My involvement in the chain of events is surreal. Once I heard about the accident (another timing from fate) I went directly to the hospital where I heard he was taken. It turned out to be a military hospital where no foreigners were allowed to enter. I stayed in the car by the iron barrier while the driver went up ahead- on foot. He returned a few minutes later with a doctor who updated me on Kazadi's condition. In the middle of the road we had a discussion about the need to transfer him to another hospital where he might receive a brain scan, some stitches to his face and further medical care. They actually contemplated having him walk down to the car so we could transport him. In my dream like state I let them know that was a ludicrous idea (was this really only apparent to me?) I told the driver to go ahead and pick up Kazadi with the car while I waited outside. "Are you sure? Here with the military?" What could be safer than a mondele in the dark surrounded by soldiers armed with AK's?
The driver returned with a bashed and bloody passenger who was barely coherent. We raced down to the local clinic, who told us he needed to be transferred to yet another hospital. Off we went. When we finally arrived, I was in a bit of a panic. It is easy for the Western mind - full of basic first aid and driver's ed horror stories- to imagine the damage resulting from delayed medical care. Kazadi was taken to a triage bed......and he laid down. The sheets turned from white to red as we waited. Nurses and doctors came in and out, asking mundane questions and one even seemed to become a bit impatient with the lack of response. "He won't talk to me," she said to me in a petulant voice. This is the part where the fog gathers and begins to descend.
I sat outside breathing deep, pacing and wondering when someone was going to get around to addressing his wounds. When the magical question of payment arose, I assured them that all I had to do was run down to the ATM and get the money. "Don't wait for me to return. Just start doing something. Call the scanner technician- I'm coming." I tried fervently to incite some action. I left Kazadi on the bed weaving in and out of consciousness as I rode off in search of cash.
They did send the ambulance out to retrieve the technician- a hopeful sign. And I got to sit in while the scan was taking place- more than would have happened in a Western hospital for sure. The technician explained all the images I was seeing on the screen- assuring me there had been no injury to the brain or skull. But I remain appalled at the amount of time that passed between being hit by the car and getting his cheek sewn up (a good four hours or more- most of which were spent in a hospital bed.) Of course, I am not a medical person. (Much of my deep breathing was done in the squatting position to relieve the dizziness and nausea that constantly threatened to overtake me. I don't really do open wounds to the head so well.) Maybe its normal to wait and see if the person is going to live before wasting thread on stitching him up?
But this is my 4th African hospital. I am not going to say I am used to this, but I am aware of the pace of life here. "urgent" is always spelled with a lower case u.
More bizarre was the conversation I had the following day. I went in search of the motorcycle and the criminal. The military had kept the registration documents, though had released the vehicle to the administrator of the NGO. I still couldn't really figure out how the chauffeur had gotten away, especially since he admitted to the military that he had been drinking (in reality, the military are not the police and I suppose there is an element of jurisdiction here....one of those practices of law and order that seems to defy all other rules of order. It's always a challenge to determine which rules exist to be followed and which are there simply to be ignored.)
The administrator called me later that day and we made arrangements to meet. Our conversation is striking for the words that were missing as much for those they held. There were no apologies, no condolences, no assurances that one would be fired, turned in to authorities or in anyway reprimanded. I was told that all medical bills would be paid for and that the bike would be reimbursed. (One grace of getting hit by an NGO. At least there would be money to cover these things.) In saying goodbye, we walked toward the gate. He turned to me and said, "You know, accidents are like this. In Goma, 4 people were killed. In Rwanda, 2 people were killed....."
No, no, no, I wanted to scream. Accidents were not like this. If people didn't drink and drive, if people stayed on one side of the road instead of two, if people exercised patience and caution instead of recklessness and speed.....most accidents are preventable. But Kinshasa has a way of lifting me into that surreal plane where the twists and turns of people's words leave me in a bewildered state of speechlessness as I try to follow the winding path of their logic.
There has never been one word about social justice. It was all about monetary compensation. Which is perhaps a bit better than what has happened in the case of Yann Boshab. Perhaps there have been talks about money exchanging hands. I was told that the fact that the NGO readily accepted to pay meant they knew the driver was at fault. And so, despite the witnesses, videos and photo accounts in the Boshab case, offering to pay the families might be an acquiescence of guilt the families are not prepared to make.
The two accidents are miles apart in their brutality, consequences to human life and disregard for reparations. But that is by nothing more than the grace of God. Both drivers were drunk, both drivers fled the scene (one with the help of the police, the other with the nonchalance of the military) and, it appears that neither driver has suffered any legal consequence. One chauffeur may have lost some days pay- perhaps his job-and be wondering how he will feed his family. The other driver is surely comfortably cushioned by the wealth of his family. But the overall message remains consistent. Both drivers are free to drink, drive and injure or kill again.
