By the time I saw him, I guess he was more of a body in the road. It was 5:30 am. Still dark on a Sunday morning. I had just dropped Christian off at the airport. The roads were clear and the ride there had been without incident. Well, except for an odd little skirmish between two drivers. We'd come upon them having a meltdown of some sort. Though there were 4 lanes- 2 in each direction- one of the cars was on the wrong side of the road. The other, a small van, was preventing the car from returning to the correct lane. Every time the car sped up or slowed down, the van followed suit. I kept my distance from the two, uncertain what exactly was transpiring between them and how long it had been going on.
Four a.m. is an odd hour to be out in Kinshasa. While traffic is thin, most of what is out there are people still finishing off their night. It means they are well intoxicated and full of whatever ambiance they've just left behind at the club. We were a considerable distance from the city center however and so I couldn't really tell when or where the dispute had begun. A car crept up behind us and seemed to sense the good reason of our strategy. He also stayed far behind. The two dragsters sped off into the distance.
We came upon them again, pulled over to the side of the road. The car who'd been following us had begun to pass us and then swerved over into the lane of oncoming traffic- empty now. I did the same as we passed the odd couple, figuring it best to take no chances. Leaving the two behind to sort out their differences, we continued on to the airport without further excitement.
Ndjili was quiet and we easily made our way inside to pay the fees and taxes and check the bags. Then it was that time.....the time to enter where only ticketed passengers can go. Christian and I said our goodbyes and I made my way back to the car. Kinshasa already looked different to me without him.
The sun had not yet risen from its slumber as I made my way back to Kintambo. Sunday mornings are a jogging morning and I'd remarked on more than one occasion the number of joggers that gather together for the early morning run. The closer to the airport you get, the more you encounter until it is a steady mass of people, many jogging in the median- a practice I have never quite understood but vaguely sense to be a bit safer than trying to make your way down the nonexistent sidelines.
The joggers run facing traffic and many can also be found wearing karate uniforms, doing the random boxing move and other exercises. I drove through the darkness keeping my eyes alert. At one point, as I crossed a small bridge, the number of people crowded on each side of the road left only a narrow passageway for the cars and taxi buses to pass through. Here the people had assembled to perform a variety of exercises including a jumping twist turn and squat thrusts and whatever else you might imagine training athletes doing. They were a mixed group of people, young and old, boys, men, and women. All getting their early morning work out in.
I'd just passed the bridge and the throngs of people when I saw him. The exercisers were beginning to thin out, being replaced now by the vendors and those on their way to church. The road opened up but the sides were still filled with people. Some random groups of joggers ran down the middle of the road next to the cement divider. And there he lay in the middle of the 8 lane highway. A young boy.
I can't remember if I swerved to avoid him or if I was already in the lane just able to pass him. My mind first tried to understand what it was in the middle of the road and then to make sense of it. An impossibility. It's a person. A boy. Sleeping. Not in the middle of this kind of road. This huge highway of road that is filled with taxi buses and cars racing through it. Not this road that would, in an hour or so I knew, be completely overflowing with traffic and pedestrians and vendors and police.
But still, sleeping seemed to be the best my mind could do at the moment. Because life was going on all around us. Women were carrying bowls of bread to be sold, people waited for taxis- a big crowd of people was waiting for taxis to my right and to my left, just on the other side of the cement median, guys were jogging by. Heck, someone was crossing the road on foot. Surely they all saw him there. He must have been hit- except there were no crowds of angry, yelling people, as accidents normally draw. There was no car stopped anywhere in sight. Just the morning darkness and this boy in the road.
And me driving by, leaving him behind as everyone else had done. I thought about what I could do, what I should do. I couldn't really come up with anything. There is no 911. There's no police or ambulance to call. By stopping, I would immediately implicate myself in the accident and become a source of blame requiring some monetary intervention. What I wish I'd done was stop at the crowd and inquire. Ask someone- do you see that boy? what is happening? Because even now, I can't stop seeing him and wondering.
At that moment, Christian happened to call. I might have been able to continue driving in my stupefied state if he hadn't called just then. As it was, I burst into tears. He became immediately alarmed and had to call me back two more times to make sure it wasn't I who had hit someone. By then, I'd pulled off the road, the confusion swirling through my mind to such a degree I could no longer talk and drive. I'd already missed my turn.
"A small boy," I told him, "just there in the middle of the road. And no one was doing anything about it." Even me, I added to myself tempted to go back. To be sure I saw what I thought. To try and make something happen. Christian offered solace but told me to go home. Keep driving, just go home. The only sensible advice in a country like this- where the best intentions always lead down the path of the worst consequences.
The sun was beginning to rise and I continued on my way, thankful that the daylight meant no one would accidentally run over his body in the cover of darkness. The light would compel the passersby and the police to take some action. Too late, surely, but action nonetheless.
And me? What of my action? My responsibility? I took it all as another sign that it is time to get out of this country. Before I really begin to detest the person I am becoming. Upon arriving home I did the only thing I can think to do. Packed up all our old shoes and the boys old clothes and set off to find my groups of street kids. Because it could have been any one of them out there, in the middle of the road with no one to care and no one to stop. Its a useless action. It doesn't do anything to make me feel better about what I saw or how I responded. I'm haunted by the boy in the road.
