5 to 7 million was the number I had been looking for. Apparently no one really knows how many people live in Kinshasa, sprawling as it is, desparate and uncountable thousands living in cramped and unknowable conditions. Professor Nlandu writes an accurate and intriguing account of the city's urban and suburban counterparts and their reaction to the environment they struggle against daily. He writes of the lively and expressive night life (of which I have only heard rumors...) and the role of violence and poverty. It seems a hopeless and dismal situation and he hides nothing. It seemed a fair portrait of a people who have travelled so far to overcome their history, though it might appear a stagnate pace to one ignorant of the journey.
Nlandu writes of a comparison between the urban and suburban dwellers of the city, and so perhaps a bit out of context, but inherently relevant, is his comment,
"Materially poor persons, all of them do 'not have' many things. That is why they should concentrate on the inner strength of their 'being' to retain a feeling of human dignity."
And to think I was just going to write about going out for an ice cream. Because that's what was on my mind. I joined the FB network, initially to try and entice readers here. I've since come to see it is pure expression that keeps this blog rolling and, while readers make me feel validated and even interesting, it is not an essential component for posting. I publish because I must.
FB has become an altogether different kind of outlet, a place for small talk and cryptic messages. Once in awhile, the two collide. Because, as I've written, we are feeling an effort at maintaining our human dignity here. We want simple things like cold cereal and ice cream. It was with determination that I vowed to bring the boys out to the new ice cream shop, even if it cost more than our monthly grocery bill. Just once, we were going to have some fun.
The FB part of me says, yeah, tres kool- great new spot in Kin-city. And it is. New and clean with walls of a deep, purple mauve reminiscent of blackberry ice cream. Silver chrome stools lined up along a counter and mirrored backdrops hanging behind a soft cushioned booth. Pale green chairs and tables complimenting the walls in the way only a sock-hop, cone-shop could. The flat screen TV, however, breaks the innocence with its explicit images of music video lust and illusion. This is Kinshasa, after all.
We enjoyed our cones wrapped in dripping, soggy napkins. The boys wished they could try every flavor and I watched with interest the families and couples that came through the door, eager, like us, to feel something akin to 'normal.' A simple pleasure, a quick treat.
But in Congo, its always more than that. Two worlds collide. Outside the door awaits the ever present security. An impressive guard, this one I saw. Tall, uniformed and active. Very active. The gangs of kids just outside the parking lot, on the small, narrow street band together in their hunger. They take bold steps towards patrons leaving the shop and try to outwit the guard by dividing into teams and flanking opposite sides of the cars. It is not so much the physical need that motivates them but an inner hunger, that seeking for human dignity Nlandu writes of.
It is this agony and desperation, cultivated through no error of their own, that invades my ability to enjoy a quiet evening. It is palpable in the air, vivid in their eyes and screaming in their actions. It is such an overwhelming feeling of unjust and incomprehension. I see it. I hear their silent question repeated so often it unleashes a furious righteousness. Why? Why do they have so much when we have nothing? Why do they eat colorful ice creams and drive away in shiny cars while we tour these streets in mismatched shoes and ragged clothes? Why them and not us?
There's no answer. After our treat, we went to the river. There is a quiet, peaceful place by the embassy residences where many families come to walk, ride bikes and take a casual stroll. It has, again, a feeling of harmony and well being. For the etranger, it is a nostalgic feeling of home, where one could walk safely down a street or let their children loose on tricycles and scooters. The houses are well built and maintained. The roads- impeccable, no sign of erosion in sight.
I do enjoy our walk. I enjoy sitting on the grass and talking with a friend while my boys climb trees and roll down a hill. I enjoy it because I must. It is a break from the constant sense of need that follows me whenever I go beyond the gates. But I cannot stop my own questions from rolling through my mind. I cannot stop my own anger and furious frustration.
If it can be built here, why not everywhere? Why is the suitable only developed for the elite? My mind cries with anguish at the images of an Africa living up to her potential, an Africa built to maintain the human dignity of her people. I can imagine the magnificence of such a place, more difficult to see is the road leading up to it.
Kinshasa the lush and green and plentiful. Well, at least from this perspective.
