‘Do you have plastic buckets?’ I shouted across at one stallholder.
‘Of course, M’sieur! All sizes! All colours! Very fine.’
‘Good,’ I said, triumphantly. ‘I want two. Big red ones.’
Kinshasa at the time was something of a halfway house between the West and the heart of Africa and not yet the hellhole it has since become. If it was pretty rough around the edges, it did have electricity most of the time and running water, which was sometimes clean. It boasted some impressive buildings, stores and shops that actually had stock to sell, as well as truly chaotic traffic. The famous boulevard built by the Belgians along the south bank of the Congo was grand, sweeping and shaded by fine trees, and well-dressed people promenaded along it every evening with something approaching elegance.
We had been invited to swim at the British Embassy pool, a favourite haunt for expatriates at the weekend. The terrace was crowded with white people lounging on sunbeds and sitting around the metal tables while their children splashed and screamed.
‘First time in Kin?’ a man from British American Tobacco asked me, sipping Heineken from the bottle.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Poor old you.’ He gave me the kindly-wise look I soon grew to detest. ‘I’m afraid you’ll find there’s bugger all you can do to help these people. Won’t help themselves, you see? You’ll find out what I mean when you’ve been here as long as I have.’
It struck me as intriguing that a man from a tobacco company was concerned with helping anyone.
‘Going up country, are you?’ a red-faced Scots engineer exclaimed, joining the group. ‘Well, bloody good luck to you is all I can say. It’s dreadful up there in the villages. The whole country is a complete bloody shambles. I don’t know why we bother with it.’
‘Why are you here if you hate it so much?’
‘Dunno. Beats me most of the time. But have you been to Glasgow recently?’
I was later to discover that most people who spoke with such world-weariness of the hardships of the bush never got out of Kinshasa. Quite a few of them never moved further than the security fences of their own compounds.
Even at the time I wasn’t convinced by the knowing glances they exchanged, and the endlessly repeated advice about what you couldn’t do – trust anyone, eat the local food, expect to achieve anything. I hadn’t come to Africa for this.
5
Bath, February 2002
A little before noon on my next free day – a Wednesday – the anonymous silver police car drew up again. The detectives had come to the house this time.
DI O’Reilly had a new companion, Detective Sergeant Nick Chalmers. Nick was taller than Will and slighter and younger. When he spoke it was as if he were measuring the weight of each word.
We decided to go straight to lunch.
‘Someone has clearly handled this killing with great care,’ I said. ‘That may sound like a bizarre way of putting it, but it’s extremely important. It’s also a bit puzzling.’
‘Puzzling? Why?’ Will’s coffee sat untouched before him.
‘Because when body parts are needed as ingredients for muti medicine, there is usually no need for any great precision in their removal. In muti murders, parts are taken from dead bodies, or even while the victim is still alive. Either way, they don’t need to be removed with precision. I know this sounds pretty horrible, but there are even people who believe that the medicine is empowered by the victim’s screams. I know of a case in South Africa where a woman remained alive for more than two hours. They started by slicing off her breasts.’
Will was visibly shaken. I realized that whatever atrocities these men might have encountered in their day-to-day activities, we were now entering a different world.
‘Adam’s neck wound is precise, and it killed him. If this was muti, I would have expected them to start chopping pieces off him while he was still alive, and, when he finally died, to take not only his head but his internal organs and genitalia too.’ I told them I wanted to do some more work on the manner of death, and on his circumcision.
Will agreed, then began toying with his coffee spoon. He shifted in his seat. ‘You probably know that the police sometimes use mediums. To help locate bodies and so on. Not everyone agrees with doing it, but . . . Well, what we want to know is, what would you think of us going to an African witch doctor to see if we could get him to find out who did it? My boss Commander Baker wants to know if you think we should. And, if so, how would we go about it?’
I could see why Will was uncomfortable, imagining how a tabloid newspaper might report such a move. Until that point, I’m not sure I’d understood quite how far they were prepared to go to find justice for this unknown boy.
6
Bolobo, April 1986
‘How are we going to get all our gear in?’ I eyed the Cessna’s under-slung luggage pod, considerably smaller than the average car boot.
‘Yeah, that could be a challenge,’ the pilot said. ‘But don’t worry, anything that doesn’t fit can come up by riverboat.’
‘How long’s that going to take?’
‘Oh, not more than a few weeks.’
In the event, there was only room for a suitcase and a bag in the hold. Everything else – our rice, most of our clothes, many of our books – would meander after us along 300 miles of the River Congo. I had one small victory: I managed to hang on to my red plastic buckets.
The tiny plane bumbled along the potholed tarmac and lifted uncertainly off the ground. Although Sue and I were crammed closely together in the back of the cabin, the din of the engine was so deafening that conversation was virtually impossible.
Within minutes we were out over the vast Malebo Pool. The Pool marks the point at which the river disgorges from a narrow gap in the Bateki Plateau to the north, before being sucked into the rapids below Kinshasa, which we had seen and heard from the Baptist Mission.
To be suspended above the vast landscape of green and silver was both magical and terrifying. As we climbed from pool to plateau, little villages emerged below us, scattered in patches of savannah carved into the endless forest. Sometime later we crossed the Kasai-Kwa River – a major tributary of the Congo that emerges from the copper belt deep in the south. Occasional orange-coloured roads snaked through the thick green vegetation then disappeared, never to emerge again.
After an hour and a half the engine noise dropped and I could make out a village tucked up against a bend in the river as it coiled away towards Mbandaka and the Equator. Some miles inland was a small yellow-brown gash: the airstrip.
Within seconds of landing children appeared from the tall grass. They all laughed and shouted their welcome, but beneath the warmth of their smiles their clothes were torn and stained and their bellies were distended with malnutrition. Lesions and discolorations covered their skin and most were barefoot.
It was my first brush with desperate poverty. The adults among them bore deep horizontal lines across their cheeks, scars which I was to discover meant they belonged to the Bateki tribe. But there was no hostility, and if their eyes were cautious they were also curious and kind.
Before we could be engulfed by the crowd a spluttering Land Rover pulled up, full of local dignitaries and staff from the medical centre. There was just one white man among them. He leapt out of the vehicle almost before it had stopped and came bounding towards us, a bustling character in his forties wearing a hectic shirt of local cotton and a pair of white shorts so incredibly decrepit they were indecent.
‘Welcome to Bolobo!’ He seized our hands. ‘I’m David Masters. I run the medical care around here.’
‘Right,’ I said, slightly dazzled by his manic energy. ‘So you’re effectively . . . my boss?’
‘What?’ he looked distracted. ‘Oh, yes, I suppose so. Technically. But I won’t be around here much.’
I could see that he was already anxious to be gone. David, like the March Hare from Alice in Wonderland, was always in a rush.
And with that he was gone. I’ve no idea how he got back to Bolobo, which was five miles from the airstrip, because there was only one Land Rover and he wasn’t in it. Perhaps he hopped.
By now our Congolese welcoming committee had lined up and was making its stately way towards us.
Papa Eboma led the group. A tall, grey-haired man in his seventies, he was the senior pastor of the church in Bolobo and held the status of village elder. Beside him was Mr Iyeti, the local headmaster and teaching administrator, as beaming and effusive as the pastor was self-effacing.
‘Mr and Mrs Hoskins,’ Papa Eboma began in French, in the courtly manner of African greetings, ‘we thank you for coming to help us, and we hope you will both be very happy among us.’
He went on a little longer in this vein, while the children laughed and chattered and the nurses from the hospital giggled and peered round him to get a better look at us. We stood there dripping in the heat, but I was moved by the small speech. Papa Eboma had gentle, fatherly eyes and a quiet dignity about him. When he had finished, Mr Iyeti added a few words of his own.
As I climbed aboard the shabby Land Rover and the plane buzzed away like an angry hornet, I felt a sudden pang of loneliness.
From here on everything seemed to happen with extraordinary speed. We clattered along a brown rainforest track for a few miles, and all at once we were in Bolobo itself – or so they told us, because the place seemed to have no centre and no street plan. Tin-roofed and thatched houses were dotted among the trees. Groups of men sat in the shade, talking or dozing or drinking. A few exhausted women toiled along the roadside in the blistering heat, carrying on their heads sacks of yams, huge bundles of firewood or enamel dishes of fish or meal.
The Land Rover pulled up and we had our first glimpse of our new home. Set in a red earth clearing, it was a short distance from the main village and looked out over the river, a vast expanse of brown water that I could see flashing in the light between the trees. We had both expected the most primitive accommodation and it was a surprise to discover that the house, constructed as part of the medical centre complex some thirty years before, was relatively substantial. It was brick-built, had a tin roof and even boasted a single glass window in the front – possibly the only one in Bolobo.
The Land Rover could not manage the narrow track to the door, so we offloaded our few bags in the dirt. A noisy throng of helpers gathered to carry them. More villagers flanked the path, rhythmically clapping their hands as we made our way up it. As we reached the house I turned to the chattering crowd.
‘My wife and I have come here to Bolobo to live with you and to learn your customs,’ I said in halting French, feeling as if I should be wearing a solar topee and sporting a big Victorian moustache. ‘But first let me explain something. We have only been married a few weeks, so this is our first home. In our country, when a husband brings his wife to their first house, this is what we do . . .’
I swept Sue up in my arms with all the panache I could muster and carried her over the threshold. Everyone, adults and children alike, broke out in smiles, laughter and cries of delight. They had never seen anyone do such a thing. They were hugely amused that we Europeans had some bizarre little rituals of our own.
They followed us into the house and quickly filled every room and passageway, opening doors and poking in corners with the most guileless curiosity.
‘What is the significance of this tradition?’ someone asked me as I set Sue down.
I realized that I had no idea.
‘It’s . . . um . . . to ward off evil spirits,’ I said hopefully.
This seemed to be the right answer and set off another round of admiring exclamations. Whatever the reason, carrying Sue over the threshold struck a chord. It entered local mythology, and for months afterwards the villagers talked about it, miming the gesture and laughing about it whenever we appeared.
While the hubbub continued, we took a look around. The house was dirty and both electricity and clean water were distant memories. The rooms were Spartan in the extreme: a rather imposing hardwood bedstead that might have been half a century old, a couple of rickety chairs, some cupboards providing shelter for spiders and scorpions.
But the house did come complete with Tata Martin, an old man who greeted us with the news that he was our domestique. I hadn’t planned on a servant – it didn’t sit well with my liberal principles – but I liked Tata Martin at first sight, and grew more enthusiastic about the idea when he announced that he was preparing food for us. Wisely, I didn’t argue. Tata Martin was to become a permanent feature of our household, in some ways a surrogate father to us, and we couldn’t have made it without him.
Sue was beginning to find the hubbub somewhat wearing, but I was starting to enjoy it. Our visitors were so transparently friendly that I couldn’t resent their presence. In any case I could see that Papa Eboma was beginning to build up to another speech, and I guessed that when this was over he would probably hand the house over to us and lead his entourage away. We only needed to be a little patient.
‘Ko-ko-ko!’
In a country where there are often no doors to knock upon, this was the call from a visitor to attract attention.
‘Ko-ko-ko!’
The babble faded away and the room fell strangely quiet. A fat little man in a dirty green uniform pushed through the crowd. He wore a pistol on his hip.
‘Who are these people?’ the man demanded, pointing at Sue and me in an aggressive and theatrical fashion.
He was sweating heavily, and had an unpleasant habit of skimming the sweat from his forehead with his index finger and flicking it over anything and anyone within range. When no one answered his question, he fixed his gaze on Papa Eboma.
‘I am the immigration officer here,’ he announced. ‘Why was I not informed strangers were coming?’
No one met our eyes. It was obvious that though many of these people did not know who this little Hitler was, they were all afraid of him. I was rather shocked that even Papa Eboma seemed to lack the authority to stand up to him. I could see at once that Mr Iyeti would have loved to have told this strutting bully where to go, but protocol demanded that he could not do so if Papa Eboma did not take the lead.
‘I’m sorry if you weren’t informed,’ I said, stepping forward, ‘but—’
‘Passports!’ He held out his hand.
I could see trouble looming. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have them with us. They’re in Kinshasa while our residence visas are prepared.’
‘No passports? This is a serious matter.’ He stood up straight, flicking sweat off his forehead again. ‘We have been alerted to the presence of spies from Libya.’
‘Libya?’ I gaped at him, not quite sure if he could be serious. Libya was some 3,000 miles to the north, on the far side of the central African rainforest and the Sahara Desert. I doubt if anyone in this village had even heard of the place. I would have been less surprised if he had accused me of being a Martian.
‘I must search your bags,’ he declared imperiously.
‘This is preposterous.’ Mr Iyeti could contain himself no longer. ‘These people have been sent by the Church. They have come here to help us.’
‘You must open the bags,’ the officer demanded, rapping his knuckles on the table.
I didn’t like the way this was developing and I could sense that Sue liked it even less. I realized that I was worried about her now and not the other way round. I put our case on the table and opened it. There was nothing much in it: some clothes, a few books, our mosquito net.
‘What are these?’ the man snapped.
He held up a box of tampons. I was stuck for a moment for an explanation that could be delivered in front of forty strangers, especially in French, and while I hesitated the officer prised open the box.
‘Oh please,’ Sue sai
d, and I could hear her voice tremble. ‘Please don’t open those.’
He did not even trouble to glance at her, but systematically opened the box and then – one after the other – tore open every single tampon, staining the cotton with his dirty fingers, dripping sweat over our clothes and books. That, finally, was enough for Sue and she burst into tears of anger and humiliation. I put my arm around her. No one in the room said a word.
I teetered on the brink of losing my temper, which would have been a disaster. But at that moment the immigration officer, seeing me with my arm around my weeping wife, decided that he had got what he wanted.
‘Very well,’ he said, tossing aside the last of the ruined tampons. ‘It seems you are who you say you are.’ He drew himself up to his full, not very impressive height and, to my astonishment, held out his hand. ‘Welcome to Bolobo.’
After that he left, pausing only to warn Papa Eboma darkly that next time the Church brought in newcomers he’d better make sure the authorities were informed in good time.
I hated watching Papa Eboma being humbled by this ignorant goon, who was obviously a Mobutu party stooge. It told me something about the real nature of power in the Congo, and it was the first time I’d seen Sue reduced to tears. We didn’t talk about it after that. We cleaned the house as well as we could, and ate the meal Tata Martin prepared for us – a strong tasting fish, rice and sliced plantain dish known as makemba. After we had had it thirty or forty times its attraction began to fade a bit, but that first day we only knew that it was delicious.
Late that night I lay in bed under the mosquito net with Sue lost in an exhausted slumber beside me. I was too excited to sleep. It was hot, so hot my own breath felt like warm water. A constellation of tiny fireflies swam outside the ghostly folds of the net.
I got up, slipped on my sandals and padded silently through the house to the veranda. Outside, a huge golden moon hung in the trees and the African night was bursting with life: the sound of something rootling in leaf litter beside the house, the whine of mosquitoes scenting my fresh European blood and the jarring call of a night bird.
The Boy in the River: A Shocking True Story of Ritual Murder and Sacrifice in the Heart of London Page 3