Every now and then Isookanga had to change weapons and fire small rockets of enriched cobalt to stop the Merkava tanks of the Goldberg & Gils Atomic Project, which were attempting incursions from the bluffs on the left and right. The two young men were holding their breath. They recognized the muted soundscape but could much more clearly hear Isookanga’s fingers clicking away as he strove to annihilate anyone who came between the raw materials and his dreadful weaponry. That was Raging Trade, all right; it showed no mercy. Run nigga run / Run nigga run / Run mothafucka, run, they could hear as they played.
While on a slab on the Avenue du Commerce the consortiums were waging an excessive war, at Waldemar Mirnas’s villa Shasha la Jactance was standing with knees slightly bent, her hands gripping the table, moving her buttocks up and down on the stiff sex organ of the MONUSCO officer,11 who sat on a chair with his pants undone and his head thrown back. The girl sped up her movements, and the man gave an almost desperate cry that didn’t stop until she had made him pour out his last drop of sperm. She was the child whore, dressed merely in a soubrette’s minuscule white apron, beneath which her small, vulnerable breasts pointed up. The leftovers of a meal were still on the table—with a place set for just one. The adolescent tore herself off the still pulsing penis, the man quivering as if an electric shock had hit him. Without a word she began to clear the table. She stacked the two dishes, the plate, the silverware, and disappeared into the kitchen. On the chair the still dazed Waldemar Mirnas was breathing heavily, trying to collect his wits in the muted light of the dining room of a villa in the Gombe district of Kinshasa, the capital of the Democratic Republic of Congo.
1. Alliance of Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Congo-Zaire.
2. “We’re leaving!” in Swahili (the language spoken in the east and south of the DRC).
3. “In the system of hell”: you burn but you are not consumed; suffering is interminable.
4. In William Friedkin’s The Exorcist.
5. “Who are you?” in Scream by Wes Craven.
6. “You’re next!”
7. “Oh, my God!” in no matter which blockbuster American film.
8. “Shasha, your guy is here!”
9. A play on words. It is meant to be Eau Pure Suisse—Pure Swiss Water—but Isookanga’s mispronunciation makes it sound like pire, i.e., the “worst.”—Tr.’s note
10. Air-to-surface and ground-to-ground missiles.
11. United Nations Organization Stabilization Mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo
PERSISTENT TURMOIL
持续的喧闹
Corporal Zembla and Omari Double-Blade might never have met, but one never knows what destiny has in store, especially when it comes to collecting fines in cash. Around the marketplace that particular day, the citizen-victims of Officer Zembla’s harassment were lucky they hadn’t argued as much as usual, so that his collected profits increased. Consequently, before noon the corporal and his colleagues had already downed quite a few beers at the neighboring nganda.1 In the afternoon, coming from a malewa2 where he’d knocked back two more ¾-liter bottles after eating a grilled tilapia with chikwangue—manioc—he felt an urgent need. The beer was pressing down on his bladder. Strutting about, he headed for an alleyway between two buildings, where he knew he could relieve himself.
Omari had been strolling not far from the same spot two minutes earlier. It was about four o’clock and some of the merchants had already begun to pack up. Omari worked as a shayeur—selling neckties and pirated DVDs as he roamed the streets. He would cross over to the boulevard and go back up to the Bon Marché, trying to sell his items to passersby and patrons of open-air bars. The boy had done well and decided he was finished for the day.
He was going back to his spot near the administrative buildings when his blood froze as someone screamed, “Soldier Mushizi Omari!”
The boy turned and ran. Soldiers from his former unit were hot on his heels. He zigged and zagged, avoiding crowds and tables collapsing under the weight of merchandise as best he could. As he darted away he lost his DVDs, which came crashing to the asphalt. In the increasing brouhaha, one could plainly hear the word moyibi—thief! It made Omari run ten times faster, crossing the street and propelling himself between two tall buildings to escape from his pursuers.
Belching, Corporal Zembla buttoned up. What a hell of a great life he had! Easy money, job satisfaction from scribbling tickets, extorting cash from offenders, overpowering lawbreakers. Living off adrenaline and able to quiet his frenzy with the help of a few beers at certain hours of the day. It was ideal!
He was taking his time, making the most of the coolness offered by the shade between the high walls, when he suddenly heard, “Moyibi!” Almost immediately, framed by the two buildings, a running silhouette stood out against the sun. Zembla was well trained, his musculature well oiled, his willpower unfailing. He drew his weapon, aimed, and fired. The bullet hit Omari in the left side of his chest. The boy stopped short, lost his balance, and crumbled to the ground like a rag doll. He stayed that way for a few seconds, then quietly slumped to his side, legs quivering with spasms.
Even before a circle could form around the body, a cry was heard: “Babomi Omari,3 eeeh!”
Chaos followed throughout the Great Market as street kids came running from every direction. A few seconds later the only ones around Omari’s corpse were the shégués, the four soldiers, and Corporal Zembla, the weapon still in his hand. One of the adolescents snatched it from him, and that’s when everything went awry. The boy fired a shot in the air as a signal for the crowd of regular customers to stampede and for the street kids to attack. As one man they jumped the five law officers. Assaulted from all sides by the kids, one of the officers had the terrible idea of pressing the trigger in the A-position,4 firing a shot. The explosion got lost in the air but multiplied the rage of the youth tenfold. In a split second the officer was trampled like a snake.
What had begun with a rush of just a few dozen from every direction had turned into hundreds now crowding the Great Market, because the shégués were everywhere—inside the city and in the surrounding districts. From Lingwala to Masina, from Bandalungwa to Binza-Delvaux, from Kalamu to Righini, by way of Ozone and the Kintambo Department Store. No need even to ask at Camp Kauka, at the central prison of Makala, or among the kuluna,5 the Barumbu daredevils. They were in the tunnels, on the sidewalks, in every nook and cranny, on garbage dumps, sitting on the low walls, at the foot of the steps to administrative buildings, at the Limete money exchange, near the Yamaka forest. There were swarms of them, like rats in the sewers of New York, Paris, or Mumbai, the result of various plague epidemics generated by the state, poverty, marginalization, bad governance, and war. They drifted around the city, invisible like microbes on long-festering human tissue.
After overpowering Zembla and two of the soldiers—the two others had managed to get away—the hundreds of rampaging kids demolished everything in the market: tables were flying around, metal shutters were ripped from storefronts, windows shattered by stones hurled from all sides. Some of them took refuge under Pavilion 4 with the hostages and the confiscated weapons while the rest continued the wreckage. The destruction was complete in no time. More and more kids seemed to be arriving, soon numbering more than two thousand. The entire perimeter of the square the market formed had been invaded. Stores, ligablos,6 cold storage rooms, warehouses, an illegal diamond dealer, the Greek undertaker—everything was ransacked, and then they salvaged a coffin for Omari. The children were crying with anger, the girls covering their faces with ashes to express their grief. Wearing nothing but pagnes wrapped high up on their calves so they could fight more effectively, they were rowdy, some rolling their eyes to vent their anger and deep despair, while others were tearing their hair out. Between defacing private property and uprooting signposts, the boys assumed warrior postures, their skinny torsos rounded, howling erupting from their throats, their tendons about to rip.
“Aleka,
aleka! Botika ye, aleka, ko!”7
Isookanga had just heard the news. Accompanied by Zhang Xia, he turned up in the mayhem. He froze before the body of poor Omari, around whom hundreds of children stood clustered as a gigantic clamor soared under the huge canopy of Pavilion 4. Lamentations fused with sobs, since every child was weeping for Omari. His past had certainly made him the fiercest of the lot, but he also had the biggest heart and, at fifteen, was among the oldest ones; each of them could attest to Omari Double-Blade’s kindness.
The kadogo, the former child soldier, was laid out in an open coffin, one of the AK rifles by his side. With bands of white fabric tied around their foreheads like shrouds, some girls surrounded him, weeping their eyes out as they caressed his face, voicing their sorrow.
“Omari, you left without having any time to really grow up,” they said.
“Our Omari, you’re breaking our hearts. How could you leave us like that, without even a warning, Omari?”
And, “Omari, is it true then? Does this country really eat its own children, not giving them any chance for survival, all alone, without any papa or mama?”
“Ah, Omari! What are we going to do? How can we go on without you, Omari?”
And the outcry grew into a monstrous drone that ran through the entire city, going far beyond the Great Market, spreading beyond the various districts as far as Jamaïka, Masina, Ndjili, Kimbanseke, and all the remote areas to the north, south, and east of Kinshasa. Standing close to the body, their jaws clamped shut, the boys were shedding tears. Desperate, Isookanga contemplated the coffin in silence. As for Zhang Xia, he had no clue. Why was this boy dead? What about the anguish flooding every heart, so wrenching and intensely cruel?
“Robocops!”
After hours of vandalizing and cursing the enforcers of the law, the latter arrived in two trucks and were now lying in wait, parked a stone’s throw away. The PIR—the Rapid Intervention Police—had decided to do its duty. The officers wore helmets and harnesses as if they were at war, their weapons out in the open. They kept their distance, waiting to see what would happen.
“Old Isoo, what are we going to do?” a boy calling himself Gianni Versace inquired nervously.
Not knowing how to respond, Isookanga turned to Zhang Xia. Jacula la Safrane, a sassy fourteen-year-old girl, insisted, “You’re the only grown-up among us, so tell us what to do.”
Tied up and sitting on the ground, the two soldiers and Corporal Zembla were nervous and afraid. Their faces swollen, their bodies bleeding from the blows they’d taken and, like most hostages, their expressions pathetic. Shasha la Jactance broke away from the coffin, wiped her tears with the back of her hand, and stated resolutely, “Old One, na ngai,8 we’re holding hostages; they’ll be forced to negotiate. We’re not going to let any of these three go, no matter what.”
“But, Shasha, we have to make demands. What can we ask for? After all, we can’t stipulate they bring Omari back to life.”
“No, but we can require that these adults take their responsibilities toward us seriously. That’s the least they owe us, Old Isoo.”
“All right, let’s see what we can do.”
He turned to Zhang Xia. “Zhang Xia, you come from a country that has achieved its revolution; what’s your advice?”
Briefly the young Chinese felt flustered, but not for long. He deliberated. “Everyone must die one day,” he said to the Pygmy, “but not every death is equally significant. A writer in ancient China, Sema Tsien, said this: ‘Humans are mortal, to be sure, but some deaths weigh more heavily than Mount Taishan while others are lighter than a feather.’ Comrade Omari’s death weighs more heavily than Mount Taishan because he was hunted and slaughtered by reactionary fascist forces. We can’t let that go. Listen!” he added, his voice stronger as he addressed the audience, his arms raised like an orator.
The chatter beneath the awning of Pavilion 4 faded; the crowd was all ears.
“Shégué people, let us unite to bring down the American aggressors and their lackeys! Let the shégués listen only to their courage, let them dare do battle, let them brave trouble, and the whole world will be theirs. The brutes will all be annihilated!”
A collective cry rang out. The children seemed to agree with Zhang Xia’s comments.
Isookanga thought it was time to intervene and whispered in his friend’s ear, “But Zhang Xia, it’s got nothing to do with the Americans.”
“They behave in the same imperialist fashion!” Zhang Xia countered in a new tone.
He continued to address the kids: “What is the truly indestructible great wall? The masses, the millions of street kids who support the revolution with all their hearts and all their dreams. There, that’s the real great wall, and no force will ever be able to destroy it. The counter-revolution cannot break us; it is we who will break it. Once we have assembled millions and millions of shégués around a revolutionary government and developed our revolutionary war, we’ll be in a position to crush any counter-revolution. That’s how we’ll control the Great Market and all the rest!”
An indescribable ruckus of angry shouts, fists pounding on tables, and blunt objects banging on metal could be heard: the revolution seemed to arouse the support of the youthful public.
“Colonel coming!” Mukulutu, who was the lookout, warned.
Indeed, escorted by two men, a field officer had come out of one of the vehicles and was casually approaching Pavilion 4. They seemed to want to negotiate.
Civilians—women and men—with cameras and microphones materialized near the police cars. From the distance one could see the logos of the RTNC—the national television—and of another dozen private channels among the fifty or so that broadcasted from Kinshasa, but also of the foreign press on their way to Brazza to cover a relocated literary festival. France Inter was there, TV5 Monde, Reuters, Al Jazeera, the BBC, La Dépêche from Brazzaville, CNN, a Chinese blogger, the RTBF—the Belgian TV and radio—and many more. Empathic and standing a little farther back were Elizabeth Tchoungi and Laure Adler of France Television, Marianne Payot from l’Express, Yvan Amar from RFI—Radio Française Internationale—with an ultrasensitive directional mike to pick up the words in French should an insurrection take place.
The kids were holding a staff meeting beneath the awning of Pavilion 4. They were moving and gesticulating wildly, each of them wanting to speak. Shasha had to intercede. “All right! Listen to me! Old Isoo here is our leader. He’s the only adult in all of Kinshasa—with his Chinese friend—who cares about us at all. The proof is here: he’s with us to mourn Omari. He could have done anything else while we were fighting. He could’ve been in China today if he wanted. You know he gets around, don’t you?”
Sounds of approval. Shasha went on: “So I, Shasha la Jactance, I say that he’s the one to speak for us. He’s an adult with an education; he’ll stand up for our cause and for Omari’s memory as it should be. What do you want? Tell us!”
Then came the upsurge of the greatest cacophony ever heard since Babel, with the one exception, perhaps, of UN assembly meetings just before a vote on a resolution on Palestine. In the sweeping uproar, Shasha nevertheless made the following demands: expenses for Omari’s funeral to be paid, financial compensation for his loss, the opening of reception centers and the establishment of professional training for street children, a general amnesty, as well as other requests of lesser importance. Everyone seemed to agree. They even took the time to congratulate one another.
The ball was now in Isookanga’s court, and he had to make a decision. “Listen,” he said to Zhang Xia, “I’m going to see what I can get from the colonel there. You stay here, be unobtrusive. We’ll stay in touch. I’ll check in with you when the time comes. I’m trying to gain some time; be prepared for any eventuality. You and I are going to globalize the revolution, friend. Shasha! Watch the prisoners closely and, above all else, be on your guard. These people outside wish us nothing but harm; they’re worse than crocodiles in the marshes.”
Pulling at it, Isookanga readjusted his T-shirt with the skull and said, “Little Modogo, Marie Liboma, tokei mission!”9
“Right away, Old One, na ngai!”10 Marie Liboma retorted, chewing her gum more fiercely than ever.
When Isookanga came within a meter of Colonel Mosisa, the latter involuntarily drew back. He thought it was just some little fellow approaching, but what was this in front of him? A guy with the face of an adult who must have been at least about twenty-five years old. Was this devilry?
“What d’you want?” he barked.
“Didn’t you want to see me? I’m the spokesman for the shégués. I’ve been officially mandated to speak on their behalf.”
“Who are you, first of all?”
“I won’t tell you anything. Before we set anyone free, here are our demands.”
Isookanga handed the officer a piece of cardboard with some writing on it. Colonel Mosisa was expecting anything but the situation now presenting itself. Logically, it should have been a child coming to negotiate, not some guy from heaven knows where, taunting him with a filthy piece of cardboard, and in the city where he was a full colonel, to boot. It was an insult! Weren’t they afraid of the National Police anymore, or what?
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