Congo Inc

by In Koli Jean Bofane

  “God is not the pope, my dear friends. He doesn’t wait for instructions. He moves when it concerns his children. After all the fondling, after the hearings and the trials, Lot and his family were forced to leave Sodom, which was to be destroyed very shortly thereafter by the nuclear strikes of almighty Yahweh. On the road to exile and emigration, his wife, his gentle better half, the mother of his children, suddenly disobeys, turns around, and is instantly transformed into a pillar of salt. Right there! In front of her offspring and her husband, brothers and sisters! Not long thereafter, even before they finished mourning and were settled some other place, his own daughters goaded Lot into the most abject alcoholism. He ended up by sleeping with them, one after the other, and both at the same time, repeatedly, night and day.”

  A sense of horror came over the congregation. Prayers were rapidly said to ward off ill fortune and beg for divine forgiveness.

  “Dearly beloved,” the Reverend Monk continued his harangue, “God does not change. He continued to bless his son Ibrahim because he had selected the road the Father had chosen for him. Lot wanted abundance. Ibrahim was seeking multiplication. God continued working in Lot’s life because he remained faithful, brothers and sisters. Never once did he waver. He didn’t believe in the smoke and mirrors of the Jordan, in occupied territories and Operation Cast Lead.2

  “Believe me, God gives everything to children who are faithful. If Moses had lived today, do you think that Jehovah would have let him come down the mountain barefoot? No, the Lord would have given him an air-conditioned V8 4 × 4 so he could have transported the tablets of stone on which the commandments for his people were inscribed. Do you actually believe that in our time Mary Magdalen could have washed the feet of Christ with those discount perfumes they sell on the Avenue Kato? No. With the elegance that is his, the Lord would have provided her with Guerlain, Dior, Chanel, or Nina Ricci.

  “For the multiplication of loaves and fishes, Jesus would have always invited everyone to the swankiest three-star restaurant in Tel Aviv, where they would have served them water that he would have instantly changed into Château Margaux and Montrachet. Because God is marvelous. He is a multiplying God. Mere abundance is for those who lack faith, for those who suffer from a decline in their love of Jesus, for those—men and women—who no longer have a true desire to reach eternal life in heaven. Yes, indeed!

  “Dearly beloved, God will certainly forgive those people, but let them remain in Masina. What are they thinking? That we’ll cry over them? Too bad. We shall not feel sorry for them if they don’t want to slip on the golden parachute of divine multiplication, as we do, contractually guaranteed, signed with a Montblanc pen by the invisible hand of the Lord himself.”

  Ululations and cries rang out, as when Vita Club scores against T. P. Mazembe at the Stadium of the Martyrs in Kinshasa. Frenzy overran the hall. The people, standing, chanted prayers that rose directly up to heaven without any layover, without any decompression stage, smoothly, like an Ariane rocket several stories high.

  “He lives!” the reverend shouted.

  “He lives!” the faithful responded in unison.

  The song entered their hearts and souls, flowed beyond the plot of land, resounded in every sector. The orchestra went wild, the keyboard player striking the chords at a furious rhythm. The guitarist made his instrument mew like Avedila Nkiambi, known as Little Fish, or Flamme Kapaya in their better days.3 The percussionist, vigorously beating every drum, scattered the demons as in a cataclysmic bowling game. With just three fingers the bassist managed to shake the spiritual foundations of the children of God. As for the members of the choir, they were bouncing up and down in place, in a complete and total trance, their spirits no longer in Ndjili but in a kind of sub-Saharan, not especially Catholic, nirvana.

  The Reverend Jonas Monkaya, alias the Monk, swept away by the music, had now left the lectern with the microphone glued to his mouth, swaying from left to right as he moved forward, hopping along, perspiring, his body shaking with spasms, no longer himself. While the baritones, tenors, altos, and sopranos sang, “Please don’t go / Jesus loves you so,” to the music of James Brown’s “Please, Please, Please,” Brother Kasongo, the deacon, placed a gold and white cape over the shoulders of the man of God, which the pastor tossed off with a brusque and sweeping motion, as if he scorned the things of this world, forcing the acolyte to replace it only for him to throw it off again—and so on and so forth—until the moment came when he left in a renewed faith of indescribable fervor.

  It was clear to see that Jonas Monkaya was a master of footwork and verve, far more than the pontiff himself. Had he been chief rabbi, the Wailing Wall would have disintegrated under the force of his sermon as if a drone had struck it. Had the Monk been dressed in the robe of the Russian Orthodox prelate, the women of Pussy Riot themselves would have been prostrate before him; faced with his authority they would have dropped their balaclavas. The Five Pillars?4 His converts claimed that he alone devoted himself to at least three of them. Truth be told, very few people were as good as he in the city of Kinshasa, where the competition certainly wasn’t lacking, but where he brought all of his intelligence to bear to make a buoyant market profitable.

  “Are you done?”

  “Almost, Reverend.”

  A machine made to count banknotes was finishing up rustling hundred-dollar bills.

  “How much?”

  “A little less than last Sunday, Reverend.”

  “God Almighty!”

  The Reverend Jonas Monkaya had just returned to his office after shaking hands, giving lots of advice and blessings to the faithful who had approached him at the end of the service. He was standing in front of a large table behind which sat Brother Kasongo, half hidden by a pile of tens of thousands of Congolese francs and dollars. The pastor was wearing a dark gray Armani suit and a pair of black J. M. Weston shoes with a buckle on the side. He took a pair of Cartier glasses from his breast pocket and scrutinized the Congolese francs, careful not to touch them, since many of them were in deplorable state. Then he grabbed a wad of hundred-dollar bills, smelled them with closed eyes, and delicately put them down again.

  “Brother Kas, this won’t work anymore. That Church of Heavenly Abundance won’t stop taking shares of the market from us. I had a premonition that the launching of that congregation would cause me harm. If it keeps going this way, you’ll soon see them listed on the stock market.”

  “But, Reverend,” the deacon intervened, “we can’t complain; we did take in enough money to cover our expenses, and quite comfortably at that.”

  “Let’s talk about that, shall we? Everything is going up: electricity, water, maintenance, food donations for the poor, my entertainment allowance, trips to every corner of the world to spread the gospel. It’s no easy task, Deacon.”

  “I agree, Reverend. We should pray more, call upon the Lord.”

  “Brother Kas, you really think I was waiting for you to suggest I do so? I have prayed, the Lord heard me, and I had a vision. Listen carefully. I was dozing; it was late. Suddenly I heard sobbing and I sat up. I saw a people in chains, captive, a luckless situation. Just like our financial one, which hasn’t been increasing for a long time now. Where were these people held prisoner? You’ll never guess. In Egypt, Brother Kas! How do I know?”

  “Because you saw Moses as a baby in a basket?”

  “No, Brother Kas. What I did see, under a blinding sun, was a gigantic golden pyramid that towered high up into the sky. And Moses? That was me, in a night-blue shantung suit by Hugo Boss. I was delivering God’s people by erecting the highest pyramid ever—not one of those built by clambering slaves, but one created for the bold: the financial pyramid that will yield more than we can hope for. Deacon, what would you say if I were to give you a quarter of what’s on this table, in one fell swoop?”

  “Halleluiah!”

  “Exactly. Imagine that in order to receive this money it would be enough for you to wager one-hundredth of the sum
this quarter represents. What would you do?”

  “I’d bring that one-hundredth to the offering plate, dancing and singing, carried along by the joyful prospect of receiving a lot of money.”

  “Brother Kas, God has inspired you. That is the opportunity we are going to give to the faithful of the Church of Divine Multiplication: the multiplication by one hundred of a first outlay. We’ll become the only church in Congo where God renders a hundredfold in hard cash.”

  “Really, Reverend? That means that if I contribute a hundred dollars, I can get ten thousand back?”

  “Precisely. But, careful! God gives when he wants to, as he wants to. He is all-powerful, he doesn’t act like the rest, he doesn’t set any fixed dates. Therefore, every now and then, when someone has repeatedly given us a hundred dollars, he’ll one day receive ten thousand dollars, by chance.”

  “But, Reverend, what if someone pays five thousand dollars? Could he see five hundred thousand dollars come back to him? That’s enormous; that’s a guaranteed windfall.”

  “You don’t get it. In order to touch such an amount, and before the Lord manifests himself, you must have paid those five thousand dollars at least a hundred and one times, believe me. The almighty God is a good manager. And besides, Brother Kas, people don’t often have that much money to give. Wasn’t there a great politician once who said, ‘You must tax the poor; they don’t have much money but there are many of them’? From now on, each person will write his name on the envelope that is meant for the offering. God must be able to recognize his people.”

  “Reverend, I feel that we are going to be blessed. When the first beneficiaries receive their money, everyone will want to subscribe. But how will they receive theirs? The money surely won’t be wired from an account in heaven, after all?”

  “Yes, it will. The chosen ones will receive a check issued by Paradizo Limited. Tomorrow it will be your responsibility to take the necessary steps to create a company by that name. You will open an account and order checkbooks.”

  “All right, Reverend. I can see it all now: the Church of Divine Multiplication, the place where the tithe is returned a hundredfold. The whole city will be talking about it. They’ll come from all over, they’ll knock each other down to deposit their money in front of the podium. We’ll be forced to buy the lot next door to expand the building.”

  “Halleluiah, Brother Kas?”

  “Halleluiah,” he approved.

  “God is a multiplying God,” the pastor continued. “When he gives us, his servants, a hundredfold, he will multiply that. Brother Kas, I just had a vision, just now, right here,” he added, standing motionless with his eyes closed, index finger on his temple. “We must give the faithful a way to transfer the money via text messaging. Do you know the WAP portal?”5

  “No, Reverend.”

  “Find out about it. Money is volatile. One must be able to pay it at any time, no matter where one is. The growth rate will increase. From this moment on, prepare yourself psychologically for a new table. Soon this one won’t be large enough anymore, and you’ll need different machines to count the banknotes. A new car, too. We’ll have to see about the rank of pastor. Fine! Let’s close up shop. Enough work for today. Tomorrow you’ll do what needs to be done to open a dummy company. Paradizo Limited: the only one capable of bringing heaven to earth, on the condition of putting in some of your own, of course.”

  Isookanga sat in Kiro Bizimungu’s office at the Conservation Service of Salonga National Park. He was looking at wall posters that showed mostly aerial views of the virgin forest. There was a map of the Central Basin and charts of growth and decline,6 levels of rainfall, zoning map percentages, and, right above Kiro Bizimungu’s head, a head-and-shoulders portrait of the president of the republic, looking self-assured, almost placid.

  “Little One. May I call you that?”

  “My name is Isookanga, Old One.”

  “I’m glad you came by. I don’t get many visitors here. Like you, I’m new in Kinshasa. True, I’m becoming integrated, but I know very well that many regard me with suspicion, primarily because of the position I have. Nevertheless, I really deserve this post. I fought for it. Many of my men have fallen so that I could occupy this seat. And you, what are you? Are you Mongo?”

  “Pure Ekonda, Old One.”

  “They don’t like us. They find us suspect. You, because your customs are weird and you are small; me, because I’m Mututsi. It seems that at the height of colonization you stole a boat without leaving any traces. Is that really true? You’re really something.7 On TV I saw how you led the rebellion at the Great Market, and I liked it. I like people like you—determined, calm, intelligent. But what are you looking to do in Kinshasa?”

  “Globalize, Old One.”

  “Globalize?”

  “Yes. Be in the mainstream, get involved in high technology, communicate with the world, be in trading, stuff like that.”

  “And what about the forest?”

  “That, Old One, is so square. I was there not long ago, but I left as fast as I could! They really should stop that retrograde romanticizing, which consists of having people believe the forest should be extended. Can you imagine? Where would they put the highways, superstores, parking lots, production centers … at the top of the trees? One has to be realistic and go with the time.”

  Bizimungu contemplated the surfaces bloated with green on the posters and told himself he had done well to invite the young Pygmy to come and see him. They were thinking completely alike.

  “Little One, you are perfectly right. You see, they gave me this office to protect all that,” he said, pointing at the posters. “They refer to that as lungs. How can you breathe in such an environment? There are too many trees; they smother everything! Just think that underneath all that there are priceless riches. And I’m the boss of it all, but what good does it do me? And because of all the green you see there, we can’t touch anything.”

  “What kind of riches, Old One?”

  “What kind? Oil, Little One, and lots of it! Diamonds, gold, and other very, very valuable things. If I could put my hand on some of the products I’m familiar with, I would erase all that in much less time than that damned desertification they’ve been talking about for decades and that we’re still waiting for.”

  “It’s not easy, Old One. At home there are elders like my uncle Lomama who absolutely insist on preserving everything as it stands. Outside of their harmful propaganda for the preservation of the virgin forest, they use all kinds of techniques to maintain the canopy above their heads. Demagogues, Old One, megalomaniacs.”

  “Techniques?” the former commander Kobra Zulu inquired.

  “Yes, some sort of ancestral techniques, or whatever. Down there, as soon as a tree is a little under the weather, they huddle by its side, talk to it, invoke the ancestors, concoct mysterious medications, and the wounded tree straightens out right away. They’re really diabolical, Old One.”

  “Is your uncle able to do that?”

  “Of course! With drugs.”

  “And do you know what he does?”

  “Some.”

  Kiro Bizimungu took a few moments to reflect, his eyes upon the young man. “If that guy knows how to cure a tree,” he thought, “he must know—with a little searching, or maybe not even—how to destroy it unobtrusively, without leaving any trace of some sort of poison.”

  “Déo!” Kiro Bizimungu thundered.

  The soldier on duty outside opened the door and entered, not in any great rush.

  “At your orders, Commander.”

  “What will you drink?” he asked Isookanga.

  “A Fanta, Old One.”

  Kiro Bizimungu ordered the soldier: “Go downstairs, get one beer and two Fantas, and hurry up!”

  When the door closed again, he turned back to Isookanga.

  “Little One, I want to see you in my office more frequently. You and I, we need to talk. I’m the administrator of the entire forest, and that makes us a
lmost like brothers. We have the same nationality. We have to see each other, we have similar ideas, we need to stick together. I’m like you—all that green in front of me is depressing. You were lucky coming to Kinshasa to catch some air, or else what would have become of you, can you tell me that? What are those people thinking? That powerful computers, iPhones, or missiles are manufactured with a tree trunk? We need copper, tin, cobalt, coltan. To really develop, we need petroleum, and a lot of it—barrels and barrels. For the people to eat their fill, we need packaging factories, intensive scientifically transgenic agriculture. We can’t allow all of that to proliferate,” he added, sweeping away the vegetation represented on the walls with a wide gesture.

  “Old One, those are wise words you’re speaking. When a political decision-maker speaks like you, Old One, it’s as if the wind of progress blows in your face. I’m going to get some information to help you. We should be able to do something.”

  At that moment Déo came in with the drinks. The soldier took the caps off the bottles with his teeth and put them on the desk. Kiro Bizimungu stood up to get glasses. He put them down and filled them as he sat down again.

  “Here’s to you, Little One!”

  “Here’s to you, Old One.”

  And they both finished their drinks in almost one gulp, because the power supply was off again and the air-conditioning wasn’t working. As a result, the heat in the office was unbearable. To create a little breeze, the French windows were open wide onto a balcony, and you could hear the ruckus of the traffic below in counterpoint, the insistent chant of car horns, the polyphonic sound of the voices of Kin’s people floating over the vast metropolis at all times.