Old Lomama left the urchin to gathering the spilled fruit and continued his search.
People were constantly going in and out of the market’s office. Running the site was no picnic. In addition to protecting its security, cleaning up, and distributing the vending spaces and daily permits to do business, the place was busy because it’s where one had to obtain a spot, a table. Those who worked there were courted from morning to night; it was never empty. Over a few beers they talked about inflation and the rate of the dollar; they compared the volume of trade with Ankara and Rio; they speculated on a growth of more than six percent thanks to the Bandundu, among others, who had managed to profit intelligently from the manioc bubble; they discussed the need to bypass the embargo on the Schengen visas by intensifying close ties with Vietnam and India, after Dubai and China; a sister-in-law was making three or four round-trips a year going there.4
On a bench outside sat a guy, probably the attendant—he looked like someone who had no real reason to be there—his legs crossed, calm, staring at the sky, chin in hand.
“Son, I’m looking for Shasha something.”
“There’s no Shasha working here.”
“They told me she lived here.”
The man gave the Ekonda a closer look. “You mean over there?” he asked, pointing to the ground and a recess farther down. “Papa, the Shasha you’re talking about is a street child. Is she the one you’re looking for?”
“Yes,” Uncle Lomama answered.
“Are you a relative of hers?” the attendant asked with a hint of disdain.
“No, but I’m looking for Isookanga, my sister’s son. They told me I should ask Shasha.”
The man looked Old Lomama up and down. “Are you Pygmy?”
“I’m Ekonda.”
“Same thing. Sit down over here,” he told him pointing next to him. “They’re not there at this hour of the day; they’re working their trade. But they’ll be here soon. Just be patient. Besides, they have nowhere else to go.”
Sitting on the bench with his suitcase at his feet, Old Lomama had nothing better to do than watch the activity around him. It was unbelievable; he’d never seen so many people at the same time. So this was it, the big city. And all that merchandise. What they used here in one day, in terms of textiles, kitchen utensils, hardware, stationery, tools, could have supplied his village for at least twenty years. And, the abundance notwithstanding, children were sleeping in the street; it was inhuman. Old Lomama didn’t get it. To go so far as to abandon a child? To what kind of extreme were people driven to reach this point?
Old Lomama didn’t understand the strange movement regulating society, which seemed akin to what happens between the two earthenware bowls used to distill lotoko.5 The bowls communicate via a tin pipe, but one is full of manioc and fermented corn; assisted by the fire below it, it empties out into the other, one drop at a time, very slowly, as if there were never enough. As if the Danaids, showing up in hell filling perforated barrels with water, were becoming super-stingy.6
When Isookanga showed up in front of the administration building, he was so surprised that he dropped his now empty cooler. He rushed into his uncle’s arms and embraced him.
“Isookanga, is that really you?”
“Yes, it’s really me.”
“It’s really you?”
“It’s really me.”
“It’s really you?”
“It’s really me. Oh, Uncle, what a surprise! When did you arrive? How did you find me?”
“Son, I’m here. What did you expect? That I’d abandon you all by yourself in a city like Kinshasa that contains more hyenas and jackals than the entire lower region of Tshuapa? With what I’ve seen here so far I’m even less reassured. I just arrived by boat. I’ve been asking all over to find you, and it was a machine that told me where to look.”
Isookanga didn’t understand what the old man meant but didn’t react, all too excited to find part of himself again.
“They told me you live over there,” Old Lomama went on, indicating the recess.
Isookanga didn’t answer.
“They also told me you’re in business.”
“I sell the finest water in Kinshasa, Uncle.”
“Sell water! You forget that in the village anyone can knock on your door and ask for a drink.”
“I’m involved in globalization; everything is opened up. I have an associate whose name is Zhang Xia. I’ll introduce him to you.”
“Zhang Xia, what tribe is that?”
“He’s Chinese, Uncle.”
“Ah!”
“I’m also consultant to a man who protects Salonga Park.”
“That’s good, but where is your house, Isookanga?”
“Uncle, Pure Swiss Water is enjoying a favorable trade balance right now. Soon I’ll be able to have what I want. Zhang Xia and I are in the process of getting franchises. We already have two of them and there are more on a waiting list.”
Old Lomama didn’t understand a word of his nephew’s gibberish, but what he did retain was the bit about protecting Salonga. That’s why he’d come, after all. But he repeated his question: “Where is your house, Isookanga?”
“I don’t have one, Uncle.”
“Well, I for one have to find a hotel. Get me there.”
Old Lomama and Isookanga disappeared into the city of Kinshasa through narrow alleys, expecting to see a hotel sign.
“Uncle, did you really come here to look for me?”
“I’m here for one thing, one thing only: to save the village. In the hope your stay here has straightened out your ideas, I would like to take you back so that you can accomplish your task.”
Isookanga said nothing.
His uncle continued: “And I’m here because of that blasted antenna, too, which is going to kill us yet. Nkoi Mobali is dead already.”
“Nkoi Mobali?”
“The big leopard. If we let it go, if we say nothing to the authorities, God only knows what more they’re capable of shoving down our throats down there in the forest.”
“How long are you staying, Uncle?”
“As briefly as possible, but however long I need to.”
“Life in Kin’ is expensive.”
“Because you people here are poor. In the forest we’re not. It gives me everything I need to deal with the big city. I’m afraid of nothing. I have my coffee plantation. We’ve been lucky lately. With the problems in Ivory Coast, the anti-FARC operations in Colombia,7 the drought in Tanzania, the hurricanes in Central America, our coffee is selling higher than last year. Your friend Bwale helped me sell off a few bags and here I am.”
Isookanga had forgotten. When he was still there, he hadn’t imagined one could earn a dime from the local area. “Uncle, let’s try it here.”
The hotel receptionist who welcomed them suggested a reasonably priced room with twin beds.
“Uncle,” Isookanga said, “you shouldn’t. I can sleep with my friends.”
“Be quiet, Isookanga! You’re staying with me. Surely you don’t expect me to let my nephew sleep in the open air when I have a room.”
The young man didn’t object for long. The hotel was at street level. They were given the key to a minuscule room at the end of a hallway, but it was clean, and, besides, the old man had brought pagnes with him. With a glance around, he put down his suitcase. “You still have business to do at the Great Market?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Go deal with it. I’ll be waiting for you. Here, take this,” he added, handing him a few banknotes. “Buy us something to eat and drink on your way back.”
“I have money, Uncle.”
“I’ll eat your money later on; I’m not retired yet. Here. Go now!”
“Damn! He’s something else, the old man,” Isookanga thought. “He managed to get to Kinshasa without asking anyone for anything. Then he finds me, too, and in no time at that.”
Isookanga was happy with his uncle’s presence. Despite his popular
ity he was still lonely in Kinshasa. From now on he had someone he could count on.
Then the memory of Aude Martin came back to him. The Africanist had sent him an email. She apologized for her behavior, saying she’d been carried away by emotions she still hadn’t been able to identify. She regretted having gone crazy that last night. She was living with someone she loved in Brussels, and what had happened with Isookanga had been nothing but a misunderstanding. She was all torn up, she wrote.
“You can never overestimate the love of women,” Isookanga thought, realistic but a little disappointed nevertheless. “You don’t love me, you just love my doggy style,” Snoop Dogg declared to a girl in a video clip. The rapper never deluded himself; he was strong and completely aware of people’s intrinsic nature.
Isookanga reached the market, where Shasha la Jactance and the others were getting ready for their nocturnal activities.
“Old Isoo, the great mediator, is back!” Mukulutu Blindé announced. “Shasha told me your uncle has arrived from the village, Old One.”
“He came to get you?” Marie Liboma asked. “Hey, you’re spoiled, Old Isoo. Me, I do all I can. I go to church every now and then. I pray. I try not to roam around on Sunday, but no one ever comes. You think luck has shafted me the same way my parents did?” the girl wondered, compulsively chewing her gum. “Yet, they say, ‘Chance, eloko pamba,’8 but I still don’t see anything coming my way, Old Isoo.”
“Mwana mwasi, soki akufi naino te, koseka ye te.9 Maybe you’ll be a star, Marie. In Hollywood, at the festival of Berlin, in Cannes—they love girls like you.”
“Are you serious, Isoo?”
“I’m sure of it. My uncle, he’s a chief. He has powers. He has to know where his people are every moment of the day. He undoubtedly consulted a diviner to find me. But now,” Isookanga added, “I’m a true Kinshasan and I intend to remain one.”
The young man gathered up a few things hidden in a nook of the recess. “Gotta run, guys. I’m staying with my uncle tonight. At the hotel. See you tomorrow.”
“Later, Old Isoo,” the kids responded.
Trésor, crouching on the ground, knees against his chest, was staring in the distance. The conversation didn’t seem to concern him; his thoughts were with his parents and with what seemed like a cosmological void.
Isookanga headed for Old Tshitshi’s slab. He had to speak with Zhang Xia. Since his uncle had arrived, his ideas had become even clearer. It seemed that Bizimungu trusted him. If Isookanga were to offer him a trade for what was on the disk, he was sure Bizimungu wouldn’t hesitate to put money on the table just to get his hands on the information. He was going to make Zhang Xia a proposal. He absolutely had to make this disk pay off. How could he have kept it hidden until now? It was time for him to go back to China. Isookanga knew his buddy had a rather morose nature, but it was worse than usual right now. He needed to rejoin his wife and son as soon as possible or else he was going to snap—Isookanga could feel it coming.
When he came to the Avenue du Commerce, he again found a pensive Zhang Xia. The Pygmy knew what to confine himself to; he preferred shaking him up a little.
“How’s it going, Zhang Xia?” he said, greeting him with undue enthusiasm.
“All right, nothing much,” the Chinese answered.
“My uncle is here.”
“Your uncle?”
“Yes, my mother’s big brother. He arrived from the village today. I’ll introduce you later. But that’s not what I’m here for. I brought my computer. We’re going to take a more serious look at your disk. Where is it?”
Zhang Xia stuck his hand under his T-shirt, pulled out the little plastic bag, and took out the disk.
Isookanga had already opened his computer and just had to press a button. He placed the disk in the machine and waited for it to load. A window opened and a map of Congo appeared, peppered with symbols in every color, matching Chinese ideograms. Isookanga couldn’t get over it. He knew the country was rich but, no, not to this extent.
“Zhang Xia, just look at that! If heaven on earth wasn’t created here, I don’t know where it would be,” he observed, suddenly creationist. “But where did you get this CD?”
“The day my boss let me go he sent me to drop it off at a compatriot’s house. I couldn’t find him, so I kept the disk.”
“It’s worth gold. How could the Chinese put such a detailed map of the minerals together?”
“We, too, have our rockets. And they don’t just put monkeys in them; there are satellites and probes as well.”
“Zhang Xia, you and I now know where the minerals are in all of Congo. Can you imagine? Listen. I’m going back to Bizimungu and I’m going to propose that he buy this map. He loves gold and diamonds. He’ll be thrilled.”
“Isoo, are you sure he’s going to pay for that? Perhaps he won’t believe us; there are many forgeries that come from China.”
“Look.” Isookanga bent over the screen, pointing a finger. “You see this here, close to Lower Congo? What does it say?”
“Tungsten,” Zhang Xia read.
“You see? All I have to do is disclose this to him, for instance. He can go there if he wants and see for himself; it’s not that far. He’ll extract a few samples, have them analyzed, and he’ll have proof that I’m not making this up.”
“Making up, what’s that?”
“Lies. Then we sell him only the map of minerals in Salonga. What does it say over there, near Monkoto?”
“Gold,” the translator responded.
“Damn, there’s plenty of it! How much do you need for a plane ticket? A thousand, two thousand dollars? That’s not so much, he’ll pay. Gold is what he loves most.”
“Whatever you say, Isoo, we can always try.”
“It’ll work. You must get back to China. I can’t stand seeing that sad face of yours any longer. We should get a Salonga map in French. With Photoshop that’s easy. Let me study this a few more minutes. Hey, look! What is that sign there, on the Bateke Plateau?”
“Germanium.”
The two spent some more time together while Old Tshitshi stayed out of the way, not wanting to interfere. Besides, the younger ones were deeply immersed, their heads practically inside the screen, in a universe that Old Tshitshi didn’t really comprehend—too virtual for him.
After consulting with Zhang Xia, Isookanga went back to the hotel. On the way he passed a small market, where he bought some pieces of braised chicken, goat cheese, manioc rolls, and a few sweet drinks. He found Uncle Lomama settled in, his suitcase unpacked. They ate and drank.
As he was examining the ceiling through the glass bottle, the uncle asked, “Tell me. That visionary friend of yours, what has he done for Salonga? If you collaborate with him you could give him advice; you know the forest almost as well as I do. Look what I brought.”
Old Lomama fished a package wrapped in a pagne out from under the bed. He unfolded a large leopard skin.
“What’s that?”
“I already told you—it’s Nkoi Mobali. Remember, I told you about him a long time ago.”
“Vaguely; it does ring a bell,” Isookanga answered.
“The village is having problems, Isookanga. At the time, you thought installing the telecommunications antenna was beneficial, but look at this skin. Look at the injuries. It’s a disaster, Isoo. And you’ll never guess what killed Nkoi Mobali. Warthogs! You realize that? Those animals don’t live in leopard territory, and yet they ran into each other because for some reason or other the warthogs must have been forced out of their own region. In their confrontation Nkoi Mobali couldn’t have been in peak condition and was brought down in spite of his strength. Don’t forget that the leopard eats only every once in a while. Because food is becoming scarce—even for a superior creature like Nkoi Mobali—he must not have eaten for more than three weeks. I never imagined that in my lifetime something like this could happen.”
“But, Uncle, how is all of this possible?”
“Something�
��s happening in the ecosystem, Isookanga. Parameters are in the process of changing radically. If a force of nature like Nkoi Mobali can’t be secure, then I don’t hold out much hope for the skin of the Ekonda, my son.”
“But, Uncle, we can’t keep on living on the periphery of the world. We have to join it, or else it won’t be long before we’ll drop off the radar screen completely.”
“Nkoi Mobali was part of the world; he was actually one of its crucial links. His death represents a serious imbalance. If you disrespect nature, she’ll take revenge. Your friend, Salonga’s protector, does he know about the leopard’s death?”
“No, Uncle, I don’t think so.”
“A true leader has to be told about what goes on in his territory. I must inform him. As chief of the clan that’s my duty.”
Isookanga agreed. “I’ll be happy to take you there, Uncle.”
“Isoo, open another one of those sweet drinks for me, please.”
“Another Fanta, Uncle? Of course.”
The next day, the nephew showed his uncle the city: the countless decrepit cars, the emissions of mercury and lead from motors running on diesel, the merchandise piled high in shop windows and overflowing onto sidewalks, the gridlock of human beings in the streets, people calling out at one another as if their craziness were everyone’s business.
When they reached the office building of the Conservation Service of Salonga National Park, one of the bodyguards received them. He didn’t open his mouth, as usual. He escorted the visitors to the fifth-floor office of Kiro Bizimungu.
As they entered, the former rebel stood up and extended his hand warmly.
“Old One, I’d like to introduce my uncle, Old Lomama.”
“I’m very happy to meet you,” Bizimungu said. “Your nephew has told me all about you. Please have a seat.”
“Pleased to meet you, too,” the uncle responded as he sat down.
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