Cutting through the crowd, some youths showed up waving old tires above their heads and shouting threats. It was a motley crew: men, women, children, swaggerers, good-for-nothings, abused girls, two or three kulunas who had simply been bored, but among them there were also survivors of ethnic cleansing as well as their sympathizers. An immense free-for-all had overtaken the intersection. The former warlord was held tightly by the throng around him that kept him from moving. All he could do was weep and beg, but who could hear him?
Since his arms were jammed flat down alongside his body by his countless executioners, he couldn’t keep the first tire from being pulled down over his head, which was now girding his body more efficiently than any strap. A desperate “Ah!” was heard. Despite his attempts at any gesticulation, two more tires were added to the first one. Managed by an expert hand, one of them remained at the level of his neck. Drums sounded in the distance, a chant floated through the night. Halleluiah, Halleluiah, Amen … Nocturnal praises from the Church of Divine Multiplication carried all the way to the crossroads. Some of the faithful who had heard the ruckus came to see what was going on.
“Sister na ngai, likambo nini?”14
Adeïto didn’t answer. It was as if she were paralyzed.
Soon the pastor arrived. “Sister Adeïto, what are you doing here at this hour?”
She remained silent, distant. Her torn blouse exposed a heavy chest, glistening with sweat. At the same time, the people around Bizimungu were growing restless, wanting to add still more tires. The man himself could no longer look at his wife, his gaze forced to stay riveted on the menacing hands fluttering around him like a swarm of bats.
“Adeïto, who is that man?”
The young woman clung to the reverend’s shirt, sputtering into his ear, “He says he’s my husband, but he never was!”
The Reverend Jonas Monkaya turned toward the crowd in anger. He raised his arms, wanting to say “My brothers!” and adding a few verses of mercy, but the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth. All he could manage was “Wait!”
Not loud enough, however, for anyone to hear him. They had just sprinkled Bizimungu with gasoline. Since the siege of Kinshasa in August 1998, the inhabitants of Ndjili knew the drill. They’d learned how to burn an aggressor. Suddenly, all at the same time, they moved away from their victim. One broke free and with an elegant gesture tossed a burning paper torch. With a small explosion, the fire caught instantly. Kiro Bizimungu fell down.
He struggled on the ground, letting out heart-rending screams, restrained by the burning tires that released the roar of a furnace. Flames licked the sand around him. After his clothes melted, his skin began to break up in large pinkish patches. A characteristic, exceptionally heavy odor of grilled meat wafted through the air. The former warlord was still stirring but soundlessly now. His teeth showed through his lips, burnt to ashes. The flames buckled his body until the moment when he finally adopted a curled-up position, arms folded against his chest like a monkey that’s been smoked. Fat oozed and slid to the ground in swift little flames like lizard tongues. His sex organ was the last member to move. In one enormous erection it lengthened and swelled for a few more seconds, arousing regret among some of the women present and provoking jealousy in a few of the men.
And then there was almost nothing left of either the tires or of Kiro Bizimungu, aka Commander Kobra Zulu, except for a dull carbon monolith, smoking and smelly, whose alabaster eyes were questioning the crowd. The onlookers stood idly by, watching the spectacle a little longer. When they realized there was nothing exciting happening anymore, they left the scene, leaving it to the emaciated dogs that now approached the unexpected banquet, still sniffing it with a great deal of suspicion.
Then the Reverend Monkaya took off his jacket and draped it over Adeïto Kalisayi’s shoulders.
“Come,” he said.
She let him lead her away.
“The church is your home and I am here. I’ve been praying incessantly. Don’t be afraid of anything anymore; the ties have just been severed. The eternal fire has been powerfully displayed. Listen.”
Drums were beating, praise songs were drifting over the neighborhood, the night had grown tranquil again.
Isookanga and Zhang Xia had purchased a folder to hold the CD-ROM as well as a hard copy in French by way of a graphic Adobe software program. The Pygmy put on his black T-shirt with the skull and crossbones again. His chain gleamed at his chest. The two friends entered the building where Bizimungu had his offices. Since the bodyguards weren’t around, they took the elevator to the fifth floor. The office door was open; Isookanga went in, followed by Zhang Xia.
Before they could even begin to understand the situation, a large number of police officers grabbed each of them by the belt of their pants while others pointed their Kalashnikovs at them.
“Likambo nini?”15 Isookanga cried out.
“Watch out, he’s dangerous. I know him.” Colonel Mosisa had just spoken. “Well, Mr. Isookanga, since we’re seeing each other again …”
“Tell your men to let go of us!”
“What are you two doing here?”
“I came to see Commander Bizimungu. I’m entitled.”
“When did you last see him?”
“A few days ago, but I called him yesterday.”
“You called him?”
“We were supposed to see each other to talk about Salonga. I’m a consultant.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“We had an appointment right here.”
“We’re looking for him, too, and he may have been found, but we’re not sure. His 4 × 4 was seen abandoned in Ndjili, but there’s no trace of him. They did pick up a burnt body not far from there, but they can’t formally identify it. Okay … Take them away!”
“Hey!” Isookanga shouted.
“I’m innocent!” Zhang Xia resisted.
“Yes, Governor, it’s the same little guy, and the Chinese teacher is with him. I’ll spell his name for you: Z-h-a-n-g and then X-i-a, Zhang Xia. All right.” And Colonel Mosisa hung up.
It didn’t seem real, he told himself. The spokesman for the shégués had crossed his path once again, but this time the officer had no intention of letting him off. He was going to try hard to lock up the Pygmy for a long time, at least for being complicit in a crime against humanity. Orders from above had come in; they were looking for traces of Kiro Bizimungu all across Kinshasa and beyond. The command was that he be captured at any price. Colonel Mosisa was still waiting for the identification results of the body found at Ndjili, but in the meantime he and his men had entered the office to carry out a search, and both the Pygmy and his accomplice had appeared like rats at the bottom of a mousetrap.
His phone vibrated. “Yes. Oh, good! But, Governor, this guy doesn’t deserve any attenuating circumstances whatsoever! All right. It will be done. But only because you say so.” He hung up again.
“Shit!” Colonel Mosisa cursed out loud.
On the governor’s orders the guy had to be set free. They were afraid the shégués would start to riot, and there was no point in inviting any antagonism from even just part of the population. Letting the Pygmy go was yet one more of those bloody stupid things that prevented Congo from moving forward as it should, Colonel Mosisa was thinking, but politics were politics, orders were orders, and he simply had to go along with it. As for the Chinese, he needed to be detained; the Immigration Service would be coming for him later.
Shortly after his brief incarceration, Isookanga headed instinctively for the Great Market.
“Hey, Old Isoo, we heard you’d been taken to jail by some cops together with Zhang Xia,” Shasha la Jactance called to him, returning to the recess with Modogo.
“I was the one who saw you, Old Isoo. I saw how they were hauling you off in their cars. I tossed off a magic formula so their cars would break down a little further down, but it didn’t work; you were going too fast.”
“Not to worry, guys, I’m here
. I was able to get out. The governor himself had them let me go.”
“And Zhang Xia?” Shasha asked.
“He wasn’t as lucky; they kept him, but I don’t know why. We didn’t do anything wrong; we were just going to pay Old Bizimungu a visit. I’ll give them until tomorrow. If they haven’t let him go by then, I’ll get him out myself.”
“Old Isoo, I’ll go with you if you want,” Marie Liboma whispered. “You know how sharp I can be.”
“And we know your strength, Old One,” Jacula la Safrane added. “We know your negotiating power.”
Indeed, Isookanga knew how to bargain, but he had a bad feeling about Zhang Xia. He had tried pleading on his behalf but in vain; the colonel didn’t want to hear a word. He wasn’t going to let the Chinese go. And there was nothing pleasant about the cell they’d been made to share with a dozen other guys; he had a hard time imagining his friend spending one night, or more, in there.
In the dark jail Zhang Xia was crouching in a corner. Nobody had bothered him and Isookanga when they came in, but they did have to pay for the candle burning in the center of the 6 × 4 meters room. He and his pal had discussed their immediate future, created several hypotheses about what might have happened to Bizimungu, and assessed the relationship with him and the problems he may have run into. However, Colonel Mosisa’s information about the burnt corpse that was found in Ndjili worried them.
After two solid hours a cop had come for Isookanga, but Zhang Xia was made to wait, without a clue. Since his boss had disappeared he felt that events were increasingly getting away from him. It’s true that when the wind blows the grass inevitably bows down. Hence, the premonitions he’d been having lately were no mere flukes. Zhang Xia had tried to keep going with the illusion, but having illusions is believing that what you wish for is true, that what you hope for is true.
He just hoped that everything that was happening to him wouldn’t be connected to what his wife had written him about the man who had visited her. She hadn’t said so specifically, but he assumed it concerned a police officer. What could he possibly have done to justify a police investigation at his house in Chongqing? Zhang Xia was getting lost in speculations. He, who so fervently wished to go home to China, now caught himself dreading a possible return.
“You can’t keep going on that way, Isookanga. No one in our family has ever gone to prison. But since it did happen to you, it’s because you’re supposed to learn a lesson from it. Mayi eninganaka pamba te.”16
As usual, Old Lomama took advantage of the incident to offer his opinion. “This is the city and the laws are different here; they’re pitiless. They’re not for you. It could also mean your destiny is a different one, my son.”
Isookanga was listening but only with one ear, because the decision of going back to the village was beginning to force its way into his head. And for that he didn’t need any uncle. He was ready. As soon as Zhang Xia came out of jail he would go home to his family, no doubt about that. And the young Ekonda couldn’t see pursuing a career in Pure Swiss Water all by himself. In a city like Kinshasa, where money reigned supreme, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find someone who eventually might want to buy the map of minerals now that Bizimungu had vanished. The capital city was all good and well, but the life one led here didn’t offer a lot of security as Isookanga was slowly beginning to realize. As they say, Esika okoma te, mapata ekweya.17 In the village there was the telecommunications antenna; there was shelter and food. He had just acquired a solar USB charger from Amin Jamal, an Indian Shiite, and he owned the map of raw materials burned onto a digital disk. What else did an internationalist need to live the way he should?
“Uncle?”
“Yes, Isookanga?”
“Did you know there’s gold, bitumen, and diamonds in the Ekonda soil?”
“Of course, Little One. Way back when, how do you think those who chose to hunt with a rifle managed? Lead couldn’t always be found, but mystical stones and nuggets were there for the taking. They used those in the cannons they fired, and it worked just fine.”
“But why didn’t you ever tell me this before? Especially since you never stop saying that a traditional chief must be the same as Goldman Sachs: he must know everything.”
“First of all, you’re not a chief yet. And furthermore, men being what they are, if you tell them about such things, good-bye calves, cows, pigs: nobody will want to work anymore. Little One, have you ever heard of gold fever? Of those addicted to by-products? Of those who throw themselves out of Wall Street buildings because they bet on a rising market? ‘Insider trading,’ you know what that means? All that is lethal, believe me—me, your uncle here before you. My son, I think it’s high time for you to get your ideas together and find a satisfactory wife who loves you and takes care of you.”
“That, Uncle, is not possible.”
“Isookanga, it may hurt a little, but with a good circumciser anything is possible.”
“But, Uncle—”
“I don’t want to hear it! While you were gone, your mother sent me a letter. She told me that it’s never too late to do the right thing.”
“But, Uncle—”
“Be quiet!”
Early the next day, Isookanga presented himself with leaden feet at the headquarters of the Rapid Intervention Police. It was a series of one-story buildings in front of which lines of people came asking for news about a member of their family or a friend who’d been arrested. And they were many. In addition, there were men in navy uniforms everywhere. Isookanga asked for the office of Colonel Mosisa and waited a long time before he could see him. The officer arrived, escorted by his assistant, a second lieutenant, tall, doe-eyed, with a disdainful look and an arrogant bosom barely held together by a blue woolen shirt.
“Well, now, Isookanga,” said the colonel when he noticed the young Pygmy among the petitioners.
“My respects, Colonel.”
“I suppose it’s me you’ve come to see?”
“I’m here for news about Zhang Xia, Colonel.”
“Ah? But you’re too late, Little One. They came for him during the night. He must be flying across the Red Sea as we speak. They sent him back to China.”
“Don’t say that, Colonel. I really have to see him!” Isookanga exclaimed.
“Little One, your friend is uncivil. We received information about him from his embassy. He’s dangerous and being sought by the police in his country. A firing squad is almost certainly waiting for him there. He has corrupted functionaries, and in his country corruption is officially outlawed. The governor intends to maintain a good relationship with the Chinese. They asked us politely and we’ve extradited him. There’s nothing to be done; we have to defer to the international laws or else where are we headed?”
Inhaling deeply, the second lieutenant smiled approvingly. Before the buttons on her female uniform could pop into his face, Colonel Mosisa cut short the conversation: “Well, Little One, behave yourself from now on; stop the petty crime. Here in the DRC it’s different, we have human rights here. Did you notice how kind I’ve been to you? Where your friend lives, it’s no joke; there’s the law. Fine. Have a good day, Little One.”
The colonel stepped aside to let the aide-de-camp pass. She preceded him into the office with a deadly sway to her gait, one of those no one would have dared teach in a police academy worthy of its name.
The day had been especially bitter for Isookanga. Zhang Xia was gone, and it seemed to the young Ekonda that he had bequeathed him part of his gloom. His friend had to go back to China, but the circumstances were a little rough, he thought; they’d been unable to separate as true brothers by promising to see each other again, face-to-face one last time, bowing deeply. The Pygmy felt as saddened as a trader when a speculative bubble bursts just before Nasdaq closes on Friday afternoon. Isookanga’s gross domestic product was at its lowest and his heart was heavy. He wandered through the city for part of the day, then sought refuge in the hotel while Old Lomama was trying to
get an audience with some ministers. Isookanga had been staring at the ceiling for hours, remembering his times with Zhang Xia. All he hoped for now was that his friend would reach China safely and that nothing untoward would befall him. Surely the colonel had exaggerated a little; Zhang Xia was no criminal.
At sunset he went to the Great Market to see his friends the shégués. Gianni Versace presented Marie Liboma with a very rare label, signed Jean-Paul Knott, which he had just sewn onto the sleeve of a secondhand jacket. Shasha la Jactance was sitting on a small stool, cooking. She was busy chopping something on a flat stone with a machete, something Isookanga couldn’t identify right away.
“Shasha, what’s that? What are you cutting up there?”
“Nothing, Old Isoo. I’m making dinner for my MONUSCO guy. I should feed him properly. After all, he came to defend Congo’s civil population, didn’t he? He should get what he deserves, Old Isoo. He should be seasoned, he and the dishes he eats.”
“But Shasha, what are those hairs you’re chopping up?”
“Nothing. I’m telling you, Old Isoo, it’s just between that white man and me. We’re shégués, no? They even call us child sorcerers. But you know my name, Old Isoo; it’s Shasha la Jactance, Kolo Eyoma. Alukaki, azui.”18
Isookanga didn’t persist. But he was familiar with the practice. In the village he’d heard that scorned concubines killed their lovers this way when they misbehaved. The woman wronged would mince buffalo hairs into quasi microscopic bits, which she would mix into his food. That hair wouldn’t dissolve in the stomach. It wasn’t biodegradable and would end up causing incurable ulcers that—after months of spitting up blood—would lead to a painful death a little more than a year later.
Isookanga had seen Mirnas in his 4 × 4 coming to pick up little Shasha. Those were evenings when the intense heat went hand in hand with a black night, when for this reason an almost organic electricity emanated from bodies, creating unfortunate interferences in the neurons of some people. But this was not how Isookanga envisioned globalization. One couldn’t dump on people to that extent, for in the end they would inevitably want to take revenge.
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