Assassinations and assemblies

We are one week away from I-day: the massive celebrations planned to celebrate 50 years of Independence of the Congo. The King of Belgium (unpopularly in some quarters) has accepted the invitation to be guest of honour. President Kabila will have an opportunity to showcase the progress his government has made: the central boulevard has been transformed from a picturesque major road in a provincial French town to an eight lane super-highway – a sea of asphalt which is as dangerous for pedestrians as its grey dominance is ugly to the eye. But the grey is now being mitigated by hundreds of flags, while buildings along the route are being hastily painted, ready for the great day.

The event has been rather overshadowed by the assassination of a leading and very popular human rights activist, giving critics of the King even more ammunition against his attendance.

I-day -6: Thursday. We all receive circulars. Due to the likelihood of civil unrest, we are not to go near the main celebrations, but should stay at home. The office will be closed for the whole week. The circulars from the UN and other international organisations, warning of civil unrest, are sent round by email. On our evening walk we meet an old timer who warns us that the body of the activist will be carried from the central hospital to the burial chapel the following morning, and not to go near the route.

I-day -5: Friday

Go to the bank, which happens to be on the boulevard, and run into the said procession. Probably about 1000 people are walking in a slow procession, carrying memorial banners. A bunch of press photographers head the procession, walking backwards, trying to get good shots. The mourners are outnumbered by police and soldiers of all types, from comparatively normal ones, just walking along, to pick up trucks loaded with menacing riot police. We gently push past the processing and no one takes any notice.

I-day -4: Saturday

We have engineered invitations to a Japanese concert which is held at the main theatre (absurdly called the Palais du Peuple, absurdly because it normally hides behind locked gates, and entry for the people is strictly verboten). In the morning we check the route so that we can be sure to find it in the evening. The road is blocked due to roadworks and we are diverted willy-nilly into a little street. In turn this leads us into the old cité, the area designated for Africans in colonial times. Trying to find the right route out we find ourselves in a huge market area. There are so many tiny stalls, handcarts, rubbish piles and potholes that there is hardly any space for the car. We plough on very gently, every so often having to stop completely as a vehicle comes from the opposite direction. The further we penetrate this mass of people, the more unlikely it looks as though there is a way out at the end of the road. Meanwhile the buyers and sellers throng around us, and we are quite scared that we will bump into someone, or knock the load from someone’s head. Gentle beeping of the horn helps. Just when we seemed to reach the final impasse someone shows us a small road to the right which, much to our relief, leads into a quieter street and eventually back to the town. Going a distance of about a kilometre has taken almost an hour. After this experience we decide not to go to the concert alone, and get a lift with a friend.

We arrived early, and find that it is to be scene of the major march past. A huge area of what used to be parkland is now concreted over and grandstands are being erected for the dignitaries. Small groups of soldiers are half-heartedly practicing their drill. One, on his way home, catches our eye and breaks into over-the-top goose-stepping. After ten steps he crumples into helpless laughter.

The proceedings are opened by the Japanese Ambassador, who starts with one minute’s silence in honour of the assassinated activist. He gives a speech in gratifyingly easy-to-understand French.

The concert is too long, but fun. The main act is a traditional Japanese guitar-type instrument playing with a piano: a very interesting combination of sounds. The grand piano has lovely tone, but is unbelievably battered and scratched. It clearly has many interesting tales to tell. In due course the National School of the Arts is thanked for the loan of the piano.

I-day -2: Monday

Things are warming up in the neighbourhood. The Belgian ambassador’s house, more or less opposite us, is being decorated with bunting, and a beer lorry is delivering beer, tables and chairs all bright yellow and branded with the logo of the local beer, Primus. The brewery gives free beer to embassies if they accept this branding complete with waitresses also decked out in bright yellow. It’s interesting to know that the Belgian Ambassador and his King are not averse to a freebie, particularly with such commercial overtones.

On the evening dog walk I am stopped by a security guard: “The king is here,” he says in a tone that suggests that he’s got a hot tip for the races. Further on a municipal gang has finished its job of painting the kerb stones alternate red and white, and wait for a lift; a Land Rover is delivering large cardboard boxes to the soldiers guarding the river – new uniforms perhaps? One of the soldiers shouts across to me – Belgian? When I say no he’s disappointed – clearly he wanted to talk about the king. The frisson of royalty is clearly in fertile ground here.

I-day -1: Tuesday

I have to go into town to get internet time. Everywhere there are gangs sloshing on paint in a last minute realisation that tomorrow is the big day. Shops are frantic with people stocking up, and the white lines on the Boulevard are nearly finished. Nearly home, and there’s a massive traffic jam as the King’s party has started. Looking at the queue of guests waiting to have their credentials checked one is struck by the number of seriously scruffy people – Belgians probably.

I-day

All calm as we take our morning walk: the only obvious difference is that the tank, next to a military check point near the river, which has been perpetually hidden under a dirty tarpaulin, has gone. Massive white gouges in the tarmac show that it has headed towards town.

At about ten one of the security guards comes to tell me that since all our policemen are out today, he is all alone, and will therefore sit in the middle of the property. His predictions are obviously wrong and when I wander out at midday to let the dogs do their thing I see him sat outside with a small colour television, watching the parade. The TV is powered from an overhead cable – ingenuity was never lacking in Africa. Our neighbour, a Swedish diplomat, comes back from town saying that everything is quiet, but she just managed to avoid being trapped behind a massive procession of newly bought refuse trucks and the like. She came back because she was warned that there’s some crowd trouble building up somewhere.

Everything is spookily quiet until we hear gun shots – but the pace and number suggests that they are a 21 gun salute.

As the sun begins to set the dogs get restive so we go out for a walk. Huge UN convoy outside the Belgian Ambassador’s Residence – speculate it is Ban Ki-moon, who’s in Kinshasa at present. At the ceremonial entrance of the Residence facing the river, we see someone who is probably the Belgian King being shoved into a smart car and zoomed off towards the President’s house with an escort of twenty cars and about 100 soldiers. He’s not wearing a crown so one can’t be sure it was him, but he looks sufficiently undistinguished to be Belgium’s head of state. One of the dogs chooses the moment of his grand exit from the Residence to turn her back to him and do a poop on the ?royal? turf.

Listen to the news. Clearly nothing particularly bad has happened, so it’s doomsville for all the security types who were predicting mayhem. If only people hadn’t learned how to behave, life would be so much more fun.