Once I spent a few weeks in Mogadishu. That was before Somalia became what it is today: then it had a dictator (Siad Barre) and things sort-of worked. We were accommodated at the American guest house, and fed wholly imported food straight from the US. But these home comforts were not enough for most of the residents: they typically had only one thought: when will I get out of here? I can’t remember quite why they all thought it was so terrible. I thought parts of Mogadishu were very nice, and one could probably have a life there which was no more unpleasant than many parts of the globe.
But our guest house colleagues lived only for the moment when they would finally board the plane to Nairobi. However, there were two problems. First, that the flights to Nairobi were only once a week, and secondly that they sometimes didn’t come. The plane had broken down, had been commandeered for something else or whatever. But the fact was that this happened regularly. As a result anxiety about when one would leave escalated. You would notice people’s appetite would go, they would sit in the corner to avoid conversation, or would scribble endlessly on tiny scraps of paper, no doubt making notes about what they were going to do when they got out.
When you meet someone in Kinshasa the conversation often starts with establishing your coordinates. How long have you been here and how much longer have you got to go? People at the end of their stay often use words like “I can’t wait,” or “only four weeks to go.” They are often surprised if one says that one is enjoying it, and put it down to inexperience or hopeless optimism.
Recently we met someone who said: “this place is hell on earth.” He was being serious. He pointed to the poverty, the collapse of public services, the abuses of power and the breakdown of law and order.
But is it really like that? Maybe it is how you respond to a situation that is more important than the situation itself.
As time passes we have met an increasing number of old-timers, by which I mean people who’ve been here for ten or twenty years, and who see this as their home. Most have been through some very tough times – seen their property looted or confiscated, and suffered all sorts of maltreatment. But many have learned to cope with the strangenesses of the bureaucracy, and things that don’t work. They love to speculate about what is going to happen and find the tricky politics fascinating. They are willing to take the risks of instability for the sake of a life which, when you analyse it carefully, has much to offer.
Recently we were talking to some such who were waxing positively lyrical about life in Kinshasa. That was made more believable by the fact that we were sitting in the balmy night on an embassy lawn, on the banks of the mighty river, the lights of Brazzaville twinkling on the other side. Drinks flowed and everyone was very amiable.
They told us the story of someone who had just spent a month in Europe – a dream holiday you would say. As the door of the plane opened, and he prepared himself to be immersed in the raucous chaos of the airport, this old-timer stood at the top of the steps, spread his hands out in an embrace and said “Kinshasa, je t’aime.”
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