Pomp and circumstance

What are the ethics of having a good time? Is it wrong to enjoy an extravagant party given by a family with great wealth? Would you go to a Royal garden party? Would you go to a party in Kinshasa given in a house that is more like a palace than a house?

We did – thanks to a curiously circular set of coincidences. Friends from South Africa announced that they had been invited to a birthday party, and would be coming to Kinshasa for the week end. We met them at their hotel. Their host was there also and it emerged that the mother of the woman whose birthday was being celebrated was an acquaintance of ours. She had been very friendly when we first arrived and made many introductions for us. So we were immediately invited too, the only injunction being that everyone was supposed to wear white.

Finding the house was tortuous, but once we were near one had only to mention the name of the family and everyone knew it. Discretion prevents me from giving more details, but suffice it to say that the head of the family, now dead, had been a big friend and later big enemy of Mobutu (but one of Mobutu’s sons was there, so no hard feelings . . .). He had, like so many people in this country, made and lost millions.

The house sits on the top of a hill. We are greeted at the grand entrance doors at the top of white marble steps by a butler, and then handed over to a young woman who takes us through a grand courtyard to greet the hostess. Things are already buzzing in the main reception room which can best be described as a ballroom. It is about 40 metres long with end-to-end windows leading onto a marble terrace. The back walls of the ballroom have Aubusson tapestries (or what look like Aubusson tapestries), set between double height beautifully carved wooden doors. Below the terrace is a more than Olympic size swimming pool, and below that are formal gardens and terraces.

The terrace overlooks the vast city. The twinkling lights, stretching into the far distance, mask the squalor and decay of reality, and allow one to have an almost romantic view of the vast urban mass.

One of the highlights was a performance by a Congolese singer. He lives in Brazil where he is a massive star, but had got together a local band for the event consisting mostly of his family members. A small stage and fancy lighting has been set up, and they even added theatre smoke to make it more dramatic. But the real joy was the music: rhythmically african, but with haunting, goose flesh melodies.

The food was delicious, and very sophisticated. But in case anyone got too serious about it, was interrupted by dancing between the courses. The drink was, of course, champagne; followed later by a selection of highly regarded French wines.

The splendour of the house and catering was in complete contrast to the informality and friendliness of the hosts and the guests. The majority were old friends of the birthday girl, now in middle age. Many had flown in for the event, from Brussels, Paris and Johannesburg. There were two other people we knew, which reinforces the idea that in a city of 8 million people there can still be village communities.

Nagging thought – how much had been spent? When you add it up, with probably a third of the guests having flown in specially for the event and staying in hotels; the band and stage; the catering and drink . . . it becomes mind-boggling. Out, damned thought: relax and enjoy it!