Middle class murmurings

She had the soft skin and bearing of someone who has escaped hardship, and the accomplished smile of a professional public relations person.

“Are you enjoying the show?” was her predictable opening gambit.

We were at an extraordinarily good exhibition of contemporary art hosted by one of the banks in Kinshasa. The drinks table showed that no expense had been spared – French Champagne beckoned; or if you liked Whisky, some of the finer malts.

Once one got past the formulaic comments, our young host became very interesting. Like many Congolese, she had no reluctance to criticise her own people or her Government. We got onto the subject, as everyone seems to do these days, of what is happening in North Africa and the Middle East. Is revolution going to come here? To answer that question she gave us some of her personal history.

She was brought up in a conventional middle class family. Her father is an architect, and presumably did quite well in the Mobutu years – “à l’époque”, as everyone says. They lived in one of the formerly very desirable areas on a hill overlooking the centre of the city, with delightful views and cooling breezes. Unfortunately the area has since lost its status due to the horrendous traffic jams which make getting there a nightmare.

After completing her baccalauréat she went to university in Belgium, as many of her friends were doing. She was away from home for seven years. She described her homecoming in detail, about how, although she knew where her parents’ home was, she had lost all her bearings. Familiar streets and landmarks had vanished, and it took her ages to find her former home.

What had happened? Everywhere you looked there were little shops, so that rather than seeing a residential neighbourhood you saw a shopping street. The shops had been erected in front of the houses, with the front wall of the house the back wall of the shoplet; erected either by the owners of the houses themselves, or with their consent (for a price) in a desperate effort to supplement their income. Formerly neat neighbourhoods had been allowed to fall into decay; houses showed obvious signs of dilapidation such as falling gutters and crumbling plaster. Clean paintwork was a rarity. The roads were full of potholes and the drains choked with garbage. Every available space had been filled with shacks.

It was like living in a highly congested village, and the people with whom they now had to share their neighbourhood were dirty, noisy and poor.

She blamed it all on the various pillages which had taken place and ruined what had been a fairly vibrant (though very corrupt) economy, and the subsequent flight to the city caused by warfare. Since then, the hopes which had been generated by the peace talks, and the election of a new government almost five years ago, had come to naught. Things were simply getting no better.

She spent last Christmas in South Africa – Durban – with her children. It was her first trip. She couldn’t find the words to communicate how much they had enjoyed it. The wonderful beaches, the sights, the restaurants – everything had been amazing.

“What says it all,” she said, “was that my children cried and cried and cried when they had to leave. They simply didn’t want to come back here.”

Her husband has joined a “reflection” group, one of many. This consists of about 200 people who meet every two weeks and reflect on what is happening to the DRC. I’ve no doubt that the conversation goes beyond reflection to consider how they can bring about change.

“So,” we ask, “are they going to start a revolution?”

“Maybe,” she said, “but if they do, I’m getting out of here.”