Waiting for lockdown

It’s two days to go. About half our friends have left, the office is closed until further notice, telephone tree systems for making sure everyone can be contacted have been set up and tested. It’s the last day of campaigning and the two main contenders for president, Tshisekedi and Kabila have organized rallies at the same stadium, thus ensuring that there will be conflict. We get text message warnings to avoid the area. These are followed in rapid succession by warnings that violence has erupted somewhere else, the Governor of Kinshasa has banned both rallies, that Tshisekedi was at the airport, demanding to travel into town, but being blocked by police, that he has gone to the local airport with similar results, that there is fighting on the airport road and 6 people have been killed by Kabila’s armed escort, that all American personnel have been told not to leave their residences, and that a state of emergency is being considered.

The cumulative effect of the messages is quite worrying, but in fact there’s no trouble anywhere near us, and we are not being threatened. We go out for our usual walk with the dogs, and meet US Embassy people who are similarly not worried about the situation; they stroll along in shorts and sandals, enjoying the balmy evening.

But friends who have been here a long time have gone into panic mode. They phone to tell us not to go anywhere: they talk of the risk of being caught unprepared, and the horror of having to spend days on end as a captive somewhere without food or water.

That evening, we’ve been invited to a party given by the Defence Attaché. We know we’re in good company when we see ten military grab-bags on the steps outside the house. Inside are defence attachés from the major embassies and many British soldiers. A Congolese woman who comes from a wealthy family, and now works in a military English language training programme, is very distraught: her family mechanic has been killed in the cross fire when Kabila was attacked on the airport road. But the general mood is far from fearful – indeed as far as the security people are concerned there’s nothing to worry about. The warning messages have made the situation seem worse than it is, because if they didn’t warn people they would be blamed if something bad happened. I chat to an officer who specialises in such situations: his last posting was Libya. Even that, he assures me, was much less bad than it seemed on the TV.

The few remaining fears thus quelled, we go into town to meet two BBC World Service correspondents. They have invited she-who-must-be-obeyed to dinner to thank her for facilitating many of their interviews in Kinshasa. We walk from their hotel to one of the better restaurants: the only people visible are a couple of street kids, who give us a predatory eye, and security guards. Inside the restaurant all is normal, if very quiet. Our hosts talk of the interviews they have broadcast in the past week, and the incredibly good response from their management and the listeners.

The next morning, we go for our walk along the river. There are slightly fewer people than normal, but the sense is that there’s nothing to worry about. The Congolese soldiers manning the check points give us a relaxed “Bonjour”. We bump into a familiar figure, a presidential candidate who is a regular walker, and is generally expected to come in fourth out of the eleven candidates. He has his normal entourage of five bodyguards, and looks more than usually forlorn – or is it worried? Only when he passes our gate and the guards jump to attention does his face light up with a hint of a smile.