An eerie lull

The office is closed and we all pretend to work from home. But the gardeners for our flats have conscientiously come to work, and report gangs of youth prowling around their neighbourhood, looting and terrorising. In spite of this, the situation is said to be more or less under control. Shopkeepers tell us their shops will remain closed and shuttered until further notice, and that they have moved their valuable goods to warehouses or their homes.

Along the street in front of us, several large army trucks are seen driving towards the President’s office. Meanwhile, our walk along the river has been closed, and more sandbags are brought in to shore up previously modest defences (against an invasion from Brazzaville?). Above all there’s an uncanny silence.

It’s funny how the history of the DRC and Kinshasa has taught us to expect violence, but when nothing happens what do we say: is it “How silly of me”? or is it “Just wait – it’ll come”? Unfortunately the latter – there seems to be unanimity about that. And the longer we are kept waiting the more absurd the shuttered shops and empty streets seem to feel.

But everyone seems convinced that the worst will happen. The embassy staff who were not housed in the grounds of the embassy started to get nervous, so yesterday they were moved to the few houses in the embassy compound, and had the sensitive job of negotiating whose bedrooms they will use. Security staff congratulate themselves that they have evacuated family members some time earlier. The office of she who must be obeyed is divided into two: one side is now the billet for the local security guards. It is identified by a large carpet – which is to be their mattress until further notice.

Last night we went for a sun-downer on the roof of a flat not far from here. We took the dogs for our protection and their enjoyment. They got into the lift without turning a hair, and once on the roof decided that it was their very own territory to be defended against all comers.

As we sat up there, with a wonderful view of a red sun setting over the glistening river it was hard to have any sense of emergency. But these calm thoughts were interrupted by American Embassy radios spluttering urgent instructions that employees were, with immediate effect, forbidden from leaving their houses, and only in extreme cases, formally approved in advance, could they move, and then only in armoured vehicles. The subjects of these instructions took no notice, and it wasn’t until after supper that they left, in ordinary cars. The sense of unreality intensifies.

There’s almost nothing to talk about except the election. Based on evidence from a wide range of sources, including election observers, the predominant view is that Tshisekedi has won, but that somehow Kabila will be declared the victor. There’s outrage in many quarters about the apparent willingness of the international community to go along with vote fixing in the interest of “stability”.

This morning, a day after the official deadline for announcing the results and the expiry of Joseph Kabila’s five year term of office, we are told that the full results will not be declared for another two days – maybe on Thursday evening. The Electoral Commission is under huge pressure, and their families have also fled, typically to Belgium. All international flights have apparently been cancelled.

Getting information is incredibly difficult: nowhere, it seems, can we find tabulated results. So we channel-hop on radio and TV trying to find out what is going on. Tension mounts and the dogs curl up in the corners looking miserable, also expecting the worst.

But apart from that life is absolutely normal. No worries, mate.