Flowers of peace

For most people, the election results were in doubt until near the end, but for the victor they had never been. Just to rub in the fact that the results were a forgone conclusion, within ONE MINUTE of the end of the official declaration, there was a five minute commercial congratulating the victor, showing our beloved re-elected President being adored by villagers (Jesus’s Palm-Sunday-entry-into-Jerusalem-style), driving a modern motor boat (straight out of his election billboards), followed by a sequence of him being hailed by massive crowds in a political rally, to the tune of massed choirs.

We watched the results being announced on the TV. The moment it was finished we heard cars blowing their horns, and going outside to have a look, saw them driving at breakneck speed with people hanging out of the windows waving and yelling.

We had heard that Kabila had pre-booked the ballroom at the Grand Hotel – round the corner from us – to celebrate his victory. After three days of abortive bookings today was the day. Curiosity got the better of us and we walked with the dogs down towards the hotel to see what was happening. From a safe distance, alongside a few bored soldiers fiddling with their machine guns, we could see a massive crowd, protected by many police vehicles, singing, dancing and waving Kabila posters.

Deciding to get no closer, we turned round and started our usual walk. There was no one in sight, but apparently from nowhere a total stranger passed us, muttering, as he gave us a knowing look, “five more years of suffering”. Apart from him the only people we saw were security guards, policemen and soldiers, and a Lebanese family which stopped their 4 x 4 to put a fabric Kabila advertisement onto their rear door, by way of protection no doubt. I wonder where they got it from.

Towards the end of our walk, we passed a row of frangipani trees, their blossoms, having been struck off by the fierce rain of the night before, lying on the grass. She who must be obeyed picked up a selection of the flowers to take home. Just then we were joined by a friend who had also defied orders by going out, and while we were chatting when we heard “Madame!” The shout came from the nearby residence of a dignitary which has VIP protection. Now that he had our attention, a policeman came across the road carrying a bunch of flowers. “He’s going to sell them to me,” she muttered, “typical entrepreneurial Congolese spirit.” Not at all. He had nipped into the garden while we were talking, picked the flowers and made them into the little bouquet you can see above. “It is a present, Madame,” he said, “I can see you like flowers.”