A sad story about a young mum-to-be in Basankusu, DR Congo

I first met Alain in 2013. I was visiting Basankusu during my time doing some work for an environmental group in Kinshasa. He introduced me to the staff and children in one of the schools for orphans here in Basankusu, for which he is the coordinator. When I returned at the end of last year, to take up my post with Mill Hill Missionaries, he took me to visit another three such schools and explained to me the realities of living with poor health-care, poor sanitation and a poor diet. 

Judith Bondjembo with Francis Hannaway 
(2015) 

“Simple complications, which could be easily dealt with in Europe, can quickly become fatal here in the Congo,” he told me. “That’s why we have so many orphans … orphans who have no means to pay school fees. So, from within our community we’ve founded our own schools for them … all run by volunteers.”

Sometimes he talked about his girlfriend and how he hoped to save up enough to have a wedding.

I became concerned about three weeks ago when he told me that his girlfriend was pregnant and had been taken to hospital because, they said, “her blood was finished”. We went together, Alain, Judith from the nutrition project and myself. The Catholic hospital is a great addition to Basankusu’s main hospital – but neither facility could be said to be top of the range – but they do their best.

I entered the small ward. Metal framed hospital beds had been donated by a government minister … whether or not they were new, I couldn’t tell. Alain’s girlfriend looked very ill, almost lifeless, pale and extremely thin. Family members sat on the beds around and chatted. She had some sort of drip attached to her arm.

Eventually, a nurse came in. He berated the family for not opening the windows to let some cool air in. The way he acted and spoke told me that he’d had a few drinks … but was still keen to set up the transfusion. People were sent left and right to buy bits of equipment – the doctor was away and the pharmacy was locked. I paid the money for the transfusion and the woman’s aunt went off to have her blood taken and returned with the nurse holding a huge bag of blood. They decided to use the same line that had delivered the drip and … after some of the blood had been squirted onto the floor, I made my excuses and let them get on with it.

The next day, she was sitting up in bed, looking a lot better, and saying she felt a lot better. I teased Alain about her weight. “She’s your wife, Alain, and she’s pregnant. She’s eating for two now … It’s you responsibility to make sure she eats plenty. I want to see her becoming fat. What do you think? Can you do something about it? No more running around with your orphan schools – stay at home and feed your wife … even if she refuses.” The older women all nodded their heads in agreement.

She had a blood condition called Sickle Cell Anaemia. The red blood-cell, which are normally round, are misshapen – often looking like a crescent or sickle shape. They prevent the malaria parasite from entering inside them, and it’s perhaps for this reason that the condition has been able to persist in the population. Unfortunately, these cells are fragile and result in severe anaemia. It is not wise to become pregnant with this condition.

A few days later, Alain phoned to say that they were leaving the hospital and going home. I was pleased to hear that she was picking up. I saw Alain several more times at the nutrition project, including at Judith’s house where she was feeding malnourished twins, and at his schools for orphans. He told me that his girlfriend asked after me and I thought no more about it.

So, Saturday just gone, I was discussing the nutrition project accounts with Judith at my house, when a young man arrived on a bicycle. He said that Alain had sent him and could I come quickly. I asked what the matter was and he said that Alain’s girlfriend was dead.

We were obviously shocked. I’d thought that everything was going alright. I took the Toyota Landcruiser, our standard all-terrain vehicle, and set off along the rough dirt tracks that are referred to as roads. The young man – perhaps Alain’s brother – left the bicycle in our garage because the dead woman’s family had threatened to take all his possessions and to beat him up. Along the road we stopped to pick up others who were going to the wake. They were carrying various foodstuffs, a sack of sugar, palm-nuts, and vegetables – very soon the car was full. The wake was in a newer part of Basankusu and the roads twisted and turned and were certainly never made with cars in mind. Branches bounced on the top of the car, long grass obscured the track and hedges and fences impinged its borders, scraping down the sides of the car.

A double-bed, made of wood, displayed her body, swathed in sheets and wearing a surgical mask and cap – just the upper part of her face was visible. An older woman was sitting beside her on the bed – I’m assuming it was her grandmother. Alain was sitting on the ground, wearing shorts and a torn t-shirt – which is the custom. He was wailing uncontrollably – as were many of the other mourners. Two Sisters of St Theresa, from our local community, who knew her well, were there when I arrived … a few more arrived later and led hymns and prayers.

I crouched down next to him and held his hand and his head. Words were not necessary. After a while I was led to a wooden chair where I sat down.

Our day-watchman came over to me and more or less proposed that I should pay for all the refreshments for all the mourners. The idea of Europeans as having endless resources surfaced again.  I nodded as he spoke … I would make a gesture of willing but make sure it went into Alain’s hands.

In the true spirit of a wake, some people stayed there for the night and others returned the next morning. The next day was Sunday. Fr Stan had been called out to the river, at 2 in the morning, to collect two religious sisters from Djombo who had arrived by canoe. The two sisters knew the dead woman very well and Fr Stan was given strict instructions not to tell them anything until they’d at least had some sleep.

Fr Stan drove me in the Landcruiser and we snaked around the narrow lanes back to the house where the wake was. A group of young men, standing against the rickety bamboo fence to the house, turned when they saw the car. “Take your car away!” they yelled. “We don’t need you here! We’ll carry the coffin!” There was, of course, no problem with them carrying the coffin, but the rude and arrogant attitude at the arrival of a priest had already started – possibly fuelled by lack of sleep, and probably by alcohol, too.

Alain’s brother had visited me early that morning and asked if I could pay the burial costs - £50. I later heard that they’d collected half of the costs and when they half walked, half carried Alain alongside our car, I was happy to give him the other £25. I was pleased to make a contribution but also pleased that friends and relatives hadn’t depended on me for all of it.

The wailing began in earnest as the sisters climbed into the car. Some were from the same village as Alain’s wife (she was from Baringa), some had got to know her while she lived and studied in Basankusu. Crying and wailing, is contagious and soon the whole four-wheel-drive was filled with the spirit of sadness and mourning. They carried the coffin and jogged along the lane in step - like you used to see them doing in demonstrations in South Africa. The up-step is quite high – but the speed that they travel is quite slow … it has a sort of bounce to it, and everyone is in step. Chanting accompanies the jogging – I was oblivious to the words, but it seems they incite all sorts of things including parts of the body which shouldn’t normally be mentioned in polite company.

We made a stop at her college for a few prayers and then continued the slow crawl behind the crowd to the cemetery area – which is just some grassy, overgrown land on the edges of Basankusu at the side of the road. Some graves had do-it-yourself concrete dressing and headstones … others had obviously imported modern gravestones from Kinshasa.

Fr Stan took the car a little way past the gathering and turned it round in preparation for the return journey. The sisters got out and we watched the coffin being lifted high above the people’s heads the grave.

Suddenly, there was a commotion. The grave was far too small. It was neither long enough, nor wide enough. It was very obvious that the grave-digger wanted a higher fee than he’d received. The youths who’d carried the coffin were also in ebullient mood. They chanted louder and louder and blocked our exit with the coffin. At one point, one of them sat down on the coffin – but at least was persuaded to get up again by some other mourners. They also started to demand money … and so our day-watchman tried to intervene. I saw him trying to appease them and then look towards our car. “This is where they ask us for more money,” I said to Fr Stan. The watchman’s attempt was met with a swift rebuttal. “This lady was a friend of the sisters,” he said. “We have already made a generous contribution, but it’s really not us you should be asking.”

Somehow the matter was resolved and the poor young woman’s remains were finally laid to rest.

Today is Tuesday, The mourning is still continuing. Today or tomorrow they expect the arrival of the dead woman’s family members from Baringa, which is 120 miles away. They will most likely have set off walking on Sunday.

Alain can expect to be menaced again by these new mourners – after all, he is seen as the one who caused the situation of her death.

 But eventually things will calm down.