Congo Kinshasa: trapped in times of Coronavirus!

I got a new visa for the Congo in January. In early February I arrived back in Kinshasa. There was some little commotion at the airport because of the new virus that was going around. After passing through immigration control, we had to fill in forms to say that we were in good health. Everybody was impatient, after having joined the flight in Brussels 2 hours later than scheduled and now being mixed with people from a different flight who’d already been given the form to fill in.

Francis Hannaway
with Judith Bondjembo

I quickly filled in my name and passport number correctly and then added a random number as my phone number – then, as we’d all done for the same form in the time of Ebola, ticked “No” for all the questions without stopping to read them. At this time there was no Coronavirus in the DRC.

I arrived in Basankusu, two weeks later, and sometime after that we got news of the first case of Covid-19 in Kinshasa. The news changed each time we heard it. First it was a Belgian, later they changed this and said he was Congolese but lived in France. The second person was from Cameroon, later it appeared that he was Congolese but had visited Cameroon. They were taken to a hospital; no, it was a prison. They had all the help they needed; no, they were left in a hotel room without food or water. The story changed each time. Eventually, more people were diagnosed. Today the number of people who’ve tested positive is 2140, with 67 deaths nationally. All the deaths have been in Kinshasa, as have 90% of the cases.

When other deaths are taken into account – and when it’s compared to other countries – it seems a very small number indeed. Malaria kills literally thousands every day in the Congo. The low quality of life, illnesses such as typhoid, measles, untreated operable conditions and poverty in general, mean that it’s very rare to find anyone over the age of 80 here. Almost half of all children die before their 5th birthday.
Nevertheless, Kinshasa has been sealed off. Nobody can enter or leave. All international and internal passenger flights have been cancelled. Although the British Embassy has advised me to leave immediately, that’s easier said than done. I can’t go to Kinshasa – and that’s the only place I’d be able to leave from, should flights resume.

In Basankusu, life continues as normal. Schools and churches are closed nationally. Beer gardens are, curiously, still open, but never very busy. Goods on the market-stalls are becoming scarce and prices have gone up dramatically. On top of that, the dollar rate has changed in Kinshasa – which means prices will rise further everywhere.

At the malnutrition centre we only have a few post-measles patients. The aid organisation, Doctors Without Borders (MSF) are running a vaccination campaign and mopping up malnutrition as a complication of measles. But, in two weeks time, MSF will be gone and we’ll get all the children back.

June, July and August are our busiest times at the centre. Malnutrition destroys families and sadly, as every year, I’ll be going to several children’s funerals. “The hungry months” begin to ease only when the edible caterpillars arrive on certain trees, in late August. The caterpillars provide body-building protein for the children. In the meantime, I do my best to collect money to feed the children with our special porridge, as well as beans, rice and fish.

Congo Kinshasa: a curious tale about a sheep

We came by a couple of sheep. Well, when I say “we”, it’s more “Judith”. Judith came by a couple of sheep – even though I tried to get her to agree that everything we have is part of the project for malnutrition and wheelchairs. 

Francis Hannaway with
Judith Bondjembo

It seems such a long time since she got them; I can’t even remember how it came about. I think someone gave us a gift of one, who later gave birth to a second. At first they were kept at our pineapple garden. We have a couple who live there in a little house, as caretakers. Eventually, they were moved, to make room for a pig, to Mama Marthe’s house, where she has her own sheep, as well as pigs and hybrid chickens. Mama Marthe and her husband run a school for orphans and for children who are diasabled.

(She’s just come and told me that the first one was a gift from her dad. It gave birth several times until she had five. Unfortunately people kept stealing them.)

Sheep in the Congo don't have wool! 

I never really heard much more about the sheep. Judith often talks to our cook, or family members, in Lomongo and forgets to include me. Lomongo is the language of the Mongo tribe, whereas Lingala, which I do speak (and very well, I might add) is spoken across a large part of the Congo, so people from different tribes can understand each other.

We visited Judith’s cousin, who recently became a protestant pastor, and who lives just around the corner. She saw that he had a bicycle. “We need a bike to carry the sheep,” she muttered, on seeing it. “What are you talking about? A bike? … for a sheep?”

“Mama Marthe wants us to move our sheep,” she continued. “There are a lot of thieves about where she lives and she’s worried they’ll take our sheep. So they could carry them on a bike to our house.” 

I tried to imagine someone riding a bike, with a sheep, somehow tied up, on the luggage rack. I’d seen a pig laid on top of a shelf of bamboo on the back of a bike. The bamboo sticks out on either side to make the rack wider. It all depends on how big the animal is … More often, we see pigs being transports in a handcart. Handcarts are the same all over the Congo, from what I’ve seen. They make a shallow rectangular cart from the iron bars used for reinforcing concrete, the framework includes a raised up bar, both front and rear, to pull and push with. Metal roofing sheets are hammered out to make the panels. They are used for carrying brick, sand cement … and of course, pigs.

“I would think a handcart would be more suitable,” I replied. But Judith was adamant that a bicycle would be fine.

We sat and chatted to Papa Pasteur and his wife and then returned home. Just as we arrived, Papy, a young man who helps in our big garden, and Moses, Mama Poso’s son, arrived on a bike, together with two sheep! Papy had pedalled the bike, while Moses sat astride the luggage rack with the two sheep, tied up with twine, on his lap. 

I’ve seen a lot of cruel practice in the Congo. Nobody seems to have any hint of compassion for an animal’s suffering. The sheep were obviously distressed. I washed my hands of the situation. I light rain started to fall and I left them to it outside. The mother sheep was heavily pregnant. Once taken off the bike, it fell on the ground. It was still breathing – but not for long. It was very soon a “late” sheep – defunct, deceased, brown bread, it had shuffled off this mortal coil, etc. The sheep was dead. The other one, a young lamb, was all right.

“Come and see the sheep!” called Judith. “It’s dead!” I stayed inside the house, ignoring her. 

“How could someone be so ignorant to think they could tie up an animal like that and not injure it?” I thought.

Eventually, Judith came in. I told her straight. “I’m really not happy with how they brought those sheep here. I think you have another life, a life that you don’t include me in. … and on top of that you talk to them in Lomongo, so I don’t have a chance to understand what you’re saying!”

“What do you mean?” she asked, looking a bit worried.

“The whole thing about your sheep and your pigs and your pineapple garden, lots of things; you’re not informing me. You think you are – but you’re telling other people in front of me, without including me. You should be discussing things with me before discussing them with our cook, or Papa Pasteur’s wife!”

“But I called you over to see the sheep that had died,” she implored. “What else could I do?”

“No,” I continued, “the whole thing about the sheep and pigs seems to exclude me. I thought we were only starting to discuss how the sheep would be transported, and suddenly they arrive, and one is now dead. I’m really not happy about it! Who told them to carry the sheep like that?”

“Francis,” she said, looking gently into my eyes, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t tell them to carry the sheep like that. Marthe sent them. She wanted the sheep gone. I really didn’t know they were coming today and am as sorry as you that the sheep died.”

“What will you do with the body?” I asked.

“I’ll just throw it away,” she said.

I brightened up a bit. I suppose it wasn’t her fault, but I was still upset by the general indifference to such cruelty. “It didn’t die from an illness,” I said. “I’m sure the meat will be fine. It would be good for you to eat it today or tomorrow while it’s still fresh.”

The meat didn’t interest me, of course. I’ve limited myself to fish since I was 25. Within a few minutes, they’d called someone to butcher it. The next day, we sat together to eat. Mama Julie brought in a plate of grey looking tripe. A couple of wrinkled grey triangles rested beside it – perhaps the pancreas or other organs. It looked most unappetising. 

“What about the rest of it?” I asked. 

“I’ve given it to my nieces,” she replied. “But, really, there was practically nothing on it. She was all shin and bones.”

She slowly chewed the intestines from her plate, her eyes half closed. "It makes a welcome change from fish," she smiled.