Congo Kinshasa: A trip to Bokakata and meeting Mama Momba

“It’ll be a good distraction for you, Francis. You need a little change of scene and it’ll be fun,” Judith reassured me. Within a couple of days we were climbing onto motorbikes for a ride through the forest.

Bokakata, 70 km from Basankusu, was a loose community of small but quite separate settlements, which were ravaged by elephants in the 1970s. During that time, most people had moved towards the river. Judith’s dad returned to the original Bokakata and built a house there. Originally a simple structure, he built it up over time with fired bricks. He established a primary school, with himself as the head teacher. He planted crops and became self-sufficient. Although he later became head teacher, and then schools inspector, in Basankusu, he’s always kept one foot in his village.

Judith Bondjembo overtaking 
me on a motorbike

The roads in the Congo are in a poor condition. Made from earth, they are badly eroded in many places. Our drivers, however, had a death wish and transported us, with all the spine breaking shocks imaginable until – fortunately – my bike got a puncture. We spent a good hour, if not two, repairing the puncture in a small village along the way. The glue they used was from a rubber creeper – the type that the infamous first rubber industry collected rubber from, in Congo’s early colonial days. Once the puncture had been repaired, we set off at a more comfortable speed. We passed Bokakata’s Catholic church and convent. The Daughters of Jesus had finally withdrawn from their convent here and have since been replaced by the local Theresian Sisters. The grass in the mission compound stood chest high – during the coronavirus confinement there were no schoolchildren to wield the machetes that slash the grass.

Half an hour later, we started to pass little houses made from mud and sticks. People ran out and waved their arms to greet us as we passed. Eventually, we came to the single road which makes up the village. We dismounted in front of Judith’s dad’s house. Children emerged to give a well rehearsed welcome in parroted French. Women from the neighbouring houses lay down pieces of brightly coloured cloth, the ones they use as wrap-around skirts, to make a welcoming carpet for us. The children arrived again to repeat their performance and to present a bunch of plastic flowers in an ancient looking aluminium vase.

We’d sent a bottle of the finest Indian whisky ahead of us with our provisions and this was opened to begin the festivities of welcoming us. Just about everybody from the tiny community took their place along the perimeter of the enclosure, while a young man passed along the ranks selling tots of foul-smelling moonshine gin and single cigarettes. We were invited to the house, where a meal had been prepared for us in what was to be my bedroom. I sat on the edge of my bed while balancing my plate on a wooden straight-backed chair. Once I’d finished eating, the party continued. A children’s choir sang and danced for us – a wise man from the village stood like a town crier, regaling how the village had been founded by a white man, in 1930, and that one day a white man would return to establish development projects (did he mean me?)

Francis perched on the 
edge of his bed to eat

As the evening wore on, I decided that the moonshine gin wasn’t as foul-smelling as I’d first thought and so I tried a little – and then a little more.

The first day ended and we went to sleep.

For the few days we spent there, Judith was in her element. She would often leave me for a few hours to sit among her family and chat to them in Lomongo, the tribal language, which is as clear to me as Chinese. It’s a running saga; everybody agrees that she should invite me to sit with her wherever she is and that she should speak Lingala. I’m fluent in Lingala. She says she will and starts off in Lingala, only to change back to Lomongo after a few sentences.

Fortunately, I had brought my trusty Kindle e-reader. I plunged back into My Family and Other Animals – The Corfu Trilogy, by Gerald Durrel and left Judith to chat with her relatives. 

The visit was very pleasant; it was relaxing. We’d left the very capable volunteers back in Basankusu to keep the malnutrition centre running and it felt good to leave our worries behind. Throughout each day, various visitors arrived – mostly Judith’s relatives, quite a few of them asking if we could help them in some way. 

We had three little trips out. One day, we followed the road to the left – we called in at each house, mostly spread out some distance from the next. A small cluster of houses was further away, on the other side of a thirty minute walk along a well-kept forest path. Everybody welcomed us warmly. We collected eggs, pineapples and sugarcane, as gifts, along the way. 

The following day we took the road to the right – the distance wasn’t as great, but we were received just as warmly at each house.

Francis Hannaway and Judith Bondjembo were welcomed everywhere in Bokakata

Meeting people in their homes

Judith’s dad, Jef, had the only fired-brick house in the village. There was a small medical centre in the grounds. Next door was the primary school that he’d founded. We set out one morning to visit his huge forest garden behind the house. To the uninitiated, it appeared as rough forested land with a lot of felled trees. We climbed over the trees to see the whole extent of it. He wanted to make an appeal for a petrol-driven chainsaw. Until now, each tree had to be cut down with a machete, then cut and removed by manpower alone. A powered saw would make things a lot easier. I filmed an interview with him on my phone.

The day before we returned to Basankusu, Judith received a visitor. A young, quite thin woman, called Momba, crouched in front of Judith’s chair telling her, in a quiet voice, of her problems. As she turned towards me, I noticed a huge mass on the side of her jaw and neck. “Francis,” whispered Judith. “What do you think it could be? Cancer?”

It certainly could have been cancer. We’d often talked about our work and how we should concentrate only on malnutrition and not get drawn into other activities, no matter how deserving. We’d been stung a few times, most recently with an old friend’s brother, who’d suffered crush injuries when a house collapsed on him. He’d been bedridden for almost 3 years when they finally decided to amputate his leg. We were asked for some help towards the costs, by the relative who was looking after him. The money was never passed on to the hospital. We said we’d pay for the medicines post-op – it couldn’t be that much. Later, without asking us, they did another operation on his hand because of pressure sores. To cut a long story short, he died. Badly managed pressure sores finished him off – and not the amputation as we thought at the time. We ended up being embarrassed with a bill for $400, and had no option but to pay it. 

So, Momba probably had cancer. She’d no doubt spend a lot of time in hospital at our expense, they’d prescribe all sorts of cures, and even attempt an operation on the lump – and eventually she would die. Perhaps we should politely decline to help her; she would die in her village and we would be able to use our money to help malnourished children. Hmmmm … a difficult decision. 

Judith and I sat looking at each other. “Well,” I ventured, “if we make it clear that we’ll pay for a visit to the doctor and he can give a diagnosis, but we won’t promise anything else. We’ll have to be clear.” Judith agreed.

The next day, we climbed back aboard the motorbikes for the homeward journey. This time, the drivers didn’t need to be restrained. The speed they covered the hard dirt tracks, flying recklessly around blind corners – meant that I spent more time in the air than in my seat. Nobody could enjoy such an experience – but they did it to show their expertise. In any other country they’d be arrested. But eventually, we arrived back in Basankusu.

The following day, Mama Momba arrived by riverboat, together with her baby boy and 8 year-old daughter. She slept that night at my house and the next day I took her to the Catholic hospital next door. 

Mama Mômba on her arrival
in Basankusu

Dr Eric, recently arrived from Mbandaka, was all smiles. “No, Francis, don’t worry. Cancer is quite different. It’s probably an infected tooth. She said she’s suffered with it for almost a year, so it’s quite possible there’s been a blockage which has caused the swelling over time. However,” he paused, looking more serious, “it could be TB - I think I can see ganglions in the swelling.” 

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“Oh, yes,” I exclaimed, “we’ve had cases of that at the centre before. Scrofula.” 

“Yes,” Dr Eric agreed, “Scrofula – that’s another name for it! Don’t worry, Francis, we will give an eight week course of a combination of antibiotics designed just for TB. Then she should be fine.”

What a relief. After a couple of days sleeping in the hospital, we installed Momba in our house – she very soon found her feet, cooking and cleaning and slowly growing in confidence.

Over the next two weeks, the swelling, although it didn’t disappear completely, reduced considerably. She started to put on weight. Then, one day, we saw her doing a little dance. “I’m getting better! I’m getting better!” she sang – and danced again!

One day I was at Fr. Christiantus’ house. I told him the story of Mama Momba. “Do you remember that I invited you to go to Djombo with me at that time – but you chose to go to Bokakata instead?”

“Yes,” I replied, “Momba was very lucky that we happened to be there at the time. If I’d gone to Djombo she would have missed her chance and probably died from her illness.”

“Luck has little to do with it,” Fr. Christiantus smiled with a knowing look. “I think you were sent.”

Francis Hannaway: what I do

Hello

My name’s Francis Hannaway.

I'm from Middlesbrough, in England.

Cette page en français

I live and work in the Congo. The Democratic Republic of Congo, to give it its full name, is a massive country right in the middle of Africa. It’s covered in lush rainforest. And I can pick avocados, bananas and pineapples from my garden to have for breakfast.

Francis and Judith Hannaway 

But how did I end up here? And what do I do?

I’ll start my story with my dad. He was a welder at Smith’s Dock shipyard, in Middlesbrough. When he was 29 he worked his way across Canada. Later, after he'd married my mother and had children – he took us half way around the world to Australia, where we lived for almost 3 years. I’d like to think that my sense of adventure comes from him.

The nuns at the convent school in Australia told us stories about explorers: Scott of the Antarctic, Magellan, and Captain Cook, of course. But it was David Livingstone who caught my interest. David Livingstone wasn’t just an adventuring explorer, looking for the source of the Nile, he was also a missionary. I decided that that was the life for me. 

We returned to Middlesbrough when I was 10. I grew up and became a teacher in special education. I was also involved in the Catholic Handicapped Fellowship, running a weekly youth club one evening and playgroups on Saturday mornings; we took our members away for holidays in the summer. It took up a lot of my time. I got a mortgage and moved into my own home, I had a car, a motorbike, a job, a social life, money in my pocket – yet it all seemed a bit too easy. I needed something a bit more challenging – I wanted an adventure.

So, I thought about my childhood dream of going to Africa. I realised of course that the whole world had already been explored – but I was sure there were things I could do to help people living in difficult circumstances. I applied to VSO, Voluntary Service Overseas. It’s a government sponsored organisation which sends people to developing countries for 2 years. I went for an interview in Glasgow. They rejected me. 

I didn’t know what to do next. I was back to square one. I suppose I could have just gone to Africa – Kenya I would probably have chosen – just to see what it was like. Then I saw an advert in a Catholic newspaper. Mill Hill Missionaries, England and Wales own Catholic Missionary society were recruiting lay people to do 3 years to support their work in developing countries. When I wrote and told them that I didn’t really know what I could do to help them, a very nice letter came back from Fr Mark Connelly saying that when he first went to Pakistan he had no idea what he could do either but had spent the last 10 years there building communities among oppressed minorities.

Mill Hill Missionaries decided to send me to Pakistan. I’d been hankering after Africa – but Pakistan would be something else again. I left my job, sold my house, my car, my motorbike, whittled down my collection of photos and cassettes to the bare minimum and moved to Mill Hill in London. I waited for over a year for a visa which was eventually refused.

Back to square one again.

Now I did visit Pakistan – I did a tour of all the places Mill Hill Missionaries were working over a 6 week period on a tourist visa.

And when I returned to Mill Hill in London they asked me to go to a place called Zaire. At that time the Congo had changed its name to Zaire – but has since changed it back to Congo.  I had no idea where this Zaire place was and the young men studying to become priests in Mill Hill all told me it would be horrible because it’s so isolated, it’s not near anywhere and there are no real roads connecting places. Basankusu, the place the missionaries worked was right in the middle of the rainforest. No shops, no phones, no newspapers, no McDonalds … I thought WOW! That’s exactly what I’m looking for! It was 1992.

When I arrived, I was shocked by how broken down everything was, how dirty and unkempt everything was – but after a week, I got used to it. I spent two years there in a small village, teaching small groups of young men who wanted to become missionary priests. I learnt the local language, Lingala, made a lot of friends.

I returned to a teaching career in primary schools in Teesside, I visited Basankusu several times after my stint there and eventually did a couple of visits to Kinshasa to help an environmental group there. During one visit, in 2013, I went back up to Basankusu, and I stayed at the mission where there remained only one English priest, Fr John Kirwan, from Merseyside. He said, “Francis, you keep coming back for visits; why don’t you come and do another 3 years with us? We need someone to teach the students English and if you could look after the accounts for us that would be even better.”

So, I agreed and went back.

While I was getting ready to go, I read about the scourge of malnutrition in the Congo. 50% of infants don’t live past their 5th birthday – it’s incredible. Having such large families is part of the problem. Women give birth just about every year and then can’t feed their children. Poverty is the major cause of malnutrition – but there are other causes – a child could suffer from one of a number of tropical illnesses and then just not be able to put the weight back on afterwards. The staple food is cassava – it’s a root which is easy to grow. They make it into a starchy doughy lump and eat it with everything. It’s got plenty of carbohydrates but zero protein. So it’ll fill you up, but you won’t grow. You’ve got to eat meat of fish with it otherwise you’ll have serious problems.

So, I decided I would collect some money and see what I could do.

I started my teaching duties and started keeping accounts. And the mission cat gave birth to 3 lovely little kittens. We gave 2 away and the 3rd sort of became mine. He did well for a time and then one day he refused to eat. Each day that passed he got thinner. I tried to feed him but he kept his mouth firmly closed and refused everything I offered him. Eventually he died and I was quite down about it. How was I going to cope with malnourished children if I get upset about a cat dying? I’ll have to pull myself together.

So, I gave support to a group that was just starting in Basankusu, I gave them the money to buy food to feed malnourished children for 3 days of the week – so that it’s a supplementary feeding programme, the parents still have responsibility for the children on the other days. 

One of the volunteers, Judith Bondjembo, decided that some of the children, 2 or 3 children, were so severely malnourished that they needed support 7 days a week. So she fed them herself from her grandmother’s house, where she lived at the time. I said I would fund it.

After 9 months or so, we saw that the project was being mismanaged – the woman in charge was creaming off food for herself and her family. Judith suggested we rented a small house and set up a centre by ourselves. So we did. We were so pleased when all of the volunteers from the first project followed us. And that’s how we started.

After 4 years the Missionary Society moved its teaching facility to Kinshasa so now I’m independent of them. Judith and I are still running the centre, this is our 6th year. We’ve sort of become the Social Services of Basankusu. People stop us in the street to show us their children. 

Francis Hannaway
with Judith Bondjembo

So what’s a typical day like for me? It’s like this:

Up at 6 am, washed in water from the well.

Judith joins me at 7 am. We have breakfast together.

Often we have parents with malnourished children arriving from far away villages.

We take them to the small Catholic hospital which is next to my house. We get them registered, vital statistics are taken, address, name, age, weight, etc. Then we move on the laboratory to get other tests: blood iron, parasites (worms), malaria, and other illnesses are tested for. 

Some children need further treatment and are admitted to the hospital. Malnutrition comes in various forms and various degrees of severity. So, we group the children generally into severe and moderate cases. The parents are asked to present themselves with their children at our feeding centre which is on the other side of Basankusu. It’s just a small, single storey house. The cooking area is a thatched shelter outside the house. And the children sit on a tarpaulin to receive their food. We get water from our well for washing, cooking and drinking. 

Work at the feeding centre begins at 7 am. The majority of children are usually moderately malnourished. Volunteers take turns to attend, cooking meals for them on Monday, Wednesday and Saturday. At just after 7 am they will drink some milky tea with sugar, and eat bread. Between 9 and 10 they eat porridge. The porridge is made from ground maize, ground peanuts and soya-milk, with vegetable oil and sugar added. This ensures an easy to absorb source of protein and energy. Towards midday they have a meal of beans, in tomato sauce, rice, and fish. 

Children who are severely malnourished sleep at the centre with their parents. They are fed every single day until they can be classed as moderately malnourished. These children often have the classic signs of kwashiorkor: swollen bellies, faces and feet, pale peeling skin, fragile pale hair, lethargy, little interest in eating, often irritable – malnourished children are often in a bad mood – when they start laughing you know they’re getting better! They begin for the first two weeks with a diet of full-cream milk, from powder, with a little sugar and vegetable oil added, every four hours. After one week the swelling is reduced. Eventually, porridge is introduced and then solid food, such as rice and beans.

When Judith and I have finished processing children at the hospital, we take a taxi-bike each, over the rough dirt tracks, across town to the feeding centre. We manage the provision of food, maintenance of the building and grounds, planting of soya and leafy green vegetables, and follow the registration and progress of children on our books.

The first Saturday of each month we hold a meeting with all twelve volunteers. The volunteers get an allowance for expenses at this meeting. They each receive about £14, plus 5 cups of beans, 5 cups of rice, and 2 cups of salt. On special days, Christmas, International Women’s Day, church festivals, etc they often receive the same again. Usually, they will get a length of cloth to make their uniform from. The centre manager/storekeeper gets a bit more because she lives at the centre and is on call for severe cases. We also have a nurse who prescribes medicines and gives training to the parents. During the meeting, chaired by Judith, the volunteers discuss what went well and what could be improved. Associated activities, such as our gardens for peanuts, maize and beans, are discussed. Members who are late for work, or have caused any problem, can be penalised and privileges suspended. Those who have made an extra effort are applauded.

November to January is usually a quiet time at the centre. May to October is the busiest time, with as many as 75 children attending. The past year has been busier than ever because of a measles epidemic, 7,000 dead nationally.

At around 1 pm. Judith and I leave the volunteers to finish off. We return on foot. 

Sometimes we have children at the General Hospital, and might visit them. There are countless incidents of us having to track children down at home, but generally we get them to stay in one place. Similarly, we often have to diplomatically give advice to care staff and nurses in the hospitals because of the fragile nature of children with malnutrition.

After lunch – usually of fish, green vegetables, and rice or plantain bananas, I set about organising photos and videos to post on facebook. I also write an article each month for the Middlesbrough Catholic Voice. Through these efforts we try to raise enough money to continue.

During the afternoon we could sometimes get a visit from a disabled person in need of a wheelchair. During the past 5 years, I’ve provided 30 wheelchairs. Polio is the major cause of disability in Basankusu and Congo generally. A lot of disabled adults have no option to crawl around on the ground – in dry weather it’s difficult enough, but in wet weather the ground just turns to mud. Providing a wheelchair for someone completely revolutionises their life. If someone turns up, asking for a chair (or a bike as they like to call them here), I take some photos, or make a little video – and then make an appeal on facebook to raise the money. We build the chairs locally. They cost around £340 each to make.

During the evenings we usually make a tour of the Catholic hospital to visit any of our children who are there.

Other days I help at various places in the diocese with projects. One of the local brothers helps street children, or children who’ve become outcasts after being accused of witchcraft. I’ve made videos to appeal for their school fees. Recently I translated a project for a corn mill. Use of the mill would provide money for the boys’ support.

The local convent houses some very capable sisters. I’m presently supporting a project for deaf children. It involves the conversion of a building and equipping it as a workshop for sewing and carpentry.

At the moment there are restrictions because of Coronavirus, but nothing very strict. Kinshasa, the capital city is about 1,000 km from us. It’s sealed off for travel. But the virus hasn’t reached here yet. Basankusu has closed all the schools, churches and beer-gardens like the rest of the countries (but the bars are still open unofficially).

In the past, Judith and I would sometimes go for a glass of beer in one of three beer gardens in Basankusu – but we’ve had to put that on hold. Things have changed quite a lot since the 1990s when I was first here. Solar panels and satellite TV can only be afforded by a few – and similarly mobile phones are too expensive for most people – but all the same, quite a few people have them these days. I have a basic package for TV at £7/month. So I get the news in French and Judith gets her soap operas.

On days when we are not at the hospital or the feeding centre, we go to our vegetable garden in the forest. All the volunteers and their children join in. This year we have a hectare of land planted with peanuts. This brings the costs at the centre down by supplementing our stocks. Some of the peanuts can be sold and each volunteer gets a share of the rest as encouragement for their work. It’s about 4 miles from Basankusu.

I have a quite meagre existence, luxury items aren’t really available. We argue about whether a jar of chocolate spread is an extravagance of not. Fortunately, Judith is determined that I don’t let myself go and ensures I live without starving.

So, how do I fund it all?

I take photos and make 2 minute videos to put on facebook. People send small donations and St Gabriel’s Church in Middlesbrough collects money for me, and that’s how I get by. I need to generate around £3,000 each month to keep going. That covers food for the children, hospital costs and my daily living costs. It’d be great if people could have a look at my facebook page to see what I do and perhaps send a small donation themselves.

Send a donation by PayPal :
PayPal.me/FHannaway

Congo Kinshasa: more children from outlying villages

The hungry months are very much with us again. We’ve welcomed several children over the last few days. We’ve also said goodbye to the last group of children recovering from malnutrition after having had measles.

Francis Hannaway at
his centre for malnutrition

A few days ago I welcomed a little girl of 4 years who only weighed 8 kg. I won’t go into her medical condition, but suffice to say that she was very frail. Her parents had brought her from near Bokakata, the village I visited with Judith a few weeks ago. To give them their due, they had taken her to the local medical centre there, but had seen no progress. The question remained: what sort of state was she in when they decided to take her for help, and how did she decline so much without them taking action? The answer is usually that they were extremely poor – they didn’t have the means. Perhaps they tried some traditional medicine first. Traditional medicine can have no effect if really all the child needs to do is eat more. She was admitted to our Catholic hospital, next door.

The next day, another little girl arrived, again in a very similar condition, and also from out of town. Mum, dad, grandma, and several other children arrived with her. None of them had a place to stay in Basankusu. She was also admitted to the hospital.

Yesterday, another mother arrived. She brought her little boy, 4 and a half years old and 9 kg in weight. The child had had sickness and diarrhoea but it had passed. Blood iron was fine. We sent her back to my malnutrition centre. Even though she’s also from out of town, like the other two, she’s got a place to stay near the centre with family.

For all three families it’s the first time they’ve been to Basankusu – even though it’s not very far away.

Last night we had heavy rain, with continuous rumbling thunder. We’re coming into the Rainy Season, which drives the small fish from the streams into the main river. Hunger follows. I lay in bed thinking about the two little girls lying in their metal framed beds, each with a worn sponge mattress and their family members huddled around, perhaps sleeping on the bare concrete floor in the pitch dark and with the heavy rain pounding down on the metal roof. They’d both started their treatment; we’d finally been able to find and buy all the medication that had been prescribed. They’d both started on a diet of milk with a little sugar and oil, every four hours, to take down the swelling and to give some energy. Let’s see what the morning brings.

This morning, we got the news that the two children in the hospital had both died in the night. The two families’ villages are in opposite directions. Nevertheless, they’d set out in their grief towards home, collecting up all the things we’d provided for their comfort in the hospital.

Judith and I were both quite down about it at breakfast.

“But they’ve taken everything,” she said.

“I know,” I replied, thinking how hard it would be to have their lives. They’d set off in the dead of night, through the rain and mud, each family to walk 30 or 40 miles home each with their dead child.

“They’ve taken the torches we gave them yesterday, and the cups, spoons and plates we gave them to eat with. They even took the cooking pot that we bought in Kinshasa, which cost $20!”

“What can we do?” I shrugged. “They’ll sell them to get a little money for the burial.”

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. 

Congo Kinshasa: Triumphal entry into Basankusu!

My entry into Basankusu was less than triumphal in appearance. I’d got a ride with the small Caritas plane which was carrying teachers’ wages for the whole diocese. Because of the cash nobody was allowed onto the airstrip to welcome me. The immigration police followed me home to demand kickbacks, as usual, but this time my new visa allowed me to get off lightly. For me, my return was a triumph!

Francis with Judith after his return

The next day, Judith and I went by taxi-bike through the scorching tropical heat – the movement of the bikes creating a balmy breeze as we passed along Basankusu’s palm-tree lined dirt roads. At the malnutrition centre, Mama Anne-Marie welcomed me back. “We’re presently enjoying a brief period of fish-a-plenty! It’s our carnival period – plenty to eat, and the only children at the centre are those recovering from measles.”

“It won’t last,” Judith chipped in. “The abundance of fish will soon disappear and by Palm Sunday the centre will be full again! Every year it’s the same pattern. We’ll work hard so that Easter Sunday is a day to celebrate.”

“We always cook Easter omelettes to make it special,” added Anne-Marie. “Most of our malnourished children have never eaten eggs. They don’t understand the value of them in their diet. Instead they sell them and buy starchy cassava – which has no protein in it at all!”

Bread and omelette as
an extra Easter treat! 

Part of our programme is to educate the families who come to us regarding nutrition. We advise them on which foods to grow and buy. Fish from the small streams is always good, planting beans and corn will also help. Keeping chickens is great because they can eat scraps from the table as well as scratch around outside for bugs – and Bingo! they give you free eggs!

“The bad news is that our funds are really going down,” I reminded them both, as sweat trickled into the collar of my t-shirt in the stifling heat. “Easter Sunday we could be feeding over 50 children and in May it could be over 70! It’s sad to say but people are starting to lose interest in the Basankusu malnutrition centre. They are worried about global warming, forest fires in Australia and the Corona virus. People are even giving up Facebook for Lent!”

Judith said, “Francis, could you ask your friends in Middlesbrough Diocese to think of our malnourished children. Perhaps while they’re buying chocolate eggs for their children, they could each send £5 for 2 dozen hen’s eggs. We’ll get these children back on the road to health with our enriched porridge, plates of beans, rice and fish – and our special Easter Omelettes!”

“This is our 6th year,” I smiled. “I’m sure they won’t let us down.”

Congo Kinshasa: Beyoncé in Basankusu

I first met Beyoncé at our centre. She was a tiny very frail little girl - her parents had brought her from upriver in Djombo. She had lost a lot of weight and was refusing to eat, so Judith said she should be admitted to the hospital and I was going that way so could I walk mum and grandma over ... only 4 km. I set off with Alain - but mum and grandma were so slow that we eventually cadged some money from a market trader that Alain knew and sent them off on a taxi-bike each ... with us running behind because we didn't have any more money.

At the hospital for assessment

The hospital was really great and gave them plenty of advice and medicine. Beyoncé - 1 year and 9 months - had been OK but had become ill with diarrhoea. She got medicine for worms, for rehydration, for getting her appetite back, vitamins and stuff for her blood. I went back after lunch and found them still sitting there. The nurse said there wasn't anyone to admit them so they may as well go home and come back the next day for a proper examination.

The next day I was at home and they turned up at my house. They'd been and had a good examination and so I advised them to go back to our nutrition centre and follow the feeding programme there. They agreed ... and then didn’t show up.

Beyoncé had become much thinner

Beyoncé with Judith Bondjembo

I went there in the afternoon and there was no sign of them. Well ... I went back to the hospital to get their address, but it wasn’t precise enough. Alain and Judith spent the next two days knocking on doors, trying to find out where they got to. Eventually, somebody recognised the description. 

Beyoncé had become even thinner – but is now doing really well at the centre ... where they’re all sleeping (I didn’t know I was opening a hotel ! ) anyway, they’re nice and settled, and Beyoncé has got her appetite back.

Beyoncé getting back on the road
to good health at Francis Hannaway's centre

The initial diet is one of milk (from full-cream milk powder) with a little sugar and vegetable oil added, taken eight times a day. After a few days you see a remarkable change – and true to the instructions on the tin, when solid food was gradually re-introduced, Beyoncé started shouting out – ‘give it to me!’ and wolfing down everything. Way to go, Beyoncé!

She hasn’t started singing yet.

Congo Kinshasa: The Wrong Trousers!

I bought the suit in Asda 6 years ago; it wasn’t expensive, but it ‘would do’ if I needed to wear a suit. I never did really. In the sweltering, steamy jungle a t-shirt was as much as I could usually bear.  Eventually, I put it in my bag and took it from Kinshasa to Basankusu. Then I found a reason to wear it. The Bishop of Basankusu was going to celebrate his Silver Jubilee as a bishop!

Judith arrived and told me to give her the suit. 

“My cousin will iron it,” she smiled. I knew that to offer to do it myself wasn’t an option.

A charcoal iron
like the one used

As I got ready for what I knew would be a very long mass at Basankusu Cathedral, perhaps 4 hours, I heard a scraping noise outside. I went to find out what it was.

Judith had bought a brand new charcoal iron – the type we see in museums, normally from Victorian times. You fill it with hot, glowing charcoal to make it hot.

Her cousin was scraping it on the concrete stand around our well. 

“It’s too smooth,” he beamed. “I need to make it a bit rough to iron properly.” I started to lose confidence in the whole process. 

“I’m sure they made it smooth for a reason,” I explained, as he continued to remove the shiny surface – but to no avail.

About 20 minutes later, Judith popped her head in and asked if the suit only had one pair of trousers. I knew something must have gone wrong. She’d seen that I had another pair, yes, it was true that they weren’t part of the suit, but in her opinion, were much nicer. 

“No,” I said. “A suit should have the same trousers that came with it.”

“Well there’s been a little accident,” she offered sheepishly. 

She showed me the trousers. There was a hole, the size of an iron, completely through one leg of them!

We all had a great day, including the reception at the bishop’s house. And, do you know what, nobody even noticed that I was wearing the wrong trousers!

Francis wearing the wrong trousers
after the bishop's celebration! 

I’m back in Basankusu, once again. We’ve had 2 months support from Doctors Without Borders, an international group a bit like the Red Cross, but now they’ve gone.

Our numbers will build up again in the next couple of months. Please pray for my work with malnourished children. I rely on donations – so please don’t forget to include them as well.

My visa problem isn’t completely resolved yet, I’m still struggling with that – but at least I remembered to pack my suit again, this time.

Congo Kinshasa: Francis Hannaway travels back to the Congo

I’d been home to renew my visa – that’s another story in itself!

The journey back to Congo went like this.
I finally closed my suitcase on Thursday morning, only to open and close it again 5 times to take things out and put other things in. I travelled into Middlesbrough with my niece, Verity, at 1:15 pm,  and we had a nice chat on the way. I’d arranged to meet Jean Pierre Elonga, a senior lecturer at Teesside University, and who, a long time ago, had been a Mill Hill seminarian. We drank a couple of beers and very soon it was time to go for my train.

Francis Hannaway and
Jean Pierre Elonga

Jean Pierre walked to the station with me; my train left at 6:20 pm and arrived at Manchester Airport a little after 9 o’clock.

I made my way to Terminal 2. I had a quick look on the “Sleeping in Airports” website – and they advised sleeping on the chairs in the arrivals hall, and so I staked my claim to 3 chairs and settled down for the night. I started to feel the crisp winter chill that was in the air. Even inside the airport it was cold. I think they open warehouse doors for night-time deliveries, because every now and then another wave of icy air would waft through the arrival hall. A sandwich from the little Spa supermarket, some light, dream-filled sleep for a couple of hours and it was suddenly Friday; I was ready to drop off my suitcase and go to the departure lounge. The flight left at 6:10.

I’d been told at check-in that there was a vegetarian meal for me for both legs of the journey. I soon realised that they meant the main flight, going and returning. On this, the connecting flight, there was some attempt at breakfast – but you had to pay for it. Not only that, but you had to pay in cash because their card-reader was broken. … and only English money! Very few people bought breakfast. Gone are the days when you’d at least get a cup of coffee and a snack to start your journey!

I really do feel that they should have kept the system in which long-haul passengers (such as me) were given a bit of TLC on the connecting flights, considering how tiring a long journey is … and how expensive a long-haul ticket is! When Brussels Airlines replaced Sabena, we were seated just behind business class and the crew  knew that we were long-distance travellers – not just popping over the channel for a few days.

In Brussels, people like me with connecting flights were directed straight to the transfer area – no need to go through the security check again! I made my way to the T gates shuttle service, only to be told that the plane wouldn’t be leaving at 10:50 (9:50 UK time) but at 1 o’clock in the afternoon! “Go back upstairs to the Brussels Airlines service-desk and they’ll give you a voucher,” the airport clerk said. “What voucher?” I asked. “They’ll give you a voucher for a drink because of the delay.”

And so they did. I really wanted breakfast, but the voucher clearly said ‘drink’. I was in Belgium, so I thought I should have a Belgian beer. “You’ll only be able to get a small one,” the woman serving at the bar said, “and even then, you’ll need to top it up by 20 cents.” She pointed out the value of the voucher, which was €5. I didn't want to start rooting about in my bag for some Euros, especially when I was supposed to be getting compensated for free.

I went back to the service desk to complain. They very politely explained that the amount of compensation was an internationally agreed level determined by the length of the delay. I realised it was just to distract us while we waited.

Starbucks said I could spend my €5 on cake as well as coffee – but I wouldn’t really have enough and would need to top it up – the same as my first attempt with the beer. I settled for the biggest cup of coffee, found a comfy seat and took advantage of the airport’s free Wi-Fi. It was a good distraction, though; I did feel a bit more relaxed. Perhaps I should do it more often instead of always rushing about.

The flight took off at 1 o’clock, as announced, and the flight was uneventful (which is good of course). Brussels Airlines meals are pleasant enough, but over the years have become smaller – food is served less frequently throughout the flight. I enjoyed a couple of glasses of red wine – but think back to the days of the little bottles that they served – and that you could ask for two of.

The flight took 8 hours from Belgium. We arrived at 9 pm exactly. I peeled off the wind-cheater, jumper and 2 t-shirts, scarf and woolly hat I’d been wearing over my shirt and prepared to meet the humid 32 degrees of a Kinshasa evening. It took me an hour to negotiate passport control, present my Yellow Fever card and hastily fill in a form saying that I didn’t have any of the symptoms of the Chinese Corona virus. The thousands of sheets of paper generated each week from this exercise will no doubt be carefully put into a big box, never copied into a data-base for analysis and, in all probability … never looked at again!

The road from the airport to Kinshasa was at almost complete gridlock. It was now after 10 pm and there was traffic backed up as far as you could see! The so-called “sheep jumps” are a big part of the problem. A city-wide project to help reduce congestion with flyovers at busy crossroads has progressed slowly. Many of the cordoned-off sites have never been touched since the start. People are sick of them. We made most of the 20 km journey, edging along in either first or second gear - arriving at the Procure Saint Anne at about 11:30 pm. Two friends were waiting for me. They refused my offer of a drink and I arrived at my house at midnight.

I’d been promised food. There wasn’t any. A glass of beer wouldn’t have gone amiss … I asked my minder to go and buy me a couple. He returned with one. Never mind.

We sat and chatted until about 1:30 – I’d left the house at 1:15 pm on Thursday – it was now Saturday … time for a good night’s sleep.