BEYOND THE PALE
6th Instalment
III
Independence Day was June 30, 1960.
King Baudouin arrived from Belgium, delivering a speech and officially declaring Congo’s formal independence. He began his speech by praising Leopold II, something that might not have been the best thing to say, the Reverend Hoegeveen offered up as he sat across from me, stuffing his pipe. We were sitting around the table in the Reverend’s cabin, listening to the only radio we had at Bulongo Station; even with my poor French, I found I was able to understand almost everything the king said.
A dusty ceiling fan churned the air slowly, not enough to create a breeze, but enough to stir the dust. I watched the tiny dust motes dancing in a strip of sunlight coming in through the kitchen window, my mind elsewhere. It reminded me of the moonlight coming through the window last night. I remained silent, trying to cool myself with a small pamphlet, all while watching Livingstone where he sat hunched beside the radio with a look of fixed concentration.
He looks so beautiful, I told myself.
All at once I pictured him in his nakedness, the moonlight glowing against his skin, the muscles of his neck straining to withhold the intensity of his desire. I could feel his muscular arms as I reached up to meet his body thrust for thrust—my arms holding onto the rippling muscles of his sculpted torso—hungering for the length of him inside of me, gasping with the pleasure—watching the whiteness of my naked flesh envelop him. I smiled at the memory, and watched him as he sat hunched in front of the radio, again, picturing him holding himself above me, slipping gently inside of me, and found myself getting hotter; I began fanning myself.
This is his day, I told myself.
“And does this mean the Europeans be leaving now?” Latisha asked as she busied herself cleaning the small cabin. The Reverend smiled as he held a match to his pipe, puffing slowly.
“I’ll be staying on, no matter what,” he said softly, turning to look at me briefly.
“I can’t say what I’ll be doing,” I said slowly, and looked at Livingstone when he turned to look at me. I’d told the Reverend I wouldn’t leave before my replacement arrived sometime in September, and told him I couldn’t think of a reason for staying past then.
“We don’t want the Europeans to leave,” Livingstone said, turning to look at his mother, and then me. He leaned forward to adjust the volume on the radio and I sensed his mother looking at me. “Listen. This is one of the men they’ve elected to lead us out of the darkness and into the light,” Livingstone said, sitting back as Kasavubu spoke. “He’s the country’s new president,” he added.
He sounded like a polite man, with his positive, forward-looking attitude. The crowd was responsive, and respectful, and I could see the Reverend Hoegeveen slowly nodding as he puffed on his pipe, the smoke wreathing about his head before the breeze from the fan snatched it away.
Livingstone turned the radio down again and sat back, arms folded and looking serious; I wondered what he was thinking.
“Is that the kind of man you want leading the country?” I asked him.
“I don’t want him,” his mother said before Livingstone could say anything.
“Why not?” the Reverend asked, looking up at her slowly.
“I don’t trust him.”
“You don’t know anything about him,” I said.
“I don’t have to,” she said, looking at me defiantly.
I looked at Livingstone. He pressed himself up to the radio again, listening to the new Prime Minister, and began waving a hand at us, motioning us to be quiet. He turned the volume up once again.
If Kasavubu sounded positive, the new man, Lumumba, was furious. He accused King Baudouin of presiding over a regime of injustice, suppression, and exploitation. I was shocked by what he said but reasoned that the man had done no more than tell the truth. As he finished his speech, I could imagine the King’s embarrassment, but I was more frightened to hear the crowd roar into life.
“Is this the man you want?” I asked Latishia.
“And what’s wrong with the truth?” she said, hands on her hips and anger in her eyes. “You know nothing about what it is to live here. They cut my granddaddy’s hands off because there’s not enough rubber. Now tell me, what is wrong with the truth?”
After the fifth day of Independence, the Force Publique mutinied against its all-white Officer Corps, and three days later, the Gendarmerie followed. Chaos ensued. Men from both forces inflicted horrible abuses against white officers, and humiliated hundreds of European civilians, especially priests and nuns. I heard some time later that Europeans were tortured, and still others, murdered. Scores of European women were raped, some repeatedly raped, especially the nuns.
Katanga, Congo’s richest province, declared its secession. Taking up arms to defend its own independence, as many Europeans as could, fled, boarding every available ferry from Leo and making the journey—dangerously overloaded—across Stanley Pool to Brazaville; others crowded into the airports. While this panicked evacuation was taking place, planeloads of Belgian paratroopers landed in an attempt to secure Leo’s airport and protect Congo’s European population by any means necessary. We watched them flying overhead enroute to Stanleyville, and Leoville in the south, big silver hulled DC 4’s that rumbled across the sky like thunder.
By July 10, most of the Europeans had fled, and those of us left behind, were trapped.
“I have to get you out of here,” Livingstone said.
We were in bed, my leg wrapped through his as he lay with one hand behind his head, holding me pressed up against him. The night was cool, but not so cool that we had to cover ourselves. I looked at the contrast of my skin against his in the light of three candles on the small dresser, the flames flickering in the evening breeze sifting through the open window. The river sounded like nothing more than static in the background. I could see the jungle through the window, looking like a darker shadow in the shadows of the night, a full moon lighting everything outside with a dull, opaque glow. The tops of the trees glistened dully, the leaves glittering like silver coins in the night breeze.
“Get me out of here?” I said, looking at him briefly before settling back against him. “I won’t leave without you,” I said, making up my mind.
“I can’t go. This is Congo; this is my home. You can’t expect me to leave my mother here and run off with you.”
“We’ll take her with us.”
“She’ll never leave. My father died here, so did my brother. They’re buried in the cemetery.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t tell you.”
“It doesn’t change the fact that I won’t leave without you.”
“They’re killing Europeans in Leo, and it’s only a matter of time before they start doing the same in Stan. Right now, the Belgians have secured the airports, and they still have flights going out.”
I was afraid to stay, and just as frightened of leaving him behind. I felt safe where I was—safe with him—and I told him. He shook his head, pursing his lips in the soft light, and I knew that he’d made up his mind. There’d be little I could do to convince him otherwise.
“It’s not safe for you here.”
“But we haven’t seen anyone.”
“They know we’re here. This is Bulongo Station.”
“What about Reverend Hoegeveen?”
“I can’t force him to leave—besides, he’d never leave. All the same, I’ll take the lorry into the jungle and hide it.”
“Why?”
“As a precaution.”
“Why can’t we just drive out in the morning?”
“There’s only the one road. If anyone comes, the first thing they’ll do is take is the lorry. We can’t afford to lose it, not now. It might be slow, but it’s all we have. I’d rather have it, than have to go to Stanleyville on foot.”
“You want me to walk into the jungle?”
“No. I know a place where I can hide it. A game trail.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight? How can you—you can’t walk through the jungle at night.”
“I’ll sleep in the cab, and come get you in the morning. We’ll leave before it gets too hot.”
“Why can’t I go with you tonight? Why can’t we all go?”
He tried to sit up, but I wouldn’t let him. I put my head on his chest.
“I have to do this,” he said, his voice soft, slow, as he tried to slip out from beneath me. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at me. His hand resting on my leg, I put my hand on his, my fingers playing with his knuckles before interlacing between them.
“You can’t expect me to leave—not without you,” I said. The edge in my voice was unmistakable as I picked his hand up and brought it to my lips.
“I stand a better chance of surviving here than you do.”
“You can’t make me leave—I won’t let you. You can’t. Not if this is the last time we’re going to be together.”
“You can’t expect me to leave Congo. Not now, not with everything going on.”
“But I love you,” I said at last.
I could see tears in his eyes reflected in the candles as he looked down at me.
“That’s why you have to leave. If you leave now, we’ll have a better chance of being together again. You have to live for the future.”
“I don’t care about the future. What about tonight?”
“There is no tonight.” he said, reaching for his shirt sitting at the foot of the bed. He put it on, looking at me. He picked his pants up, shaking them, and stood up as he stepped into them. Looking down at me, he nodded his head. Then he bent down to blow out the candles.
“Then let me come with you tonight. I don’t want this night to end.”
“If you come with me, you can only take what you need. You have to leave the rest. No books, no souvenirs. No memories, and very little clothing. You won’t need much. Just make sure you have your passport. With any luck, you should be on a plane tomorrow.” I could see his tears in the dull light of the moon coming through the window, and he heaved a huge sigh, turning to look at me.
“Tonight, we sleep in the jungle.”
Hi Ben. This brings me back to things I heard when I was a kid in Belgium, in the sixties. Familiar names, familiar places (although I've never been to what is, again, Congo). About the relationship: it feels genuine and warm. My only comment is that you mention the skin contrast too many times, in almost the exact words. If I was your editor, I would suggest cuts, or a different formulation. It feels heavy handed as it is.