Chapter Two.
Fort Chaltin, 1982.
Not that no-one ever attempted to enlighten -- to politicize -- the bright schoolboy, Pierre B. Tshombe. For instance, one day during my very first year at L’institut Pedagoque, a second-year student named Andrew Ennyange joined me at a small table in the refectory. Having rushed from morning classes in order to nourrir la bête, [“feed the beast”], I was sitting alone.
Although, in those days, I was oblivious to such things, I now think that this boy, who was short and trapu [“stocky”], must have been an ethnic Muninda. Had I been aware of this, I might also have realized that his people considered themselves the subjects of a “king,” whom they called the “Kabinda.” Given the fact that the monarchy was in eclipse in Ngongo from the mid-1960’s until the early 1990’s, what Andrew Ennyange said that day -- and hinted at -- was less surprising. During the meeting, he also made me aware of another, very different kind of motivation.
He began by setting down his metal tray and, still standing, reached across the table to shake my hand. Then, he addressed me --mostly in French, of course, but opening with an Acholi salutation. “Nene [“Hello”], Pierre. May I join you?” Gesturing for him to sit, I continued eating, and he started in on his own food. After a few mouthfuls, he spoke again. “My name is Andrew. I’m a second-year student, but we’re in the same Maths class. How’re you doing today, Pierre?”
I grunted a response. After we had eaten for a few more minutes, and exchanged some more small talk, he got to what I later realized was his point. Even then, he did so in a roundabout manner, possibly because the regime was known to have ears everywhere. (Even a politically ignorant twelve-year-old knew that.)
Since I have introduced the subject of politics (which was to become the main theme of my adult life), I must pause here for a short deviation [“detour”]. The first President of independent Ngongo, Alphonse Batakoudou (1933-85) was among the leaders of the movement that had led, in 1960, to Independence. Wrapping himself in the banner of Ngongo’s single political party, le parti du peuple ngongo, or PPN, he ruled the country for twenty-five years (1960-85), until his death. The popularity of President Batakoudou, who is now known to have enormously enriched himself while in office, oscillated widely, depending mostly on the world price of copper.
It was rumored that Batakoudou’s death was caused by a single gunshot wound, at the behest of a military cabal led by General Festus Nkwema (1937-2022). General Nkwema has already been mentioned as the target of the 2007 assassination-by-bomb plot of the Cadre, as organized by Major Odhon’g, and featuring v.v. [“yours truly”], as l’artiste vedette [“featured performer”].
Originally, the “platform” of the military cabal included modernization. General Nkwema emerged from the political scrum as Ngongo’s second President (by fiat), and was subsequently “re-elected” (as the PPN candidate) to six consecutive seven-year terms, the most recent of which began in 2021, by which time the President-Dictator had turned eighty-four. Needless to say, like his murdered predecessor, Nkwema made himself and his large family extremely wealthy (Swiss bank accounts, palatial villas dotting the Riviera), while the old promise of modernization remained largely unfulfilled. What was, perhaps, equally egregious was that almost all of the family’s lavish spending, their “conspicuous consumption,” was either done abroad or directed toward the purchase of foreign-made goods. Those pilfered millions did little or nothing for the economy of poor Ngongo.
Here, as far as I can remember (since the conversation took place almost four decades ago), is the gist of what Andrew Ennyenge, my fellow student, said to me that day over lunch (an appetizing stew, the main ingredients of which were bush meat, garden egg, and local spinach, plus a chunk of our ubiquitous millet bread):
“I hope, Pierre, that you will excuse a stranger for alluding to the very painful subject of the circumstances of your father’s passing.”
Multiple warning lights flashed. How did this fellow even know my name? I mean, I had only arrived at the institut six weeks before, and our Maths class contained above forty students. Secondly, no polite Ngogien would have brought up such a subject during a first conversation with a relative stranger. And, finally, how was it even possible that this fellow could tell me anything about my father’s passing, when no one in my own family circle had ever given the slightest indication of such knowledge?
“Are you a madman, mon compagnon [“fellow”], or merely rude?” I angrily replied to his startling offer.
“Sorry, my friend, very sorry! But I should not have so intruded if I did not possess some very particular information. For I know your people’s wise saying, ‘Poyo too pe rweny.’ ”
I knew the saying, too, of course, which means, “Death is a scar that never heals." His quoting of the Acholi proverb only sharpened my sense that this Andrew was a rude, intrusive somebody. But, at the same time, it produced a surge of curiosity, because all that anyone knew about my father’s death, as far as I had been told, was that one day, in March of 1973, he had failed to return home from the mine. The next day, when his senior brother inquired at the offices of L’Union Miniere, in downtown Mindouli, a young clerk had rudely kept the dignified elder waiting for perhaps twenty minutes while he, the clerk, pretended to scrutinize some documents on his desk. Finally, with equal rudeness, he baldly announced, “Yes, Jean-Batiste Tshombe went missing yesterday afternoon.”
What ”went missing” normally meant was that an employee who had been brought to the end of his tether by the horrific working conditions in the mine had run away, in which case the company would send its hunters and tracking dogs in pursuit of the poor wretch. In my father’s case, that scenario was utterly impossible, for he was both a seasoned, tough worker and un bon pere de famille [“an excellent family man”]. When my uncle began to expostulate with the clerk, he was hustled from the office by a security guard, a big fat fellow of southern European extraction --probably a Greek or a Croat.
After several more days, when my dad failed to reappear, the family assumed he was dead and, of course, we mourned accordingly. None of us ever heard anything more. Thus, that day in the refectory, I wondered what this, my intrusive schoolfellow, could possibly know --and how he could possibly know it.
After Andrew Enyannge’s quotation of the Acholi proverb, and my indignant response, a silence fell. For a few moments, we both picked at our food. Then, with a sigh, I reluctantly reopened the conversation. “Well, Mr. Andrew,” I said, my curiosity trumping my anger, “if you think you have anything to reveal, please continue.” We put down our soup spoons.
“Thank you, Pierre,” he said, sounding less bold. He exhaled deeply. “Excuse me for asking, but in the days before he disappeared, had your father shown any symptoms of illness?” Like everything else this Andrew had said, the question took me by surprise.
“Well, of course, he had,” I replied, trying to keep my indignation at bay. Miners were always coughing and running a fever.
“Well, I am afraid, then, that your father’s ‘disappearance’ meant that he had come down with either dysentery or that new auto-immune disease currently ravaging this part of Africa.”
“But what ... how?” I spluttered.
“Please. Keep your voice down!” I had not realized I was shouting. “The company, you see, feared that, if word got out of even a single case of either of these highly infectious diseases, it might cause a general panic. And this would, in turn, temporarily curtail production.”
“So what did…?”
“They would put sick miners into small isolation huts in the bush behind the pits, and leave them there to die. When they did die, employees wearing special clothing, and earning an enhanced wage, would bury them in the slag heaps.”
“But how long…? And how do you…?”
“Well, let us say there have always been rumors. In your father’s case, for which I offer belated condolences, the crucial factor is the extreme unlikelihood of his having run away.”
“But couldn’t there have been an accident? A rock fall, or such?”
“Did your family hear of anyone else having disappeared that day?”
“No, not really.”
Again, he shrugged. We each ate a few spoonfuls of the now-cold stew, and sipped from our water glasses. Then, I remembered the second part of my question.
“But why, Andrew, have you told me all this? What is your motive, please?” By now, my indignation had been joined by a complex array of feelings, including gratitude, doubt and, of course, mounting curiosity.
Andrew carefully placed his spoon beside his bowl, as if to say he had finished eating. Since I could see that almost half of his portion of the stew remained in the bowl, and since I had emptied my own bowl, and bolted down the bread, but was still hungry, I fought off a fugitive impulse to grab his bowl, or at least to ask if I might finish his portion. Instead, I again asked him his motive for initiating the conversation.
This time, he obliged, at least in a manner of speaking. “Well, Pierre,” he began, a sad smile crossing his face. “I think I must answer your question indirectly.” He paused for a moment. “Can you guess which religious faith I follow?” I had no idea, of course, so I answered with a shrug. “Actually, it may surprise you to learn that I am Jewish.” I tried not to smile or otherwise betray my astonishment. “No, really, I am. A Jew. I belong to the ngongienne branch of the cult, so-called, of the banned group, the Afulaya.
Over the ensuing years, I have learned many facts that would have made my schoolfellow’s revelation much less shocking than it was for me at the time. First is that members of his ethnic group were the subjects of a banned monarch. Then, too, ever since the Middle Ages, “Lost Tribe” legends have been ubiquitous in Africa. During the Bulhoek Massacre of 1921, for example, the police mowed down South African “Israelites.” Today, there are black Jews across all of Africa, including the Lemba, in South Africa and Zimbabwe; in Ethiopia, several sects, including the Falasha (said to be descended from the lost tribe of Dan); in Uganda, the Abayudaya and, more recently, the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA); in Rwanda and Burundi, the Tutsi Hebrews of Havila; etc. etc. I have also come to understand the logic of colonized Africans’ grasping at a share of the glorious heritage of their famous fellow-victims. For that matter, a longstanding myth holds that Israel is geographically part of Africa. (It is actually in Asia.)
Perhaps the most bizarre contemporary example of African Judaism is Joseph Kony’s LRA, in Uganda. Kony claims to be a new Moses (prophet, lawgiver, and liberator from Pharaoh Museveni). The LRA see themselves as adhering strictly to the Ten Commandments. Of course, when the spirit moves him, Kony decrees ersatz “commandments,” which also serve as useful battle tactics. For instance, smoking is prohibited, so that the guerrillas can smell the approach of government troops.
If you are curious as to the antecedents of the LRA, you might consider Samei Lwakilenzi Kakungula and Alice Lakwena. Kakungula was a military leader who first led an unsuccessful rebellion. In 1913, he “got religion,” becoming an acolyte of the Bamalaki, a Ugandan group of “Israelites” who were trying to break away from the British, following a land dispute. (Land and religion: horse and carriage!)
As for the second Ugandan antecedent of Kony and the LRA, Alice Lakwena was born Alice Auma, of (yes!) Acholi origin. From start to finish, Alice walked the path of religious iconoclasm. Initially a member of the Anglican Church, she converted to Catholicism. Then, on 25 May, 1985, she became possessed by a Christian spirit named Lakwena, who had previously “inhabited” the person of an Italian engineer. After Alice harnessed this spirit’s powers, for healing purposes, he (or it) commanded her to lead a force in opposition to Museveni’s National Resistance Army (NRA). Thus was born the Holy Spirit Mobile Forces (HSMF),
The struggle, she was told, must begin with a ritual “purification” of deserted soldiers from various armed groups, including the NRA. (Especially in need of such rites were her own Acholi who, the spirit said, were particularly sinful and enamored of witchcraft!) A set of twenty, rather odd commandments, which Alice Lakwena dubbed “Holy Spirit Safety Precautions,” were adopted, combining rules purloined from the original Ten Commandments, such as “Thou shalt not kill,” together with more mundane ones, such as a prohibition against smoking cigarettes (ah ha!). HSMF were also prohibited from aiming their weapons at their opponents. Spirits would guide their random shots, thereby protecting the troops from violating the “thou shalt not kill” rule. Another, particularly odd precaution stipulated that male fighters must have two testicles, “no more, no less.”
The Lakwena Movement incorporated, and even extended, its founder’s ecumenism. Along with the Bible, the Quran was accepted as holy writ: every day, a clerk would read passages from both books to the assembled troops. And, even though the Movement condemned witchcraft, it retained strong elements of traditional belief, regarding bees, snakes, water, and rocks, all of these animated by benign spirits (said to number 140,000). In that way, Alice Lakwena’s psychomachia can be said to have enlisted the entire cosmos!
Eventually, Alice was exiled to Kenya. According to one source, she was last seen in a bar, wearing a white blouse and blue shorts, and drinking Pepsi Cola with gin. (“You got the right one, Baby!”) When you consider a prototype like the Lakwena Movement, the faith and practice of the LRA seem almost mundane.
But to return to Andrew’s monologue…“Without saying too much, Pierre, I will explain why I have gone out of my way to speak to you about the unpleasant matter of your father’s death. As I just stated, the answer is related to my faith. Listen carefully, please!” As he continued, he picked up his spoon again, and waved it like a baton, or pointer.
“I can say that my membership in the Afulaya is prompted by a personal search for autonomy and a means of resistance to oppression. What the government did to your father, and has done to thousands like him, sometimes through its affiliate, the Union Miniere, is tantamount to murder. As such, it violates the fifth commandment, as decreed by God’s prophet, Moses.”
With that, he put down the spoon, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “For the time being, Pierre, I can say no more. In future, if you choose, you may invite further confidences. Or, should you not choose, you must simply ignore me, act as if I were a fellow student with whom you did not happen to be acquainted. In that case, I will ask especially that you not reveal to anyone what I have told you today.”
“But what of all these other students, who may…?” Gesturing around the refectory, I was about to ask about those who might have overheard our conversation. Andrew looked disappointed, as if he had drawn the correct inference that, indeed, I would not welcome further “confidences.”
“Oh, never mind them!” he said. “I will think of something to tell anyone who happens to ask.” And, ending as he had begun, with an Acholi phrase, “Wot maber” [‘Goodbye”], my mysterious schoolfellow strode to the exit and disappeared.
This “Jew” (a term of disapprobation for us Acholi) left me with a lot to think about. Even now, after all these years, and all that has since happened to me, the fact that my fellow student’s politics were based upon a faith that he must have known was widely despised, has left the question of why he approached me, in the first place, partly unanswered. Andrew Enyannge was an impressively sophisticated thirteen year-old.
Andrew Ennyange
What a fatal error I have just made! How in the world could I have imagined it would be a good idea to confide in this fellow? I mean, beyond attending the same school, what do we really have in common, a shared aptitude for solving linear equations? Ha! This boy, I can see, is an Acholi, through and through. Whatever his actual religious persuasion, he is obviously not a Jew. Can such a baby possess any political convictions?
Can this so-called “student” be unaware, for instance, of historical droughts and their lasting effects upon Acholi society? Is this ”pebble,” Pierre, completely oblivious to the displacement of his fellow Acholis in Uganda by the ongoing civil war and the accompanying refugee crisis, a displacement that raises serious questions of land ownership, and further exacerbated by climate change -- drought? And is he ignorant of the fact that these are all problems left completely unsolved by dictatorial regimes such as those that misgovern both Uganda and Ngongo?
Could I really have regarded such a fellow as a potential Afulaya recruit? Some still waters do not run deep. To think that I wasted many hours digging up a few facts from which to concoct a plausible tale of his father’s death! And what a temper this grand Pierre possesses! I must have been deceived by his quiet, respectful manner. I was afraid he might m’arracher la tete [“bite my head off”]. I can only hope that the idiote will not jaser [“blab”]. The Afulaya comrades must know nothing of this my folie, my rash attempt to convert such a simpleton to our cause. Next time, I shall be more careful!
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