Chapter Twelve.
South Africa, 1994; Ngongo, 1994-2005.
“But now you must return home, Pierre, to where you are needed.” I was in conference with Jonny M--, the head of Melville branch of the ANCYL and an officer in their National Executive. We were having a coffee at one of Melville’s ubiquitous cafes. Jonny had initiated the meeting by contacting me through the three-person cell to which I belonged. Although, by now, the League had been unbanned for three years, he was among its more paranoid leaders. (In this regard, he was like “King Alfred.”) His lingering distrust of the government made him retain certain institutional practices, like covert cells, from the bad old days, when secrecy had been essential to group survival.
Muffled in a “hoodie,” Jonny was a short, powerfully built man who wore large, square, thick-lensed, black-rimmed spectacles. He waited only until our server had placed the steaming mugs on our corner table before speaking, and even then, he skipped the small talk, and bluntly ordered me to go home.
My association with the ANCYL had remained tenuous, based solely, as far as I knew, on a recommendation from “Bila,” the Zambian woman I had met only once, and whose real name I still had not learned. Thus, I was relegated to mundane jobs, such as kitchen scullion at the organization’s food pantry at Braamfontein, near Wits.
After delivering his blunt command, Jonny surprised me, by adding, “Although you are untested, Pierre, your sponsors include two trusted Kenyan comrades, Eliyahu Josephai and Alfreda arap Kipsang. Since both comrades have attested to your reliability, I feel confident in suggesting that, upon arrival in Ngongo, you should make contact with the Cadre Pour La Liberation d’Ngongo, the CPLN.”
“But how can I…?”
“Don’t worry, they will contact you. But a word of advice: you must be chary of sharing confidences with your uncle in Fort Chaltin, the hotelier, Monsieur Saint-Louis. The man is a government stooge.” (I should say that, in my job interview with the Garden House, I had, for some reason, failed to mention Uncle Alphonse.) With this revelation and warning, Jonny abruptly stood up and exited the café, leaving me to pay the check. Oh, well, I imagine the comrade was aware that I was earning a good wage at my hotel. (He probably knew the precise amount.)
That meeting took place in late 1993, during the glory years of the ANCYL, when the expulsion of Julius Malema and subsequent dissolution of the League were still two decades in the future. Not that there had been no fault lines, even during the early days. In those violent times, the ANCYL’s leader had been another firebrand, Peter Mokaba, who went around singing, “Kill the Boer.” By the time of Malema’s ascendancy, I would have risen to a position in the CPLN nearly equivalent to the ANCYL position occupied in 1993 by Jonny M- (whose his full name I never did learn).
My South African experiences may have been an indirect reason that, in 2007, I acceded to the “request” of Major Oscar Odhon’g that I play a leading role in the bomb plot against Festus Nkwema. Simply put, I did not want to secouer le bateau [“rock the boat”]. If I learned one lesson from South Africa’s successful revolution, it was the importance of solidarity. That lesson was reinforced by numerous other African liberation movements, both successful and not.
Before I finally left South Africa, in June, 1994, I was peripherally involved in planning the festivities marking majority rule, and was rewarded with a front-row seat (actually, a tenth or twentieth row seat) at some of the events. I hardly need describe what occurred in ‘94, since millions of people around the globe have seen the iconic photographs and newsreels: Nelson Mandela smiling, as he stood at the ballot box; old crones and geezers awaiting their turn; the striking photo of a huge line of voters snaking across the landscape; jubilant crowds in shebeens, stadiums and other gathering places; and all those multiracial hugs and handshakes. After the celebrations on, and around, 27 April 1994, when I finally left to retrace my steps back to Ngongo, it was with the conviction that I must now do my bit to replicate in my own country South Africa’s successful struggle.
Of course, in 1994, I knew nothing of the future, either my own or South Africa’s. Not only would there be Malema’s expulsion and the dissolution of the Youth League. How could I have anticipated that, even earlier, in 2005, April 27th would be dubbed “Unfreedom Day” by masses of disaffected victims of “economic apartheid”? And how could I have anticipated that only two years later, in 2007, my own bright hopes would turn to ashes? But all that is mettre la charrue avant les bouefs “to put the cart before the horse,” or, as we say in French, “the plow before the oxen.”
Meanwhile, in June of 1994, I traveled home to Ngongo, with a stopover in Nairobi that included a small party, organized by Mr. J. and Freddie Kipsang, to mark my twenty-fourth birthday. I then flew directly to Fort Chaltin. Back in my homeland, almost before I grasped what was happening, I found myself involved with the Cadre Pour La Liberation D’Ngongo, initially serving as a messenger to affiliated groups in neighboring countries (Uganda, DRC, Gabon, Republique du Congo, Kenya, Tanzania, etc.). To anticipate, when I had gained the trust of the CPLN leadership, my missions to those countries would involve more serious tasks, such as weapons procurement and the establishment of safe havens.
Meanwhile, still in late 1994, through my “Uncle Stooge’s” contacts in the government, I procured a lucrative “day job,” as Foreign Office translator, in which capacity I could also conveniently operate as a spy. To anticipate, I was able to lead this double life undetected for over a decade (1994-2007), at least in part, to be frank, because I have always looked more like a “geek” than un subversif.
Gradually, I climbed the ladder in both posts, until I was ultimately chosen by the CPLN to plant the bomb. To sweeten the deal, at a second midnight meeting in the forest outside Fort Chaltin, Major Odhon’g would hint that I was to be offered a position in his new Administration, as either Minister of Foreign Affairs or Ambassador to the U.S. I would remember that second possible offer as yet another of the huge ironies that have marked so much of my life.
In the years previous to the assassination plot, as I have said, I was involved in a variety of Cadre operations. Many of these drew upon my language skills. In addition to Luo and Acholi, my repertoire gradually came to include several other Ngongienne tongues Two examples will suffice, one involving land and drought; the other, the changing role of women.
In the first decade of the current century, our nation once again suffered prolonged drought, with attendant consequences of famine and migration. In coordination with a global organization, the United Nations, no less, the CPLN assumed an active role in filling the vacuum left by the Nkwema regime’s indifference, incompetence, and corruption. You must bear with me as I reconstruct the details of this work.
The United Nations Office to Combat Desertification attempted to partner with Lugbara farmers in their efforts to combat drought. UNOCD sponsored the use of traditional methods, such as water harvesting, organic matter management, and what is known as “gully harnessing.” To give a few specifics: runoff from tarred roads was spread through fields, via a network of channels; banana plants were mulched; check dams were used in ways that turned gullies into gardens; trees that suppress grass were ring-barked; and, finally, compost production was increased by the addition of cattle manure. (I am sure, Reader, that you find these technical details spellbinding!)
The Cadre became involved in the Lugbara water projects for political reasons. President-General Nkwema tried to suppress the U.N. program, because it deprived him of the millions of francs he had been skimming from the farm assistance programs of assorted NGO’s, which the UN program supplanted. Since most NGO projects were “top-down,” they had not worked as well as the UNOCD’s projects. Simply put, Cadre were assigned to protect the crops and anti-drought systems of farmers who were participating in the UN program. To do this, we would drive off Force NKN agents, sometimes with threats, sometimes with beatings. But we never killed any of them.
Where, you ask, did I come in? Since I was fairly fluent in the Lugbara language, known alternately as Lugbarati, or Ronyoro, my job was to convince the farmers not to abandon the U.N. program. Not every farmer believed my assertions that our people could protect them but, since their own influential rainmakers had repeatedly failed them, and since they hated the dictator, many persisted with their participation in the U.N. program. Of course, this persistence may have been more a matter of pride than of my persuasion.
The second example of my work for the Cadre comes from the same era, the tournant du siècle [“turn of the century”]. As in many neighboring countries, Ngongienne women’s groups were, by then, actively fighting the scourge of HIV/AIDS. Groups in all corners of the country were supplanting costly NGO efforts, from which Dictator Nkwema had also been taking his “cut.”
To anticipate, one of the many reasons the Cadre took the extreme decision to assassinate Nkwema in 2007 was how seriously we regarded theft. It seemed particularly obscene that our Thief-in-Chief took credit for the ruthless suppression of lesser, common thieves, who were often driven to this desperate expedient by his own crimes and incompetence.
When NKN operatives attempted to disrupt the activities of women’s groups, we in the Cadre disrupted the disrupters! We also punished husbands who beat, or otherwise abused, their wives for participating in women’s programs, some of the purviews of which extended beyond HIV/AIDS. For instance, there were training programs that taught women how to start their own small businesses and to launch professional careers.
My favorite example was an Acholi woman in Mindouli, who learned the art of public speaking, then attained a position in Public Relations for a local branch of travailleurs do cuivre unis, the newly formed union of copper miners. This woman was repeatedly beaten and forbidden to go to her office by her husband, who was himself a miner. Eventually, the Cadre subjected this man to a severe drubbing that put other wife abusers on notice. After a year, or so, the tide turned, and the Mindouli miners began to enjoy their wives’ added income, not to mention their participation in organizations (such as the tcu) that benefited them (the men!).
This rise in female empowerment was perceived as anti-Nkwema for reasons other than the Dictator’s lost rake-offs. Several members of women’s groups became employed in the justice system, making it a bit more independent. Women also began working for the state-controlled radio and TV stations (the only stations, in Ngongo), injecting “subversive” content into the programming.
Where did I come in? Working with former acquaintances and associates, such as Blanche Mbabazi and Dorcas Banda (“Bila”), I became involved in translating some of the radio and TV content into English, Kiswahili, and local languages other than French and Luo, Ngongo’s two official tongues.
In any endeavor, it is human nature to develop favorites. Aside from my Acholi sisters, I was particularly partial to the powerful women of the Bongoro, or Nyoro -- partial enough that I became an adept in their tongue, Runyoro. As to the husband-beatings, those I left to better-qualified Cadre!
Do you remember, Reader, that memorable lecture in Nairobi all those years ago? If so, do you remember the anonymous lecturer’s wonderful peroration: “There is one countervailing, overwhelmingly hopeful factor: any insurrection in our region can count upon the incumbent government’s failure to consolidate control over the countryside.” By the time of my work with Ngongo’s brave farmers and feminists, those words had become my credo, of sorts. As I later learned, the lecturer’s name was Blanche Mbabazi. In my work with ngongienne women’s groups, I was proud to be her associate.
To give a better sense of my double existence during those years, let me refer to a week in 2005, when the two tracks ran perilously close together. On loan from my own Ministry, I was accompanying M. Alois Obiero-Obura, sous-secretaire au developpement economique, on a mission to our neighbor, the DRC, to discuss the recent astronomical rise in world copper prices, and to consider how we, the neighboring producers, should take advantage of it. In other words, the purpose of the mission was price-fixing.
Le sous-secretaire was a specimen of the technocratic sycophants with which our country’s cunning dictator surrounded himself. Since the aim of the DRC counterpart of “Oh-Oh,” as my boss was called, would be to extract as large a share as possible for his own rapacious master, much of what I translated during that two-day meeting was numerical, and involved exchange rates between Congolese and Ngongien francs, and Swiss and U.S. dollars.
By the end of the second day, the negotiations had been completed. Since our meetings ended late, and since the sous-secretaire was a noted womanizer and gourmand, he decreed that our small party (his Excellence, myself, and two bodyguards from La Force NKN) should spend another night at our three-star hotel, and postpone flying home until the next morning. This plan suited me well, because I knew that, while the others were busy whoring and stuffing their faces, I could slip away to a meeting of my own with University of Kinshasa comrades, to discuss the Cadre’s wish to strengthen ties.
The idea of unity between groups with somewhat divergent agendas I owe to Julius Nyerere. In a 1967 speech about the obstacles to Pan-Africanism, he alluded to economic and political differences among African nations, warning that these differences could be exploited by erstwhile colonial masters. He gave as an example the differing economies of Zambia and his own country, which were causing them to disagree over Rhodesia. Although Mwalimu [“the teacher”] thought the two nations could resolve this difference, he did not think the road to Pan-African unity would be smooth.
How much more the case with radical movements! As mentioned, I had lived in South Africa right after the fierce battles between student comrades and INKATHA, the Zulu nationalists. During this 2005 visit to the DNC, where our two dissident movements had much in common, there were also significant obstacles to cooperation. The Kinshasa students were all…well… students, whereas the Cadre’s membership was diverse in age, in levels of education and training, and even in basic belief systems. Like the soldiers in Uganda’s millennial movement, the Lord’s Resistance Army, a number of our own members actually wore fetish objects beneath their shirts, which they thought would render them invisible in combat! (On that particular night, would that I had possessed such a fetish!)
Thus, the Cadre had its own internal divisions to worry about. When we were prompted to upbraid our backward colleagues, as was often the case, our scientific Marxists were forced to bite their tongues. My polyglotism notwithstanding, I was a skilled tongue biter.
This particular meeting, which took place during the early hours, in a secluded corner of the University campus, went as well as could be expected. Should the need arise, the Congolese students committed themselves to finding safe hiding places for us. In return, we offered to share with them technical and other know-how.
Afterward, I taxied back to within a few blocks of the hotel, paid the driver (in cash), and proceeded on foot. When I reached the rear door of the hotel, through which I had made my exit two hours before, my luck ran out. For there, guarding the door, stood one of our bodyguards, a massive man named Pierre Something or, as the inside joke had it, “Grand Pierre.” I was, of course, “Petit Pierre,” which means “pebble.” A six-foot pebble!
At that moment, however, I felt exactly like a pebble. For, one day about a year before, I had witnessed Grand Pierre in action. When a ragged beggar had dared to importune his master for a few centimes, G.P. had felled the poor man with a single blow of his football-sized fist, and proceeded to kick him into insensibility, probably breaking several ribs.
Having been trained by the Cadre for such emergencies as this, I had a plan of action. “Heh, heh, G.P.,” said I, with a sourire de mangeur de merde [“shit-eating grin”], I hope your evening has been as pleasurable as my own.” This I accompanied with an obscene arm-and-fist gesture and a broad “boys will be boys” wink, which I hoped the powerful anti-theft spotlight on the wall beside the door would enable the sadistic thug to see.
Apparently, the ploy worked or, at any rate, he moved far enough to one side of the door to allow me to pass. Perspiring heavily, I made my way up to my room, where I undressed and crept into bed without showering, for fear that the noisy plumbing (yes, in a three-star establishment!) might awaken the Undersecretary, whose suite adjoined my room.
Although I had managed to evade immediate detection, I knew that my danger did not end there. The next evening, I used one of my throwaway mobiles to inform the Cadre Executive of my near-exposure. They immediately put into effect the usual precautions: six months during which I would do nothing whatsoever for the organization, followed by two full years when I would undertake only minor tasks that left no footprints. I gladly adhered to these precautions, for I understood that, without them, my double life would long since have been exposed.
To be continued...
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