by Peter Ralph
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The crocodile and the scorpion: a Congolese parable
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26Book 2
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Epilogue
Reviews
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THE CROCODILE AND THE SCORPION: A CONGOLESE PARABLE
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ONE AFTERNOON IN KINSHASA, A scorpion asked his friend the crocodile to help him cross the majestic Congo river. ‘I have to cross over to Brazzaville but don’t know how to swim. As you swim with such ease and elegance, let me climb on your back so we can leave without further ado.’
The crocodile replied: ‘Dear scorpion, I know you and the reputation of your kind. Once we get to the middle of the river, you’ll sting me and we’ll both drown.’
‘Why would I ever do such a thing? asked the scorpion. ‘If I sting you and you die, I’ll drown with you.’
The crocodile thought for a moment and agreed to help the scorpion. ‘Climb on; let’s get moving before nightfall.’
They left the shore and headed for Brazzaville. As the lights of Kinshasa started to fade and their destination appeared on the horizon, the scorpion had a sudden urge and stung the valiant swimmer in the neck.
‘Why did you do that?’ asked the crocodile, who was nearing the end of his tether. ‘I’m exhausted; we’re never going to make it!’
Just before they disappeared under the murky water, the scorpion whispered: ‘That’s the way it is. This is Congo. Don’t try to understand.’
(Congo Masquerade, Theodore Trefon, Zed Books, London in association with International African Institute Royal African Society Social Science Research Council).
PROLOGUE
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IT WAS NINETY-FIVE DEGREES, AND there wasn’t even the whiff of a breeze. Beijing’s Bird’s Nest stadium was packed. Joseph Muamba looked up from the track, searching for his adoptive parents.
Eight events of the Olympic decathlon had been completed, and while only in ninth place, he was within range of the leaders. He had conserved his energy for the final two events. Greg Foreman, his Californian coach, signaled with his hands as Joseph balanced the javelin in his right hand. Memories flooded back to his childhood in a small village in Katanga Province in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. He had learned to throw a spear from the time he’d taken his first steps and killed his first impala when only eight. He’d been equally adept at spearing fish in the local river.
Joseph’s ebony skin shone with perspiration as he charged toward the throwing line. His right bicep bulged as he drew his arm back and hurled the aluminum missile into the stratosphere. There was a gasp and then spontaneous applause.
“Joseph Muamba, or as Americans know him, Joseph Rafter, has just thrown a personal best of seventy-nine meters. That’s six meters farther than his nearest rival and puts him in the bronze medal position,” Ted Cosell, the NBC anchor, said.
“His story is remarkable,” Angie Madigan responded. “He could’ve tried out for the U.S. team, but instead opted to compete for his birthplace, the Democratic Republic of the Congo. I bet there are seventy million Congolese rooting for him and hoping he’ll win their first-ever medal.”
“He may not have made the U.S. team,” Cosell said, “but he would’ve been the first athlete chosen for the Congo. They’ve been competing for more than fifty years without ever gracing the podium. If this young man can win a medal, he’ll be a national hero.”
“I’ve got my fingers crossed for him, Ted, but his fastest time in the fifteen hundred won’t do it. If he’s going to win bronze, he’ll have to beat his PB by twenty seconds. It’s been a great effort to get where he is, but I can’t see it happening.”
“Angie, he hasn’t been seen at any of his regular training venues in LA for the past three months. Rumors have it that Greg Foreman has had him in Mexico City training at altitude.”
“Well, we’ll soon find out if it worked. He’ll have to run at least four minutes, forty seconds to get a medal, and guys of his physique just don’t do it. Have a look at him. He could be a running back for the Giants. Nope, it isn’t going to happen.”
Joseph let his body go loose as he waited for the starter. He had run a PB in Mexico City two weeks before returning to LA to taper for the Games. He had wanted to run a trial at sea level, but Greg had insisted he conserve his energy for the big day. Greg had pushed him to the maximum in Mexico, and he’d regularly vomited in the thin air, his lungs starved of oxygen. Now he was going to find out whether the agony had been worth it.
Maya Tansi, a twenty-four-year-old nurse at Kinshasa Mercy Hospital, couldn’t sit still. A small group of medical staff sat around an old television, waiting for the fifteen hundred to start. Maya paced the small room willing Joseph to win. She would run every step with him. It had been fourteen years since she’d seen him.
The starter fired his pistol, and Joseph went straight to the lead. The stadium was like a cauldron, and heat shimmered off the track, but Joseph was oblivious. He didn’t hear the roaring of the crowd or the grunting and gasping of the runners behind him. He was twelve again and running to escape a raging white rhino that had set its sights on him. If he could just make it to the jacaranda tree, he would be safe.
“Fifty-six seconds for the first lap,” Angie screamed, “he’s lost his marbles. There’s no way he can keep that pace up.”
Still, Joseph accelerated, waiting for the pain to sear his lungs, but he felt nothing. He was floating and looking down at the mean old rhino from the top of the jacaranda. As the bell rang for the last lap, Greg stood near the fence waving a red towel, signaling to Joseph that if he could hold his form for the last three hundred meters, he would win gold.
“Joseph Muamba’s opened up a huge lead,” Ted Cosel
l shouted, “but I think he’ll stop and the pack will overtake him.”
Joseph was now hurting. Sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes, his throat was parched, and his lungs felt like they would explode. He was in a daze but could sense the crowd. They were on their feet cheering. Cheering for him. He glanced over his shoulder at the two-hundred-meter mark to see where his nearest rival was and nearly stumbled. Focus, concentrate, and hold your form, his brain screamed. With eighty meters to go, the noise was deafening, and he felt something lift him from outside his body. Now he was surging with renewed vigor and as he crossed the line, the stadium erupted in applause.
“Four minutes, fifteen seconds,” Angie said, “he’s beaten his PB by forty seconds. If it’s legal, it’s one of the all-time great Olympic performances. He’s definitely got silver, and only Germany’s Wolfgang Boesch can deny him gold.”
“‘If it’s legal’? What are you suggesting, Angie?”
“I’m in shock. Have you ever seen a better performance? He clocked eleven seconds for the last hundred. That’s impossible! For his sake and the Olympics’, I hope he’s clean. We don’t want another Ben Johnson.”
“Boesch’s failed by a mere three seconds. Joseph Muamba is the gold medalist in one of the greatest upsets in sporting history. Congratulations to the young man. This victory puts Greg Foreman on the world stage as a coach.”
“Joseph Muamba could be a male model. He’s good-looking, articulate, has a great family, and to date, his drug tests have been squeaky-clean. Providing nothing shows up in his urine, blood, and saliva, advertisers are going to be beating a path to his door,” Angie said.
Joseph half jogged, half danced along the track with his hands held over his head, sucking up the applause and atmosphere, before he saw Greg waving his red towel and holding the Democratic Republic of the Congo’s distinctive blue, red, and yellow flag. He ran over to the fence, embraced his coach, and draped himself with the flag. His mother and father worked their way down the aisle toward him. Tears were streaming down his father’s face as he reached out and put his hands on Joseph’s shoulders. “I’m so proud of you, Joseph. I’m still pinching myself. I love you.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
“You were wonderful,” his mother chimed in. “You deserved to win after all your hard work.”
Maya Tansi saw more than Joseph’s victory. She saw the love he had for his adoptive parents and their love for him. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She didn’t know whether she was happy for him or sorry for herself.
In Kinshasa, the capital of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, ten million Congolese celebrated like there was no tomorrow.
CHAPTER 1
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FRANK AND MICHELLE RAFTER WERE in their late forties when they got the news every parent dreads. Their son, Brent, and daughter, Dianne, had gone out to do some Christmas shopping. On their way home, a speeding Ford F-100 driven by a drunken driver, ran a red light and T-boned Brent’s Honda. The small car was no match for the truck, and Dianne died instantly. Brent lingered on for two more weeks before his parents consented to turn his life support off and donate his organs.
Frank and Michelle’s grief was unendurable. They contemplated suicide rather than living with the unbearable pain. Frank took extended leave from Capel & Lambert, the firm of Los Angeles stock brokers he had founded. Michelle cut all her social ties, and they moped around their palatial Beverly Hills mansion compounding each other’s heartache. More than twelve months elapsed before Frank returned to work, and by then he’d aged twenty years. Life had lost all purpose and meaning for Frank and Michelle when a well-meaning friend asked them whether they’d consider adopting. They were appalled by the suggestion, but the seed had been sown. As time wore on, they warmed to the idea.
They were model adoption applicants, pillars of the community who were successful and affluent, but they failed one critical condition. They were too old. If they adopted a baby, they would be in their early seventies when the child turned twenty-one. The authorities were kind and gentle but advised them not to apply, as their application would not be considered. Being rejected helped them turn their focus back on life. They complained bitterly to politicians and influential contacts about the unfairness of the regulations. Their contacts were sympathetic, but rules were rules, and after four years of trying, they were no closer to adopting.
They had all but given up hope when one of Frank’s closest friends – George Faraday, an entrepreneur and director of more than a dozen mining exploration companies in Africa – asked, “Frank, would you be interested in adopting in the Congo or Senegal? If so, I can help.”
“I don’t know.”
“I understand.” Faraday smiled. “You don’t want a black kid.”
The blood raced to Frank’s face. “I couldn’t care what color the baby is,” he said, “but I wouldn’t want him or her to feel any pressure later in life as a result of having white parents.”
“You’re not going to get a baby, not even in Africa. You’re going to get an orphan or a kid whose family can no longer afford to look after him. The child could be as young as five or as old as fourteen.”
“I’ll have to talk to Michelle and then my lawyers. I’ll get back to you.”
“By all means, talk to Michelle but forget the lawyers. They’ll say you can’t do it, and that you’ll be breaking hundreds of laws. There’s no point calling me if you’re going to talk to your lawyers.”
The following day, Frank called Faraday and asked him to find out what could be arranged.
In less than two weeks, George Faraday located a boy who had just turned twelve, in a small village in Katanga. “Frank, if you like him and grease the right palms, he’s available for adoption. Better still, the Catholic missionaries have taught him a smattering of English. That’s a bonus. We’ll fly to Kinshasa and clear it with General Bodho, who’s a friend of mine. Then we’ll hop a flight to Lubumbashi. After Kinshasa, it’s the next-largest city. The village is eight hours north of Lubumbashi by gravel road.”
“What does the army have to do with child adoption?”
“Nothing happens in the Congo without the general’s imprimatur. If he says it’s okay, the adoption papers and passport are just a formality. And more importantly for you, it’s all legal.”
“How much is it going to cost?”
“Thirty thousand cash. They like greenbacks. Fifteen thousand for the general, twelve thousand split between the chief of police and the colonel in Katanga, and three thousand for the boy’s family.”
“The family only gets three thousand?”
“For them, it’ll be a small fortune. The boy’s the oldest of eight kids. Three thousand’s enough to ensure they won’t have to sell another one.”
“It’s disgraceful, George. I want to pay the family another twenty thousand.”
Faraday sighed. “You’ll ruin everything. If the powers that be find out you’ve paid more, they’ll take it off the family and run you out of the country, or perhaps even kill you. A boy is worth three thousand and a girl fifteen hundred. You start paying more and other families will find out, and they’ll want more. You’ll ruin their economy. You don’t know how these people work. Just do as I tell you, and everything will be all right.”
Frank shook his head but said, “I’ll call Michelle and tell her to start packing.”
“Michelle can’t come. Jesus, we’re going into one of the most dangerous places on the planet. The Congo’s on the brink of civil war, and the rebels are about to overthrow President Mobutu. We’ll be in an area of Katanga known as the ‘Triangle of Death.’ Here’s the deal, Frank, we get in and get out as fast as we can. Tell Michelle it’s eighty-five degrees in the shade, the humidity’s unbearable, we’ll be on dirt roads, there’s no running water, there are huge mosquitoes, we’ll be sleeping in tents, the snakes are enormous, and we’ll be lucky to get home without dengue fever or malaria. I don’t think she’ll want
to come after hearing that. We’ll fly out on Friday.”
After Frank described the hardships and danger, Michelle reluctantly agreed not to make the trip but was worried about her husband. “Don’t fuss,” he said. “I’ll be in and out like lightning. George said we’ll be back home in five days.”
“God, I hope he’s right. I’ll pray for you, Frank. Call me as soon as you have our son. I want to buy shoes and clothes for him.”
“How am I going to get his shoe size?” Frank laughed. “He’ll probably be barefoot or wearing sandals.”
“You can guess, and I’ll do the rest. Call me.”
Air France 117 departed LA at 7:00 a.m. on Friday; twenty-nine hours later, after refueling in Paris, it landed at N’djili Airport, in Kinshasa at 9:00 p.m. The taxi stand was crowded with light blue and yellow old Volkswagen and Mazda sedans. Frank and Faraday climbed into a battered Mazda for the ten-mile trip to the Hotel Memling. The taxi stunk, and the air conditioning blew hot air. Faraday crunched his body up so his head wouldn’t hit the roof and closed his eyes, but Frank was fascinated by the pandemonium taking place on the road. The taxi driver turned up the radio’s volume and clicked his fingers to the beat of the reggae, seemingly oblivious to the cars and vans beeping and swerving in and out of unmarked lanes. When they reached the city, the streets were bumper to bumper, and the sidewalks were swarming. Frank had never seen so many beggars before. There were the blind, the shockingly disfigured, and those missing limbs.
Kinshasa was a mixture of old French architecture and contemporary buildings. When the taxi pulled up at the modern, Belgian-managed Hotel Memling, Faraday opened his eyes and said, “Let’s check in and get cleaned up, Frank. General Bodho will be here in an hour.”
CHAPTER 2
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THREE CHILDREN, WHOSE RIBS PROTRUDED from the rags they were wearing, sat in the shade, next to a hut constructed of sticks and mud with a grass roof, in a remote village in Katanga. The heat was oppressive, and dust covered the children. Twelve-year-old Joseph Muamba was two years older than Maya Tansi and Yannick Kyenge. They looked up to Joseph and called him “Boss.”
