Blood Gold in the Congo

by Peter Ralph

  “I have something important to tell you,” he said. “Let’s go to the forest.”

  “It’s too hot and too far,” Maya moaned. “Tell us now.”

  “It’s only a fifteen-minute walk, and we’ll be cooler in our hideout,” Joseph replied.

  “I’m with Joseph,” Yannick said. “If you don’t want to come, you can stay here, Maya.”

  “Shut up, Yannick,” Maya said, getting to her feet.

  The dust was soon replaced with grass as they trudged toward the dark forest. “I love the jungle,” Yannick said.

  Joseph was strangely quiet, and as they entered the forest, there was an eerie silence broken only by the sounds of animals and the dripping of water from the branches and leaves. The canopy of trees blocked out the light and the rays of the sun, but it was still hot and humid. Four hundred yards into the forest they stopped in front of a huge, dying baobab tree before making their way behind it. Joseph pushed away the dense foliage surrounding it to reveal a cavity as large as a door. They had bored small holes in the trunk so that they could see if anyone was coming. Tiny slivers of dull light came through the holes as they waited for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. They squatted down on the cool moss growing over the roots and Yannick said, “What is this important news, Boss?”

  “I’m leaving the village. My father has sold me to a wealthy American.”

  Maya was horrified. “My parents would never sell me,” she declared. “Why don’t you run away and hide here in the jungle? We could bring you food. I can’t stand the thought of you not being with us.”

  “Maya loves Joseph. Maya loves Joseph.” Yannick laughed, fending off the young girl’s blows.

  “Shut up, you two. The maize crop has failed, and my father is down to his last scrawny goat. Your family is no better off, Maya. Where are you going to get food?”

  “You could live off pythons and manioc roots. What are we going to do without you, Boss? Please don’t go,” Yannick pleaded.

  “Even without me, my father has nine mouths to feed. Everyone will perish unless he can feed them. Once I’m in America, I’ll find a way to escape and return home. I’ll be back before you know it. They are paying $3,000 for me. My father will be able to buy grain, vegetables, goats, and pigs.”

  “How much is $3,000?” Maya asked.

  “I heard my father say it’s nearly three million francs.”

  “Three million francs?” Maya gasped, her big brown eyes lighting up in astonishment. “I didn’t know there was that much money in the world. Your father’s going to be rich.”

  “Soon everyone will be better off,” Joseph said. “It’s rumored the Americans are planning to build a gold mine. If they do, there will be jobs for everyone. The village will no longer be reliant on the seasons or the river for its food.”

  “I heard the same,” Yannick said. “My mother and father are getting jobs at the mine. I am too.”

  “It’s only a rumor,” Maya scoffed, “and my parents think it will be years before anything happens. The mining company wants a guarantee it will be safe from the rebels. How can anyone guarantee that? Besides, you’re too young, Yannick. Look at you. You’re too skinny to swing a pick and not strong enough to carry gold.”

  “You have such a big mouth, Maya. You think you know everything.”

  “Stop it,” Joseph said. “I heard my father say if it goes ahead, anyone over ten will be able to get a job. You might be a miner, Sis.”

  “I’ll never go down a mine,” Maya responded. “I’m going to be a doctor.”

  “How?” Yannick taunted, but before the young girl could respond, he said, “When are you going, Boss?”

  “The Americans are coming tomorrow.”

  “No, it’s too soon!” Maya said. “It’s so unfair, Joseph. You should run away.”

  “If I did, Sis, I would bring hurt and shame on my family. When you’re older, you’ll understand,” Joseph said with false bravado.

  On his last night in the village, Joseph lay on a grass mat listening to the breathing of his siblings and parents. The howls of the village dogs were punctuated by the snarling of lions in the jungle. He killed an ant crawling across his chest and popped it into his mouth. His hunger was greater than his fear, and warriors didn’t cry, but try as he might, he couldn’t fight back the tears. The hut was tiny, so Joseph, fearing he might be heard, clamped a hand over his mouth.

  Finally, splinters of sunlight penetrated the hut, ending a sleepless night. His father looked at his feet, unable to make eye contact with his eldest child, while his mother wept profusely. The bluster of yesterday had vanished, and Joseph was scared – scared in a way he’d never been before.

  An hour after sunrise, two Jeeps and a truck sped into the village, throwing up dust and stones. Soldiers carrying AK-47s jumped from the back of the truck and took up positions around the village. The fear on the faces of the villagers was clear as day. A man fighting a losing battle to keep his stomach contained in a jungle green army shirt, climbed out of the first Jeep and, in a booming voice, shouted, “I am Colonel Zamenka. Where is Joseph Muamba?”

  Two white men were perspiring heavily in the back of the first Jeep.

  One of the four men dressed in navy blue in the second Jeep got out and said, “And I am Major Ibaka.”

  Ibaka’s girth was only slightly less than Zamenka’s. The two obese men stood like peacocks, preening themselves in front of the frightened villagers. Joseph’s father, head hung low, pushed his son toward the peacocks.

  “Put him in the back of the truck,” Colonel Zamenka said, nodding to one of the soldiers.

  “No,” one of the white men said, “he will travel with me.”

  “There is no room in the Jeep. Can’t you see that?” Zamenka said scornfully.

  “Two of the police officers will travel in the back of the truck, and Joseph and I will take their places.”

  “No,” Ibaka said, “I need my men near me.”

  “For Chrissakes, Frank, drop it,” the taller man hissed. “They’ll kill us as soon as look at us.”

  The other man pulled out his wallet and emptied it. “I’ll pay $600 for those two seats, Major Ibaka. What do you say?”

  “He says yes,” Zamenka said, greedily eyeing the cash. “Give it to me.”

  Ibaka was going to protest when Zamenka spoke rapidly to him in a mixture of French and Lingala. The police officer cringed under the barrage and then signaled two of his men to get into the truck.

  Maya stood at the front of the villagers, tears streaming down her cheeks. Yannick was next her, his jaw set and his lips compressed as he willed himself not to cry. Joseph bit his lip and looked at the white men with smoldering, hate-filled eyes.

  Frank shepherded the boy into the back of the Jeep and put his arm around him in an attempt to comfort him, but Joseph pulled away like he’d been struck by a cobra.

  Ten months after Joseph was taken, Maya’s parents, desperate for food and with six younger children to feed, did the unimaginable and sold her to an elderly South African couple.

  CHAPTER 3

  ..................

  IT WAS 8:00 P.M., AND Michelle Rafter waited nervously at LAX to greet her new son. She saw the tall figure of George Faraday first and then, a few minutes later, her husband trying to rest his hand on a young boy’s shoulder. Even from a distance, she could tell the boy was not happy.

  Michelle kissed Frank and then bent down to embrace Joseph, who recoiled without warning. He scowled, and his eyes were defiant. She hadn’t expected his reaction, surprise and hurt filled her face. She looked at Frank, who was slowly shaking his head and mouthing, “Give him time.”

  Despite their best efforts to engage him, Joseph didn’t speak on the forty-minute drive from LAX to Beverly Hills. Frank glanced in the rearview mirror and noted that despite Joseph’s attempts to remain impassive, he was open-mouthed as he stared out the windows. Frank couldn’t imagine what it would be like being dragged from a dusty
village in Africa to the snarling roads and high-rise buildings of Los Angeles. His biggest fear was that twelve-year-old Joseph might to be too old – and not smart enough – to assimilate.

  Dianne’s and Brent’s rooms were shrines in the eight-bedroom mansion, and hadn’t been touched since the day of the accident. Michelle had spent ages preparing Joseph’s bedroom, and pictures of famous football players, baseball players, and rock bands adorned the walls. There was a desk at the end of the bed with a television, desktop computer, and laptop sitting on it. The wardrobe was full of trendy clothes, and a three-drawer dresser crammed with underclothes, socks, and T-shirts was next to the double bed. Slippers, sandals, shoes, and two pairs of Nikes were on the floor of the wardrobe. When Michelle showed Joseph to his bedroom, the young boy’s demeanor didn’t change.

  Later, when Michelle and Frank were having coffee in the living room, she said, “He’s not what I expected. He’s so sullen and unfriendly.”

  “He’ll be all right,” Frank replied, but without conviction. “He’s scared. You should have seen him at the Lubumbashi airport. If it hadn’t been for the flight attendants, we never would’ve got him on the plane. He was like a wild animal. We have to give him time.”

  “God, I hope we haven’t made a mistake. We’re too old for this. He didn’t even smile when I showed him his bedroom.”

  Frank laughed. “When I peeked in, he was asleep on the floor. No blankets, sheets, or pillow. Ron Patterson’s coming here in the morning. He’s fluent in French and a good communicator. I’m hoping Joseph might relate to someone of his own color.”

  At 2:00 a.m., the lights around the Rafters’ house lit up the gardens, the sprinklers came on, and security sirens broke the peace. Michelle Rafter opened the bedroom window and saw Joseph, fully naked, squatting on the lawn. “Oh God, what have we done?”

  “I’ll get him,” Frank replied.

  A few minutes later, Michelle heard the toilet continually flushing and realized Frank was teaching the boy about indoor plumbing. When he got back to the bedroom, Michelle said, “He must have used the toilets on the plane. What’s wrong with him?”

  Frank paused before responding. “He didn’t eat or drink anything on the plane, and when the flight attendants asked him if he wanted to use the toilet, he shook his head. On reflection, I don’t think he understood.”

  “Does he know what to do now?”

  “I think so,” Frank replied. “I showed him and saw a flicker of understanding in his eyes.”

  “God, after you told me about the missionaries I thought he’d at least be partially civilized.”

  “It could’ve been worse.” Frank laughed. “He could’ve crapped in the pool.”

  Ron Patterson was a gentle, intellectual young man who worked as a trainee at Capel & Lambert between semesters. He didn’t fully understand Joseph’s dialect, but his knowledge of French enabled him to glean a smattering of what Joseph was saying. It was apparent he was scared, missed his homeland, and blamed the Rafters for what had happened to him. For the next three months Ron spent every spare minute he had with Joseph, and while the young Katangese’s English improved, his attitude did not.

  “Mr. Rafter, he has a chip on his shoulder,” Ron said, “and I don’t like saying this, but he hates you. He told me you stole him from his family, and he’ll never forgive you.”

  Frank sighed. He was starting to think he was fighting a losing battle. “Does he have anything good to say about anyone or anything?”

  “No, but here’s something interesting. I asked him to watch television as a way of improving his English and his communication skills. The only thing he watches is football, and he already has a good understanding of the game. He knows all the 49ers’ players.”

  “Really?”

  That night, Michelle asked, “How long can we go on like this?” as she turned her bedroom lamp off. “He never smiles, never says please or thank you, and Ron says he hates us. Face it, Frank, he’s a savage, and he’s too old to change.”

  “We have to give him more time. Ron says the Catholic missionaries in Katanga imbued him with a sense of religion and he believes in God. His English has come along in leaps and bounds. Perhaps after he goes to school and makes some friends, he’ll change.”

  “You can’t be serious. If he gets into trouble at school, he’ll kill someone. If he’s not happy here, shouldn’t we send him back to the Congo?”

  “He’s our son, darling, and there’s a civil war festering there. We’re not sending him back. He’ll come around.”

  Frank rarely left the office early, but Ron Patterson had given him an idea that he wanted to try. It was late afternoon when he pulled into his driveway and drove up to the garage. He strode up the stairs with his hands behind his back before knocking on Joseph’s door and opening it. He was barefoot and sitting cross-legged on the floor watching a replay of the 49ers and the Lions. “Who’s your favorite player?” Frank asked.

  “Steve Young,” Joseph replied through pursed lips.

  “I thought so,” Frank said, pulling his arm from behind his back to reveal a football. “Want to throw some?”

  Joseph’s face lit up in a huge grin, and he jumped to his feet and took off down the stairs. His throwing, while erratic, was incredibly powerful for someone so thin. When Frank dropped a catch, the young boy burst out laughing. They threw until dusk, and even then, Joseph didn’t want to go into the house. Over dinner, he talked incessantly about the 49ers, Steve Young, and the catches Frank had fumbled. Frank winked at Michelle. The breakthrough they’d been praying for was upon them.

  In January 1995, the Rafter family took a flight to Florida to watch the 49ers thrash the San Diego Chargers at Joe Robbie Stadium in Super Bowl XXIX. As Steve Young threw his sixth touchdown, Joseph nudged Frank and said, “Dad, one day I’m going to be the 49ers’ quarterback on a winning Super Bowl team.”

  Frank smiled. It was the first time Joseph had called him Dad.

  Michelle ruffled his curly hair and said, “It’s good to have dreams.”

  “In two months, it’s your birthday. Would you like to have a party with your school friends?” Frank asked.

  “Is it my choice?”

  Frank laughed. “Within reason.”

  “Can we go to a Dodgers game instead? The three of us?”

  “Consider it done.”

  Frank winked at Michelle. The Rafter family was at last a happy unit.

  CHAPTER 4

  ..................

  JOSEPH BECAME AN ABOVE-AVERAGE STUDENT and brilliant at any sport. He was a lightning-fast sprinter, a good distance runner, had a strong arm, and loved baseball and football. Worried that Joseph might not be able to defend himself against the bigger kids, Frank took him for self-defense lessons. Within two weeks, his trainer – a former world-ranked boxer – said, “Mr. Rafter, I’m taking your money under false pretenses. Your boy’s good enough to be a Golden Gloves champion. He’s a natural.”

  The self-defense lessons were cancelled, and soon Frank and Michelle’s weekends revolved around driving Joseph to sporting events and watching him participate. His adoptive parents’ love had eroded his resentment, and he spontaneously returned their affection.

  While waiting for their events, the other kids played with their Gameboys, and it didn’t take Joseph long to pick up another obsession – computer games.

  Almost every month, Frank hosted a poker night for his buddies where they drank beer, ate pizzas, and told lies. They played five-card-draw poker, in which bluffing played a big tactical part. Joseph watched the men play before going to bed and soon picked up the game. By the time he was fifteen, he was playing regularly. His father loved quoting old sayings, and one of his favorites was, “You can tell a lot about a man by the way he plays poker.” Joseph had watched these men play for years, knew all their “tells,” and rarely lost. He had grown into the all-American boy. However, his idyllic world was soon to suffer a terrible setback.

&nbs
p; He had just completed his last year at high school when news of the brutal slaying of his birth father and two brothers crushed him. It came as an awful shock. The village had been attacked by rebels desperately seeking food. Joseph’s father and family had fought bravely to protect their livestock. Forty men, women, and children were macheted to death, and their bodies were burned beyond recognition. Nothing had been heard from his mother and other siblings, but Joseph hoped they had fled into the jungle.

  His first reaction was to beg to return to the Congo to help his family, but Frank spent hours convincing him of the futility – and danger – of that. The president had been assassinated, and the Congo was in the grip of a bloody civil war. Lubumbashi International Airport was in the hands of the rebels, and the only way to Katanga from Kinshasa was overland. It would take weeks of travel over dirt and potholed roads, half controlled by the government and half controlled by the rebels. Joseph came to realize there was nothing he could do and in the end, acceded to his father’s logic.

  That night, as they lay in bed, Michelle said to Frank, “I’m glad you talked him out of going back. I think I’d die if we lost him. God, his father was only forty-four, and here we are in our early sixties.”

  “Life expectancy in the Congo is only forty-five.”

  “That’s shocking. Why do they die so young?”

  “Malnutrition, disease, childbirth, and civil war, in no particular order,” Frank said.

  “What a horrible place.”

  “Yes, but it shouldn’t be. It’s sitting on $32 trillion worth of mineral wealth, and should be one of the most prosperous and healthy nations in the world. It’s a beautiful country.”

  “Why isn’t it?”

  “Corruption at all levels of government and exploitation by foreign mining companies. Let’s say I have a gold mine there, and I should be paying $100 million in taxes plus an honest wage to my workers. I find a friendly government minister or high-ranking army officer, transfer $5 million to a bank account in the Caymans for him, and voila, my tax and labor problems are gone. That’s why the roads and infrastructure are almost non-existent. The government would be lucky to receive 10 percent of the tax revenue it should be collecting.”