THE PARTY CHAIRMEN
There were three of them. They always walked together, as three, and drove around together, as three, in a big, dusty Chevrolet. The car stopped in front of the hotel, the doors slammed, and we could hear three pairs of feet coming up the stairs. They knocked, entered our room and sat down in the armchairs. If three people go around together in Poland, you don’t think anything of it. But in the Congo, three people can be a party.
Our first conversation. They introduced themselves: ‘Socialists from Kasai.’
Nice to meet you.
After a few pleasantries one of them came right out with it: ‘We need money.’
‘What for?’ asked Jarda Boucek, my Czech friend.
‘We want socialism to triumph in Kasai. And for that, we must buy off the leaders of our province.’
They were young, and you must make allowances for youth. So Jarda said that socialism does not triumph by means of money. He added something about the masses. ‘The masses first,’ that’s how Jarda put it.
The socialists sat there, downcast. For them, the masses were not so important. Had we ever seen the millions marching here? The millions are passive, directionless, diffuse. All the action takes place among the leaders. Five hundred names, maximum. And it’s exactly those names that you have to buy. Once you’ve bought a few, you can go ahead and set up a government, and the ones who put up the money determine the kind of government it will be. That’s how the governments of Chombego, Kalonji and Bolikango were started. There are many possibilities, many untapped reserves. I quickly calculated that I had 1,000 dollars left. I wondered if I could buy myself a republic. One with a real army, a government and a national anthem. I might not get much of a republic for my money. A thousand dollars is not a great sum. I would not be in the same league as Washington or London or Brussels. No: I had to forget about it. So did my friends. But to keep the conversation going, Jarda asked them about their party.
They represented the Kasai Socialist Party. They had a programme: drive out the Kalonji, stop the tribal wars, support a united Congo. A worthy programme.
‘Is your party big?’ Jarda asked.
They handed us the membership roll. The letterhead on the sheet of paper read: Kasai Socialist Party. Below it, we saw three names with their functions: party chairman, general secretary, treasurer.
Is that all? someone asked, tactlessly.
Yes, that was all, if you did not count the dusty Chevrolet, the chairman’s wife and their two little boys. Pierre Artique, an authority in these matters, had determined that there were about ninety Congolese parties. One hundred and twelve of them ran in the 1960 elections, and if somebody said there were 200, you should know enough not to argue. At home, people shake their heads when they see these figures: too many. But it’s not.
European countries have also had as many as 200 political parties, perhaps more. The parties, however, had come into being over a long stretch of time. Something would spring up, fail to sustain itself and die off. Life, time and the conditions of a normal political life effected a process of natural selection. Dominant parties existed but so, too, did the smaller parties, even if less significant. Some rose, others sank. The misfortune of the Congo was that there was no time. What took three centuries in other countries has happened here in three years.
In 1958, clusters of parties started bursting forth. Often, several a week. Some might ask: why so many at once? Wouldn’t three be enough or five? Of course they would be enough, but not in the Congo. The Belgians kept the Congolese not only isolated from the world, but also from each other, ignorant of what was going on in their own country. The average resident of the second-largest town in the Congo had no idea of what was going on in the third-largest town. If he wanted to go there, he had no money to pay for the trip. The distance between two towns in the Congo can be like the distance between, say, Warsaw and Madrid.
So a Congo People’s Party arose in Leo. At the same time, identical parties were formed in Kindu, in Boende and in Kenge. None of them knew a thing about the others. Then came the moment of national independence, when the parties were to unite. The chairmen of the People’s Parties assembled from Leo, Kindu, Boende and Kenge. They said to each other: Let’s unite into one party. But one party meant one chairman. Who’s going to be the number one chairman? They all wanted the job! None of them backed down — Why should I be the one to give in? I’m as good as you are, so what right do you have to give me orders? We might have advised these chairmen to consult the opinion of their grass-roots supporters, but, then again, the grass-roots supporters in Kindu did not know the chairman from Boende, and the chairman from Boende had nothing to say to the grass-roots supporters in Kenge, because he had never even been in Kenge. So the grass-roots supporters did not matter in the least; what did was what went on behind the scenes. Behind the scenes they were all quarrelling — obstinate and ambitious. This was the moment to establish your career, get a jump on everyone else, advance at a dizzying speed. And they believed, each one, that they all had the same chance. There were no party regulars, eminent thinkers, experienced administrators or decorated generals: they were all from the same mission schools; today they were petty party bureaucrats. But tomorrow—tomorrow—any of them could have been party chairman!
THE OFFENSIVE
The army moved out at dusk. We heard the roar of the motors and then eight big trucks drove through the square. The soldiers stood leaning on the handrails, in helmets, with rifles slung across their backs. It’s not the custom here for the army to sing. They drove in silence through the empty city, through streets depopulated by the rigours of the curfew. There were perhaps 300 of them. The trucks turned on to the road out of town, the roar of the motors could still be heard, and then everything disappeared into silence, into jungle, into the violent twilight.
I wanted badly to go with them. I wanted to see the war; it was the reason we had forced our way into the Congo in the first place. But in the Congo we had found no war, only a brawl, absurd quarrels and heavy-handed imperialistic intrigue. There was nothing for us to do here. There were days when we didn’t set foot outside the hotel because there was nowhere to go. There was no reason to go anywhere. Everything seemed either too inconceivable or too obvious. Even conversations were senseless. The Mobutu backers always considered the Lumumba backers animals, and the Lumumba partisans always regarded the Mobutu supporters as scoundrels. How many times can you listen to the same accusations? The one with the most patience was Fedyashin. Fedyashin was always getting somebody to talk, and then he would come back to us with a revelation: ‘You know, this young fellow says that they have a lot of followers in Kindu.’ I don’t know what was wrong with me, but the fact that they had so many followers in Kindu did not particularly interest me.
That’s why I wanted to go with the army. The army, unlike the banal running off at the mouth over warm beer, was a concrete reality. The army was now beginning an offensive. In the heart of the continent, 300 soldiers were going off to war. But I couldn’t be among them. I had a wolf ticket. You get that ticket when you cross a certain parallel. When you reach a place where you find out that you have white skin. This is a discovery, a sensation, a shock. I had lived for twenty-five years without knowing about that skin. A hundred children play in the courtyard of the townhouse I live in back home, and not one of them has ever given his skin a thought. They only know that if it’s dirty, that’s bad. But if it’s clean and white — that’s good! Well, they’ve got it wrong. It’s bad. Very bad. Because white skin is the wolf ticket.