Displaced (4 page)

He had been at home when Mukadi called and
the connections from his past reached out to gather him again. When
he heard Mukadi’s voice on the line, he did not immediately
associate the voice with a name, but with a face and a place. He
remembered his childhood friend and the time he spent in school in
Bunia in the small compound run by Father Andreas. He had become
friends with Tshindundu Mukadi, a child as different from himself
as possible save for their shared African heritage. Tshindundu and
Ignatius came from different tribes when their tribal distinctions
seemed to matter less. As the children of civil servants, they were
among those lucky enough to attend school. Thin and lean and
athletic to Ignatius Boniface’s youthful robustness, Tshindundu
excelled in school and this was their commonality.

He remembered fondly the schoolhouse with
cement walls, thatched roof and open spaced windows. Father
Andreas, the tall severe Franciscan, correcting his diction. “One
doesn’t know it, Mr. Boniface, one knows of it.” It was Father
Andreas, who had encouraged his education and Father Andreas, who
had written the letter of recommendation for school in Lyon when
his parents emigrated.

Having in that instant placed the name with
the voice, Father Boniface responded warmly. “Hello Tshindundu,
what a nice surprise. So good to hear a voice from an old friend.”
The two men exchanged greetings before Tshindundu explained the
purpose for his call.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Father Boniface said
on his end of the conversation.

“Yes, yes, of course I remember Nicole.”

“I see … to Kampala, right.”

“You say overland? … right of course.”

“Anything I can do Tshindundu, anything at
all. I will get on it right away, We can take care of her
here.”

“No, no, not to worry, I am fine.”

“It’s not necessary, your family has always
been good to me, it’s the least I can do.”

“Okay, okay”

“Be safe friend”

“Okay, au revoir.”

Father Boniface hung up the phone. When
Father Boniface’s parents emigrated, Tshindundu’s family had
remained in the Congo. Under the Mobutu regime, Tshindundu had
prospered. His father had been a minister in Kinshasa then
provincial governor with authority for awarding the regional
mineral concessions. This he did to a Belgian company for a
kickback payable by deposit in a numbered Swiss account. The only
divergence had been the Father’s marriage to a member of the Luba
Kasai, which raised eyebrows in Kinshasa. Father Boniface
remembered Tshindundu’s mother, an elegant woman, who disdained
politics at home and remained quiet whenever Mobutu’s name entered
the conversation. Tshindundu was named for her father, his maternal
grandfather, which created its own problems, nominally identifying
him as Luba Kasai. Tshindundu the first had died in one of the fits
of ethnic cleansing under Mobutu and the Luba Kasai had fared no
better under either of the Kabilas, whom resented their elitism and
craved control of their land. Tshindundu bore this legacy in
secondary school when the other students accused him of being “too
Rwandan.” He had stood his ground then and Father Boniface had
admired his toughness. They had become friends and their families
and their education had shielded them from the worst of tribalism.
Tshindundu’s father’s connections had allowed the son to get ahead
despite his name.

Father Boniface was loyal too. He had not
known Jonas, the younger brother, as well. He remembered in school
Jonas enjoyed the protection of the older tougher Tshindundu. Over
time the younger brother also entered the family business and was
made chief of the government mineral concession in Ituri. The
position had meant something when Mobutu was in power but had lost
its authority after the Rwandan and Ugandan invasions. Thus the
brother nominally in charge of the mineral concession became
something less than a figure head. An obstacle that either had to
be bought or overcome. Father Boniface had met Jonas’ daughter
Nicole at Church, and remembered her as mousey and quiet, with coco
skin. “She is smart,” Tshindundu had said, “she helps keep the
books.”

Later that day, Father Boniface was thinking
of Nicole as he left the lobby of the Kampala Marriot and stepped
into the sun. As he waited for a taxi, he saw Jonathan exit a taxi
that had just pulled up and was now last in line. He waved off the
doorman, who was opening the side door of the next car for him.

“How are you Jonathan – haven’t seen you
around lately.”

“I’m fine father, good to see you again,”
Jonathan said. He was taken a bit by surprise, his thoughts had
been elsewhere and he hadn’t seen Father Boniface coming. The
Priest, whom he considered a friend, nevertheless put him on
edge.

“We were hoping to have seen you at Church,
or maybe afterwards, or really at any time. You are always
welcome.”

“I know, I apologize, I haven’t been around
lately.”

“It’s not just that – we would have liked to
have seen you.”

“I’ll try and make a point to come
around.”

“Okay, Okay, I don’t mean to put you on the
spot. I just wanted to say hello, it’s good to see you. Also, I may
have a favor to ask you.”

“Anything Father, name it.” Jonathan said
with enthusiasm to change the subject from Church attendance.

“Well, I’m expecting someone, someone from my
home district.”

“Your home in the Congo?”

“Yes, my home in the Congo. I’m not sure when
she is going to arrive or even how. The thing is I promised to
help. This woman is the niece of a good friend and I may need your
help.”

“Okay, I’m not sure what I can do.”

“Well, I’m not sure either. I know that you
know people and there is the matter of immigration. My friend has
relatives in the United States and I was thinking you might know
someone who can help.”

“Unh huh, I see.”

“Look, I don’t want to ask too much. She
isn’t even in Kamapala yet, if you could just keep an open mind,
maybe meet with her when she gets here.”

“Well sure Father, I’ll meet with her, but I
can’t promise anything. I’m not sure what you’re asking, I’m not
sure what I can do.” In the past, in return for cargo space,
Jonathan had been able to secure preferential treatment in the UN
resettlement program. He leveraged this preferential treatment to
individuals allowing them to jump the line and secure resettlement
in the United States. Was Father Boniface referring to this or just
talking generally?

“I know, I’m sorry if I’m a bit evasive, I’m
just not sure how things are going to play out.”

“Okay, well just let me know.”

“Okay and thank you Jon, I really appreciate
it, I knew I could count on you.”

“Okay, not a problem.”

They shook hands. Father Boniface looked him
in the face and gripped his shoulder. “God bless you.”

“Okay, see you Father.” The Priest’s
forthrightness made him feel awkward. His own ambivalence felt
apparent in the face of the other man’s conviction.

Jonathan watched as Father Boniface got into
the white Toyota taxi. He as much put the car on as he entered it,
his large frame almost overwhelming the vehicle before it drove
off. Jonathan went inside through the lobby to the pub, he looked
around and then took a seat at the bar. The day had been eventful.
A shipment of crates manifested as medical supplies from Boston
destined for Bunia had arrived at the airport the evening before.
That morning, a forklift operator was moving the crates to the
staging area to be loaded on a plane when they fell off the palate
and broke open revealing their contents of military uniforms from
the Rwandan army. Ugandan security services seized the shipment and
proceeded to arrest the importer, Peter Nsegiyuma, in connection
with the shipment. Ronald had thrown a fit and made not too subtle
hints, that if he wasn’t careful, Jonathan would end up the same
way. Jonathan sipped his beer and waited for a friend.

By appearance, Jean Pierre Bembe was a large
expansive man. His globe like head sat on his shoulders like a
pumpkin. A small brown pumpkin with full cheeks. When he smiled, he
showed a full set of white teeth, and when he laughed, really
laughed, you could see a pink flash of tongue. A natural
politician, one might mistake him for jolly, but his eyes were keen
and behind them was a kind of craftiness. More recently, however,
he was given to fits of self pity as he had yet to resolve himself
fully to his situation, which was detention at the International
Criminal Court in the Hague.

“The only difference between me and Kabila is
that he won and I lost,” he complained to the lawyer in the room.
“They say my men killed in Ituri, Kabila’s men killed everywhere,”
he continued. “Yes civilians died, but this was a political
struggle,” he argued to nobody but the young lawyer, who sat at one
end of the table. The lawyer did not take notes. He waited and he
nodded in ascent at his client’s ruminations.

Bembe sat with his face in his hands
fingering the scar that creased one side of his face. The detention
center’s visiting room was clean and large enough, and had a narrow
window that let in outside light.

“War crimes, no not war crimes,” he went on.
“My crime was to challenge Kabila, my crime was to challenge Kabila
and lose. That was my crime,” he concluded.

The young lawyer nodded his agreement and
looked at his watch under the table, while Bembe massaged his head.
One of a team of lawyers arranged and paid for by parties unknown
for which in return Bembe maintained omissions in his testimony. He
acknowledged his relationship with the mining companies, he had had
to. But only insofar as it was a legitimate commercial transaction
between the government and an outside contractor. Commissions,
protections fees, militia taxes, and bribes were not acknowledged.
These could create problems as foreign corrupt practices and Bembe
was insistent that the business had been legitimate and for the
benefit of the people.

The two men waited sitting for a time without
talking.

“Please excuse us Paul,” said a tall well
dressed man as he held the door open for the young lawyer. “I’ll
talk to you later when I get back to the office and thanks for
everything.”

“Sure, not a problem, we’ll talk later,”
responded the younger man as he gathered his case file and walked
through the open door.

Simone Matanda sat down at the table opposite
his long time business partner. “Listen Jean Pierre, I’m afraid I
have bad news, they are not going to let you go on parole. The
prosecutor’s office has appealed the decision of the judge and
they’re going to detain you during the appeal. You’re considered a
flight risk and no country is willing to take responsibility.”

“Of course, of course, I am the great
danger,” he grumbled. “I am the war criminal. I never raped anyone,
I never killed anyone. Kabila, he rapes, he and the Zimbabweans,
they rape the whole country.”

“Okay, well let’s not go back over that
again.”

“Let’s. Why not? I have time.”

“We’re moving backwards. It’s called command
control, your troops raped and killed and the prosecution is
alleging that you’re responsible, but you already knew that.”

“I should have never left Kinshasa.”

“You’d be dead,” said Matanda, relieving him
of any illusion. He knew the man too long and too well to indulge
him.

Matanda and Bembe had known each other from
childhood in Ituri. Bembe’s father had been a successful
businessman and Mobutu supporter, from whom Bembe inherited his
considerable wealth. Bembe followed his father’s legacy as a
supporter of Mobutu. When Mobutu was forced out, Bembe took his
support into the bush leading a militia against the government in
Kinshasa. An eventual peace agreement allowed him to leverage his
political opposition into becoming vice president in the
transitional government under a power sharing arrangement. While
Bembe was in the bush it had fallen to Matanda to manage what
remained of his commercial affairs. This he did while keeping his
hands clean and maintaining his distance from Bembe’s adventures as
a warlord. Tall lean and dignified, he was the self contained
erudite compliment to Bembe’s effusive and capacious brashness,

“They still have to make their case,” Matanda
said. “The torture charge has been dropped and there has been a new
development one of their witnesses has gone missing. The rumor is
that Negusse can’t be found.”

Bembe picked up his head at the mention of
the name of the former mining official, an individual he knew well
from Ituri. He looked across the table at Matanda with squinting
eyes.

“He was going to testify, and no I had
nothing to do with it, but others did,” responded Matanda
cryptically. “However it happened, it’s good for us. They’re having
trouble putting together their case. This helps our defense. The
attack on Bogoro was a legitimate military engagement. Civilian
deaths were an unintended consequence and so on,” he said with
manufactured enthusiasm.

“It’s all Kabila’s doing,” said Bembe having
lost interest in the details of his case and lapsed into a familiar
refrain. “Do they know Kabila was behind this?’

“Yes, we’ll tell the press.”

“It’s all political.”

“I know.”

“I’m isolated here. Sometimes, I think I’d
rather be in jail in Kinshasa,” he paused and rubbed his eyes. “At
least there I’d have someone to talk to. There is another fellow on
my wing and he doesn’t speak French. We have to speak in mime, it’s
pathetic. And the food is terrible. I can’t eat it, no African
food.”

“I’ll bring food next time I come. They might
let you cook for yourself.”

“I should have gone to London and applied to
be a refugee like you.”