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Visiting the region is an intimidating proposition, not least for a British woman who hasn't been "home" in 20 years. But I felt it was important to find out more, and to tell the stories of these women who otherwise didn't have a voice; and if I was afraid of what I might encounter, there was another, compelling reason to go — it would offer me the opportunity to meet my parents properly for the first time. I was three years old when my mother and father sent me and my eight-year-old sister away from Congo then Zaire , in the care of our uncle, afraid for our safety if we remained in the country.
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I had no memories of them — my first memory is of a Christmas in London — and was never able to afford the trip to return home to see them. At 75, Dad already far exceeds the life expectancy for males in the country — which is 51 — and I knew that if I was ever to meet my father then it would have to be sooner rather than later.
My father originally came from a small fishing village roughly two hours from Kinshasa, and worked his way up from a junior position in the National Bank to senior official at its Kinshasa headquarters.
By comparison with others in DRC, my family were not badly off. My parents, who had a son and four daughters, had managed to put not only their own children, but also their younger siblings, and various nephews and nieces, through school. They owned their house, which few people do, and when I was two, my dad, then in his fifties, was retiring on a state pension, which is almost unheard of in Congo.
My father has lived through various coups in Kinshasa, from the murder of Prime Minister Lumumba in — only a year after independence — to the assassination of President Kabila 40 years later. In the late s he started to hear unsettling rumours, from friends in governmental positions, that there may be more violence on its way.
The country had become a toxic place to be: various family members were against President Mobutu's autocratic regime, and my mother's brother was in danger for speaking out against it. My uncle had been at political pickets and rallies, and that meant trouble: soldiers arriving at your house unannounced; taking possessions; having you arrested in the middle of the night.
Sometimes they would beat and torture you until you learnt your lesson.
Always have a torch, headlamp preferably. This time it was a toll booth. Three great travel books by Graham Field! Sherif May 3, at pm. Anything you would add? Does it have character?
My parents were worried for their two youngest daughters, if violence did break out. The use of sexual violence as a weapon is not a new thing in Congo; it was less systematic then, but it was happening to young girls, and they decided that the fewer females they had at home the better. Two girls were easier to protect than four. They decided in that we should escape abroad with my uncle.
The family pooled their savings to get us a flight to the UK and some money to live on when we arrived. I was only three, and remember none of it, but my mother remembers the day we left in every detail, including what I was wearing.
After she left us at the departure gates, a friend of hers who worked in the airport saw us on to the plane. Apparently I gave her a message for my mum: she was not to worry, there was nothing to cry about, I was going on an adventure and I'd see her soon. It's a running joke within the family that nobody knows when my uncle was born — people don't bother much with birthdays in the Congo — but I know he was in his mids, only a couple of years older than I am now, when he left Congo.
To be a single dad, raising two girls, and not knowing whether you're doing it right — that was an extremely hard job. It wasn't until I was 12 that I became aware that there was something different about my upbringing. Growing up in north London, I was by no means the only Congolese child with parents back home in Africa — many cousins and friends were in similar circumstances.
My relationship with my parents was based on telephone calls; once a month, or whenever the connection was good enough, we'd speak for as long as we could afford to. Then there were the times, during periods of unrest in Congo, when the lines would go dead. Those were the harrowing moments. You dreaded a call from a neighbour with bad news.
We maintained a good relationship, although there were occasions when it was hard for a girl growing up in a western culture to understand their approach to things. Still, in Congolese communities anyone older than you has authority over you, and you would never dream of disregarding what they said.
I always felt close to my family abroad; I didn't know how close until my grandmother died when I was 15, and I found myself crying for a woman I had never met.
It was 33C when we arrived in Kinshasa, with no sunshine and no breeze, so that the heat hung over the dusty, rundown city like a smog. I was worried: was I going to recognise my own mother? Although I'd seen my parents' home in pictures, I almost walked past it and missed it; suddenly, Mum burst out of the house, and grabbed me into a hug. I'd told myself not to get emotional, but in that moment the years of my life seemed to flash past me, with a sense that things which had been missing had finally been put in place.
Even though I'd only seen them in pictures, I'd always felt a great respect and affection for my parents — the most awkward moments on the phone were when we didn't know what to ask each other, and I worried, in the silence, that they thought I didn't care.
Now, in the flesh, they were exactly how I had expected them to be. My mum's a chatterbox who will talk over you, for you, with you. And my poor dad, who's a fairly quiet guy, has been putting up with that for 40 years. It was hilarious to see them bickering together and reminded me of me and my boyfriend — it was strange, but also wonderful, to realise that I'm a younger version of my mum.
It lies about miles km from the Atlantic Ocean on the south bank of the Congo River. One of the largest cities of sub-Saharan Africa, it is a special political unit equivalent to a Congolese region, with its own governor. The only city not clearly identified with any particular region of the country, it was until the seat of a long-lasting Zairean military government based, on the one hand, on the strength of the armed forces and, on the other, on a technique of political and social compromise that until its later years gained the rather grudging collaboration of most of the citizens.
Caught between spectacular wealth and massive poverty, most Kinois must spend a considerable amount of their time scrambling for necessities that are in erratic supply. Nevertheless, they have found the means to make Kinshasa a source of distinctive influence in intellectual and popular culture felt throughout Africa.
The most heavily inhabited area of Kinshasa covers 58 square miles about square km. The total area subject to city government, much of it sparsely populated, is 3, square miles 9, square km. Kinshasa spreads out southward from the shoreline of the Congo River at Malebo Pool , a widening of the river.
The plain on which the city lies varies mostly between and 1, feet and metres above sea level and is partly encircled by higher ground. The surrounding countryside is heavily farmed savanna and gallery forest; the chief crops are cassava , sugarcane , oil palms, plantains, corn maize , peanuts groundnuts , and beans.
The climate is hot year-round, with a dry season from May to September and a rainy season from October to May. The mean annual rainfall is slightly more than 60 inches 1, mm. Violent rainstorms occur frequently but seldom last more than a few hours. The higher suburbs are somewhat cooler than the central city.
The built-up area of Kinshasa is divided into industrial, residential, and commercial zones. To its east lies the riverside residential and administrative district of Gombe , which houses most of the European population and the Congolese elite; the central government buildings and the embassy district are located there. Ndolo, east of Gombe, comprises a complex of port facilities and industrial plants. The poorer areas extend southward on the east and west of Kinshasa.
During the s wealthy businessmen and politicians built mansions, often of spectacular opulence, in Binza, an area in the western hills overlooking the city. There are a variety of architectural styles in Kinshasa. High-rise apartment blocks, luxuriously appointed banks, stores, and the offices of large corporations and government agencies characterize the centre of town. Some date from shortly after World War II , but the most prominent were constructed during the economic boom of the early s.
Spacious villas surrounded by ornamental shrubs and flower gardens, and often also by high walls and iron bars, stand on tree-lined, paved boulevards that mark the elite residential districts.