A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [66]
We talk with ease. He mentions he’s heading to Zanzibar after they leave Congo tomorrow. With a vague recollection of flipping through Africa guidebooks many months ago, I say, “I meant to do something like that when I was here.”
“Why don’t you join me?”
Run away to Zanzibar with a man I just met in Congo? I laugh.
Modern Stanley steers conversation towards the Mai Mai, making boisterous jokes about their strange rituals, from wearing sink-plug necklaces to raping farm animals. Tonight, even lighthearted mention of the Mai Mai makes me uptight. I squirm, then interrupt him, as if firing a warning shot. “I just had a campout with the Mai Mai.”
The table quiets down, perhaps due to my tense, shut-the-f——-up delivery. Almost uncontrollably, I blurt out the whole story of my night on the peninsula. An uncomfortable silence settles over the table. D leans over the table, looks me in the eyes and says, “You’re very brave.”
We sit next to each other on the ride home, cramped in the back of the SUV as it bounces and shifts along Bukavu’s crumbling streets, around bends and past hills dotted with kerosene lanterns glowing on top of streetsellers’ wooden crates.
With surprising insecurity, D asks, “Did you have a good time tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Really? You’re sure?” His hand creeps over and touches my arm, then retreats.
“I had a great time.”
For the rest of the ride back to Orchid, he holds my hand.
I’m staying in a cottage on the far edge of the Orchid compound now and my nightly walk back to my room is creepy. So when D offers to walk with me, I don’t hesitate to accept. His company is a comfort on the dark, lonely trek. We barely speak as we pass the guestrooms with armed men lurking out front, the gate marked PRIVATE: NO ENTRY, the Last Belgian’s private porch, the ax-wielding security guy, guard dogs, and a hanging orchid garden. We arrive at my cottage, the last on the edge of the compound. The only barrier from the outside world is a rotting bamboo fence, with its own little terrace perched on a cliff above Lake Kivu. He kisses me.
The whole walk across the compound, I was thinking, Whatever the question, the answer is yes. So imagine my surprise when I hear myself telling him, “I need to say goodnight.”
He launches a fresh campaign for me to join him in Zanzibar, but I decline.
A dog’s rabid growl comes from behind the cottage. We scramble inside my room.
“It’s dangerous for you to be here,” I say. “I like you more than any guy I’ve met in a long time.” I might be trying to convince myself as much as him as I offer reasons why he can’t stay. “I’m just not a casual-hookup kind of girl.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
Good answer.
I add, “It’s just that I don’t know you very well.”
“In fact, you don’t know me at all,” he says. “You’ve only heard me give a speech.”
We look at each other for a moment, an unspoken exchange. What are the odds, the momentary chances in life? He doesn’t push; he politely asks to trade numbers and leaves. I go to bed churning. Did I really just dismiss him? Am I out of my mind?
I don’t see him again in Congo.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Mama Congo
GENEROSE’S LANDLADY MEANT every word of her threats. She has confiscated all of Generose’s things and thrown the children out. They are scattered god-knows-where. With friends? Relatives? Generose doesn’t know. She is distraught and dazed from the post-op medication when we briefly visit Panzi. My only comfort is a little secret. My mom has put out the word back home and we’ve raised US$1,500 to buy her a house. We say goodbye and head out to house-hunt.
Real estate shopping in Congo proves to be the strangest business experience I’ve ever had.
We start with the basics: Location, location, location. Maurice and I have brainstormed and narrowed our search down to the Panzi neighborhood, next to the Women for Women ceramics studio. Houses here should be in our price range, and Generose will already have