Zaire

Chapter One

It was in the summer of 1978 that I first arrived in Kinshasa. Many people who heard my story asked me, if I could go back, back to the day I boarded that plane at Stansted Airport, would I still go? Of course I told them yes, every time. Most of them told me that I must be crazy to think such a thing, that if it were them, there would be no way in hell they would go back. They wouldn't even consider it in the first place. I never thought of it as being crazy. The mere idea of it being crazy never even entered my head, not once. I had my heart set on it since two years before that, around June 1976. The only question then was to what country I would be going to. All I knew for certain at that point was that I would go to Africa.

My neighbour, Ms Ndalama, was from Africa. Malawi, if my memory serves me correctly. I remember being fascinated by her stories of home, how she missed her husband, Arinze and her eldest son Edward. She was a hard woman, a tough woman. Even still I couldn't help but feel sorry for her. She still had her two daughters with her. But unfortunately, their names elude me. I do remember playing with the youngest, though. We were good friends I recall, the eldest daughter however, was not particularly friendly towards me. I don't think she liked me very much. But that was a long time ago. They moved away from our neighbourhood in Plaistow. A lot of Afro-Caribbean families did. I don't blame them. I'm ashamed of how some of my neighbours treated them, my own family even. I think this was perhaps the reason I decided to go to Africa. I couldn't stop what was happening here, but maybe I could help over there.

Some people say that everything we do, no matter how generous it may be, is a selfish act. And to some extent, I believe this to be true. It was my main intention to go out there to help the men, women and children that needed it, but I suppose to some degree it was for me also. To feel like I had done something. Like I was a good person. When I first arrived in Zaire (I know it is the Democratic Republic of the Congo now, but Zaire is how I knew it to be back then), that is exactly how I had felt. Looking back now, though, I see that perhaps things would have been better for everyone involved if I had just stayed at home and gone to university like my parents wanted me to. Well, it would've been better for me, at least. Though, that is not entirely the truth. I feel I am a much better person now, more grateful, appreciative and humble. Yet I still find myself wondering if it was worth it. It may be a good thing to possess such qualities, but at what cost? They only appeared a couple of years after I had returned home, once I had recovered. Physically, at least. The scars still remain, but they are mental ones.

Mental illness is perhaps the cruelest affliction in the world. To be trapped in your own mind, haunted by the demons of your past that follow you like a shadow, like a starving dog begging for food. My mind became like a prison. It took four years for the hallucinations to stop. I saw things, heard things. Relived the atrocities of which I barely made out alive. Even today, at the age of 58 I still have nightmares, though they are much less frequent now. They aren't as surreal anymore. Before, in the first few years after my return, it was like I was back there, reliving it every night. Its severity and realism faded slowly. The minutiae details started to disappear, the dreams became less accurate. Now, the dreams are like repressed memories, barely scratching the surface of what happened.

I think the memories, like the dreams, move further away from me as my youth does. I remember less and less, but some things in my life, like that summer of '78 are more memorable than other events in my life. For the most part anyway. Small, boring details elude me, but most of the events remain intact. It is for this reason I am writing this story now. I know that as I get older, most of my memories will dissipate. This time is approaching at an alacritous pace, and I refuse to forget this. When the time comes that I don't even remember my own name, I at least want to be able to look back at this, and remember. Remember the summer of 1978.

At first I wished that I could just forget it. Act like it never happened. But something like that lives for as long as you do. It dies when you die. I still tried to pretend like it never happened though. More for my parents than anything else. Deep down I always knew that it wouldn't leave me. To some that probably seems daunting, painful, in fact. But in some strange way, I believe that is a good thing. To brush off or attempt to downplay what happened would make me a madwoman. No normal, sane human being could forget if something like that happened to them. But we all have our perceptions of right and wrong I suppose. The human mind is quick to judge that which it does not understand.