Child Witch Kinshasa

Chapter 9
Frank followed Braddock out of the hotel. A sleepy-eyed guard in the car park
nodded, as if to grant them permission to proceed into the dark warren of backstreets
beyond. The moment they did, three grinning urchins trotted up, hands out. Frank
slipped the first a tatty banknote, sidestepping the rest. Beggars belief, he said.
Braddock shrugged. What do you expect? These kids are just symptoms of
something much bigger. Vast. You should bone up on the causes, the context.
I intend to. Been too busy. Filing reports and expenses for Ukraine. I was there
for a month. Love the travel but hate the paperwork, the admin. Worst part of it.
Count yourself lucky. And do some reading. When the Belgians pulled out of
this place in the 1960s, they left thirty Congolese graduates to fill four thousand
senior administrative posts, in a country as big as Western Europe. Think about that.
Mind your step. Braddock hopped a pothole. Look at the state of the roads. No
wonder people lose hope. Theres a material and spiritual vacuum, once the shooting
starts. Beer?
He pointed to a knot of men clinking bottles. Frank spotted white faces under the
flickering red neon of Bar Blue. I thought we were going to an exorcism?
Soon, theres a connection. Braddock shepherded him towards the counter.
Your round, I believe. Where was I?
In a vacuum, Jerome.
Right, so living in this vacuum are millions of poor families. Theyre Christians
but still believe in witchcraft, in their culture from way back. So, if someone loses a
job or has an accident, they often blame a kid: its not bad luck; its sorcery. They
pick a scapegoat the stepson with a stammer or the girl who answers back heres
our witch. They pay a pastor for an exorcism or do it themselves. Cheaper, see. Either
way, it often amounts to the same thing: put the kids feet in the fire, chase the
demon.
Frank felt a tug at his shirt tails and looked down. A kid in a mucky singlet gazed
up, squashed between the clients at the bar. Braddock offered a banknote and the kid
grabbed it, slithered away. They watched him go.
Most of these shegues have been accused of sorcery, Frank. Parents call em
ndoki. Youll hear it around, quite often.
Already did. Frank turned, signalling to the doe-eyed barmaid: Im next.

Ndoki means sorcery, child witch, all that stuff the pastors love to hate.
By pastor, do you mean priest? Frank wiggled fingers at the barmaid. Please?
Nah, a pastor is more of a chancer; a salesman who spots a gap in the market.
What market?
Redemption, salvation. He flogs tickets for heaven, the best show in town.
The barmaid uncapped two bottles of Primus and Braddock reached to grab one.
Hallelujah.
How does a chancer become a pastor?
Frank, stop being a journalist. Weve got ten minutes. Drink up.

The church of Christ the Warrior was a brick-walled hut the size of a tennis court,
with benches and a tin roof. The place was heaving when they arrived but Braddock
found a spot near the door, with a decent view. Frank stood on tiptoe, gazing at rows
of people young and old. The better dressed sat in front clutching bibles, the rabble at
the back craning to see. The choir and musicians wore grey military tunics, red
berets and satin sashes. An obsequious youth fluttered about a concrete dais as if
backstage at a fashion show, helping a large fellow into a white cassock. Braddock
provided a running commentary, leaning forward over Franks shoulder.
Theres our chancer. Last time I came, he had a tent and five people. Now look.
Frank looked at the big guy checking his cuffs, the youth buffing his shoes. So
how did he start?
Probably wandered into a place just like this. Heard the singing, saw people
donating cash, heard a pastor say: I had a vision. Our chancer goes home, drinks
banana beer and has a vision: Ill be a pastor too. Next day, he buys a Bible and starts
preaching, preferably in a quiet neighbourhood with little competition. If folks dont
like him, he tries elsewhere. There are fifty-three million people in Congo, Frank,
mostly illiterate, superstitious and needy. Our man cant lose, because he provides a
sense of community, helps people to cope with grief, illness and bad luck. In time, he
sets up an eglise en bache a tarpaulin church. He gives folks what they want fire
and brimstone. They give cash for a new brick church. Win-win. Some pastors go
abroad to raise money. But they usually drop the nasty stuff from their sermons.
Frank turned. How do you know all this?

From the horses mouth. A Congolese friend brought me here. I met the pastor.
When the chips are down in DRC, you have two ways to move up: find God or join a
militia. Why do peace talks stall? Plunder. The longer this war lasts, the longer the
top dogs can loot the land and sell minerals. But poor folks turn to guys like this,
spiritual leaders.
One of the poor folks made a face at Braddock. Hush.
Frank replied in a whisper. Talking of peace talks, Jerome, my boss says I
should focus on community issues instead.
Good idea. The Inter-Congolese Dialogue is dead as a dodo, I told you, because
half a ton of raw rock sells for fifty thousand dollars. They use child labour in the
mines and ship the ore to Asia. Out comes the coltan, cassiterite and bauxite for our
gadgets. For example Braddock pulled his tiny phone from his pocket, held it up.
Were all complicit, Frank, through these little things, and more. Big business drives
the trucks, not politics or ideology. Rwandas in on it too, partly why they cant keep
out of Congo. You think Kagame is just chasing psycho Hutus? As for two kids
murdered for sorcery, it all connects, but its not news, and thats why theyre never
on page one, or on the radio. Showtime, here we go. Braddock pointed his phone
and Frank turned towards the dais.
The drummer tapped his sticks to count the band in. The guitarist twanged a
chord, the bass boomed and a woman in silk stood to sing Hosanna. She sounded like
Aretha Franklin, and Braddock was grinning like he had been born again. Watch the
choir, Frank. Mexican wave coming.
The choir rose as one, Lord, Lord. The walls seemed to shake. Frank spoke over
the din. So whats this church? Evangelical? Pentecostal?
Braddock chuckled. Church? This is a cult, Frank. Brainwashing. Youll see.
The music stopped and the big pastor spoke in a familiar baritone voice.
Bienvenue!
Frank whispered at Braddock. This is the guy who woke me up last night!
God works in mysterious ways, Frank. Listen and learn.