THE PASSING OF A GREAT MAN

On Thursday, May 28, 1992, I was at work, at the Human Rights League, where I had been working for 2 years when I received a call from my cousin Rachel Kafuku Chikassa. She had trouble controlling her emotions and said, “Domi, hurry to Ngaliema, Muyomba (uncle) just had a malaise.” And I asked her: “Which muyomba”? She said: “Muyomba Godefroid, Dad”. I couldn’t understand any other words she uttered. I immediately went to my boss, Mr. Buana Kabwe, to tell him that this was urgent, it seemed Dad had collapsed at the National Sovereign Conference – (CNS in french) and he was sent to the Ngaliema clinic.

My heart was pounding as I entered the hospital lobby. I went directly to the receptionist and told her that I wanted to know where my father had been taken, that he was Mwami Munongo M’siri. She covered her mouth and opened her eyes wide. I guess she did not expect to see family members come so soon. I said, “Madam, it is you that I am talking to.” Then a door opened behind me and a man with a  white coat came out. I asked him the same question, already dreading what had happened, after seeing the receptionist’s suspicious reaction. The doctor asked me to follow him into a room and inside were six, seven, eight men in white. I cannot recall exactly how many there were standing around a bed on which a patient lay covered by a white sheet.

I went up to them and repeated my question: “I’m sorry to bother you, I was informed that my father was brought here, the Mwami Munongo M’siri, Member of the National Sovereign Conference.” None would dare look me in the eyes. Only the team leader came up to me and said, “Miss, we did everything in our power but we could not save him.” Where is he, I asked? And he showed me the bed they had surrounded when I entered the emergency room. My brother who was standing behind me said, Domi, see what Dad has done to us”. I did not dare look at my brother, I wanted to see for myself.

I approached the bed and my brother lifted the sheet off our father’s face. Dad, I said. He seemed asleep. I said, Dad, I’m here. It’s me, Inamizi, your aunt. My father had named me after his paternal aunt, the daughter of King M’siri and wife of Mpole. Unable to bear children of her own, she felt great affection for her brother Mutampuka Munongo Musanfya Tanga ‘s children, and especially her “Gelemani Godefroid, the German” for his pugnacity and determination. My dad had given me his aunt’s name. By reminding him of who I was, I thought he would wake up and tell us that he had just wanted to scare us. Having Dad as King, we could not touch him or hold his hand. Before him we had to bow and kneel, as custom requires. I was afraid to touch his cheek fearing he would slap me with his legendary slap. But I did it anyway. The room was eerily quiet. Nobody spoke; neither the doctors nor my older brother said anything. Only my cousin Rachel wept in silence in the corner of the room. Yeke tradition requires that the passing of the king must be officially declared before anyone can be allowed to cry. Such declarations had not been made. The elders in Bunkeya did not know what had just happened, therefore we had to contain our emotions as much as we could.

So I touched his cheek, and he was still warm. Maybe the doctors had made a mistake. Could it be that he was in a coma? My dear dad did not move to my touch. I asked my brother if he had contacted Mom. He said he was waiting for me. I asked for a phone, these were the days of “Telecel phones” and one of the doctors kindly handed me his phone. I called my boss and said, “Dad has just died.” “Oh, my God … Courage,” he said. “I’ll be fine”, I replied.

While I was hanging up the phone, I saw a man in green, rolling my father ‘s bed and taking him away. I asked the doctors, who were still silent in the room, where they were taking him. “To the morgue”, replied one of them, eyes facing the ground. “But, doc … doctor, are you sure? ” “We did everything in our power, Miss, there is nothing more that we can do.” Incredulous, I began collecting dad’s shoes and briefcase. I turned to my older brother, Christian, and said,” have you removed dad’s royal insignia? They are taking him to the morgue. ” He seemed stunned, watching me and dreading the moment I would realize what had happened to us. But no, I was eerily calm. My priority at that moment was to get dad to a safe place and break the terrible news to my mother, his wife of 38 years.

I could see throngs of people, some of them knew us and they gently made way as Dad was being pushed to the morgue. We could hear them say, “my condolences” or “be strong”. Did these people know what this moment meant to us? Did they know what meaning these words had at that moment? I could not see their faces, afraid to read pity in their eyes. I had a feeling of shame, similar to the one a person who has soiled their clothes might feel. I was ashamed to see that Dad had left us so early and so alone. Nevertheless, I had to be strong. I remember praying, “Lord, give me strength, I must not falter, I must be strong for my mother, for my brothers, my sisters, for all Bayeke, and for all Katangese.” I was horrified with what had just happened! I had a feeling “of having been betrayed” by Dad. I felt humiliated as we walked down the long corridor of the Ngaliema Clinic. Once we arrived at the morgue, I stood outside and my brother Christian went in with the doctors to see where Dad, the king who was still motionless, would be placed.

From the morgue, we headed to the parking lot, where I met my friends, the Mpanu-Mpanu. They were coming from my office, where they received the sad news. We got into their car, a 4×4 Pajero and drove home to go tell my mother the news. As we reached the neighborhood of Kitambo, we heard on the radio, the voice of Laurent Monsengwo, the conference moderator,  announce “the death of Mwami Munongo, king of the Bayeke, following a heart attack”. In that same message, he asked conference participants to rise for a minute of silence in memory of the illustrious deceased, and added that the session would be suspended for the afternoon to allow friends and colleagues time to pay their respects at the Ngaliema Clinic. I realized what had just happened and the risk of another tragedy crossed my mind; what if mom was in front of the TV when the announcement of the passing of her friend, her king and husband was made? The driver went faster as everyone realized we had to get home fast. My Cousin Rachel who was in tears rode in the back seat of the Pajeto, along with two other friends. My brother sat in the front with the driver, while Patricia and her little cousin and I sat in the middle row. We held hands and all I remember saying to Patricia was, “this is terrible, it’s horrible to be an orphan, Patricia, I feel like I have a bleeding gaping wound.” All she could say to me was,  “courage, Domi.” At this point I had not cried yet; I had to be strong for my mom, my brothers, my sisters, the Kingdom and Katanga.

We finally arrived home, in the neighborhood of Mount Ngafula on Avenue Munongo (the street had been named in memory of my father who was the first person to build in this new neighborhood). As the car pulled up to the gate, we could see a crowd of men and women outside, some in tears, others silent. I wondered what was happening, the security guard said that he and these people had heard the sad news on the radio, but were not sure mom was aware, since power had been out since 10 in the morning. Mom was in the house with two of her nieces and therefore had not been informed. Everything was quiet and normal inside the house, no wailing or crying. So, they correctly assumed she didn’t know. That explained the crowd that gathered outside the gate.

My brother Christian asked me to go up first and calmly break the news to mom. So I walked up the stairs to the second floor leading to the living room, and managed to fix up my hair a bit to appear natural. Indeed, I found Mom and my cousins​​in the green living room, eating mangoes they had picked in the garden. I tried to behave as if nothing unusual had happened, searching for the right words and waiting for the appropriate time to announce the tragedy that had befallen the family, the kingdom and Katanga. Mom asked me, as she handed me a piece of mango, why I had come home so unusually early. I told her that I had been running errands for work in the neighborhood. So I took the opportunity to come home and say hello. “Your daddy’s gone to the Conference and power has been out since 10 am. He said he would be speaking today or tomorrow, he will be back for lunch around 13:00.”

I looked to the dining room, and saw the table already set for 2. I couldn’t find the right words. She looked at me again and asked, “are you sure that everything is okay?” “Yes, Mom, why do you ask?” “I am your mother and I know you well. Did something bad happen to Agnes in Likasi?” “No, I haven’t heard from her since yesterday.” Agnes Mulenda was my mom’s younger sister who was hospitalized in Likasi at the time and had been in critical condition for the past two days.

As I was looking for the right moment to tell her, I saw my brother Christian walk up to her and in  traditional form, clap his hands and say in Kiyeke: “the King has burst his drum” (Mwami Agaba ngoma).  In other words, it means the Mwami has died. After saying those words, he walked away, unable to watch the pain he had just caused his tender mother. By the time Mom registered what she had just heard, Christian went down the stairs. Sensing her immense confusion and distraught, I got to my knees to try to comfort her and soften my brother’s announcement. At this time, Patricia Mpanu Mpanu and five of our neighbors also came to the living-room, weeping and shaken.

Mother turned to look at me and asked, “What did Christian just say?” I said,” Mom, can we pray?” ” What did Mwinza Lubi just say?” Mwinza Lubi was my brother’s other name, which he was given by my grandfather Musanfya. Mindful of his imminent death, after suffering accusations and humiliations at the hands of Belgian priests in 1955, my grandfather Mwami Mutampuka Munongo Musanfya Tanga took my brother Mwenda M’siri Christian Pierre in his arms and said, “it’s unfortunate that you arrive when I have to ‘leave’; we will not have time to play together.” “You are Mwinza Lubi, the one who comes at the wrong time.” Then grandpa proceeded to  bless him by placing some spit on the forehead and in the mouth.

So, my mother cried “Mwinza Lubi, what did you say? What did your brother say?” As calmly as I could, looking her in the eyes, so she would see that I was serious, I said, “Mom, please rise, dad just passed away” (the word “die” was too strong to say, for I was still hoping that I had made a mistake at the Ngaliema Clinic, that this was a weird dream from which I would wake up to find dad alive. She fell to the ground screaming: “Mungu Wangu! Sultani wa Benye Baba wa Bantu “(Oh my God! His Majesty, the father of multitudes), my God what will I say to Katanga? What will I tell Kalassa and Estha? (my father’s sisters who cherished their younger brother so much).” I held her hand and said, “Mommy come, you must change your clothes. Everyone is waiting for you.” “Where did you leave your dad, she asked? With great diffulty, I said, “at the morgue” That’s when it hit me and I realized what had happened. Mom hugged me hard and said, “batoto Yangu munabakiya bamashikini” (my children you are fatherless, poor, lonely, abandoned) and in each other’s arms, we wept bitterly. Aware of the seriousness of the situation and the consequences of dad’s death.

We finally arrived at the Ngaliema Clinic, where the courtyard was filled with people. Friends, acquaintances, family members, curious bystanders, we were all  in tears or in silence. Others seemed dazed or in shock. Words cannot describe the emotions of that day. Mom was there, poor woman, a widow with nine children. This woman had spent 38 years with her husband that she had respected and loved so much. She followed him in good and bad times. This man was the father of her children, the man who represented so much to her. This man did not belong to himself, he belonged to his people, and Katanga.  He was the worthy king of the great kingdom of the Bayeke, in his attitude, in his behavior as in his generosity. This man had to be taken home to Katanga, to the royal cemetery of the Bayeke where his ancestors rest: Ngelengwa Shitambi M’Siri, Kabobo, Mukanda-Bantu, Kitanika, Musanfya, Luhinda, Magande, Magabwa, Likuku, Masuka, Ntalasha, Muya-Usonsa, Mukonki, Mutaka, Nguba, Mpande Mulindwa, Mfwila, Mafinge, Kashyoba, Kapapa, Kamama, Kanfwa, Mahanga, Manena, Luebo Lwa Nkolomba, Maniema, among others. The king had just died and with his passing, a page of history had turned. A new era had started with its surprises, moments of joy and tragedy. But his memory remains intact in our minds and in our actions every day.

Dominique Inamizi Kamonga Munongo