Tennis In The Congo

            “Give me your tennis racket,” said Jean-Luc, smiling impishly as he admired the silver-colored ProKennex he had just removed from its black case.

            Samuel knew the appropriate response was “for what?” thus beginning the negotiation of a trade.  The only problem was he didn’t care to give up his racket.  It was not the fact that Jean-Luc could never offer him anything of equivalent value.  This racket had been with him for seven years and he had played with it on three different continents.  Samuel was far from pro, but he was enough of a player that things like rackets could evoke formidable sentiments of superstition and possessiveness.  Then again, the money issue played a bigger part than he liked to admit; contrary to the nearly universal Congolese belief that white skin was indicative of immeasurable wealth.  The truth was, Samuel was a poor college student back in the U.S. who spent more time behind cafeteria lines for his work-study than he did in his books.  But that meant nothing to a Congolese teenager.  It was common knowledge that Samuel had a cassette player and a collection of music, as well as sports paraphernalia, enough clothes to fill up a dresser, and, to top it off, a ten-speed bike.  Any of which was the envy of the entire youth of his hometown.  If he attempted to explain how he was saving up for a desperately needed car and maybe even a CD player one of these days, he knew his friends would only have to point out that he had flown all the way from America with a ticket they knew cost over a thousand dollars.  To insist that such a trip was a specific policy benefit of his father’s employer would have made no sense.

Jean-Luc’s face fell as it had the last eight times he had asked for Samuel’s racket.  Samuel was determined not to give in.  He had already traded a couple soccer balls, some t-shirts, and his favorite hat for two paintings and a terrible recording of soukous from the La Voie du Zaire radio station.  The two of them were sitting at a large and crowded weathered table out on the front veranda of the city’s only hotel.  At three stories, the building was the tallest around.  A relic form a surreal colonial era, Hôtel Okapi still had nearly half of its windows intact.  The rest were either boarded up or left open with only a tic-tac-toe structure of bars to keep unwanted nightly visitors out.  The veranda was full with the local tennis team waiting for their ride to drive them to the tournament being held at the neighboring diamond city.  They were a motley crew of middle-class teenagers and business men, armed with wooden and aluminum rackets that were cousins to those used by Bjorn Borg and Yannick Noah when they first became known in the sport.  Samuel and Jean-Luc were sitting at the table for the teenagers who had been given, quite patronizingly, several half-liter bottles of grape Fanta, orange Bako, and a local ginger soda.  The older men, of course, drank Skol—the only beer not offered in gourds wreathed in clouds of buzzing bees.

            Philip, the trainer, and the only one who knew tennis, was about the same age as Samuel, and like Samuel, preferred to hang with the younger players.  This of course did not deter him from casually expropriating several bottles of beer from the older men’s table and bringing them back to consume in front of the wistful eyes of the teenagers.

            “Share it,” they demanded with little hope.

            Philip laughed and with a show of sympathy motioned with his eyes to the other table across the veranda.  The young players knew several of the older men would disapprove, but they all feared one man in particular: Stephan Mukadi.  In Samuel’s opinion, Mukadi was the biggest jackass of the tennis club.  But of course, as president of the Human Rights Association, no one dared gainsay him lest they jeopardize their position on the team.  And as he was the one who bought the soda, it could not have been any clearer that the beer was off limits.  Philip, however, offered a bottle to Samuel.  It was a nice gesture, almost intimate, even complimentary, but all the same, defiant like a dare.

            “Every yes holds its implicit no,” thought Samuel to himself as he accepted.  Mukadi took no notice.  Samuel’s social radar revved to full strength, studying his friends’ reactions as he sipped the beer.  He watched Mutomba especially, knowing the new city boy concealed his emotions as successfully as a loincloth does a walking buttock.  Only Ilunga was scowling, but that was all right since Ilunga scowled at everything.  In fact, his expression was reassuring, for if the beer had not been accepted, the jealous scowl would have turned to verbal scorn.

            So it was that Philip and Samuel were drinking beer and refusing to share it with the others, when a young and uncomfortable stranger walked up, wearing the ubiquitous t-shirt that displayed the smiling bust of presidential candidate, Bill Clinton.  He mumbled something incoherent, and handed Samuel a crumpled but official-looking note.

            “Votre presence est demander au commissariat de police immédiatement.”

            Samuel read it out loud, and by the time he looked up the messenger and his t-shirt were gone.

            “Mama na ngai!” blurted out Mutomba.  “The police headquarters?!  We’ll never see you again.”

            The others laughed to put Samuel at ease but it was obviously forced.  Jean-Luc leaned over to whisper in Samuel’s ear.

            “Don’t worry.  You’re a mutok; a white skin.”

            The police station was only two blocks from the hotel and Samuel stood up slowly, gathering his wits.  Philip stood up next to him indicating he would go with him.  After all, Samuel had taken his dare and chosen to drink with him.  Of course, Samuel was the only other one of the group besides Philip who knew how to play tennis.

            By this time the businessmen had noticed the commotion and turned their heads towards the other table.  A sudden thought relieved Samuel.  An influential jackass was exactly what he needed.  Putting on his most naïve American expression, he walked over to Mukadi and casually handed him the note.

            “C’est quoi ça?” asked Samuel.

            Mukadi showed the note to the other men and meaningful glances passed between the table.  Five minutes later a delegation of three prominent men, trailed by Philip and Samuel, headed for the police station.  No one was going to spoil this tennis tournament if Mukadi could help it—not even someone as brutal as the chief of police.

            “This man plays tennis,” Mukadi was explaining some time later in a spacious office with wide windows.  The only decoration in the office was a picture of the dictator Mobutu Sese Seko Kuku Ngbendu Waza Banga (“The All-powerful Warrior Who, Because of His Endurance and Inflexible Will to Win, Will Go From Conquest to Conquest Leaving Fire in His Wake.”), which was perched directly over the head of the chief of police who sat behind an enormous wooden desk.  The only other pieces of furniture were the chairs in which the delegation sat.  Samuel and the others remained silent, indicating that Mukadi was their spokesman and that they agreed with everything being said.

            “He represents this city and will bring great glory to us at the tournament,” Mukadi continued.

            The chief of police was beginning to smile warmly at Samuel.  A sudden wail came through the window from somewhere outside.  Samuel turned casually and caught a glimpse of a naked man being dragged by his unruly hair between two gendarmes.  No one else seemed to notice, least of all Mukadi who was just warming up.

            “He is one of us.  Born right downtown here, and left for the United States of America only to attend university.  His father was also born in this country and has been a respected physician amongst our people for thirty years…”

            “Who is his father?” interjected the chief.

            “Dr. Tchanana,” smiled Mukadi triumphantly.

            Samuel caught Philip suppressing a smile.  “Tchanana” was the best the Congolese could do with his father’s foreign surname, but unfortunately it meant worthless.  The chief showed no sign that he found the name funny and addressed Samuel with an impressed tone.

            “Son of Dr. Tchanana?”

            Samuel smiled politely and nodded.

            “This makes sense then.  My men have been following you this last week.  It has been many years since a mutoke has walked the streets of our cité.  And who do you hold hands with?”

            The last question was a reference to Samuel’s best friend who loved to walk him through the heart of the cité where the sprawl of mud huts, accommodating over a half a million people, was a maze that few white people would brave on their own.  All good male friends held hands and Samuel’s friend was never lacking in affection.  He would have felt like a traitor if he were not certain that the chief already knew the answer and that asking was his way of stemming Mukadi’s tide of eloquence.

            “Il s’appelle Kazadi,” Samuel said.

            The chief made a show of writing something on the single notepad of his enormous desk.

            “And for how long will you be visiting our country?” he asked, continuing with his momentum as Mukadi slowly sat back in his chair.

            “Six more weeks,” said Samuel.

            “Your father is a good man,” the chief went on.  “My wife had cataracts until he operated on her eyes and now she sees with glasses.”

            Samuel smiled.  “My father is a good man.”

            “Yes.  Dr. Tchanana is one of us.”

            There was a moment of general nodding and agreement.

            “But you must go play tennis for us.  I will not keep you any longer.  Our streets are your streets.  Good luck.”

            “Thank you,” said Samuel.

            “Go well,” said the chief.

            The delegation answered in unison.  “Stay well,”

            When Mukadi and company returned, the others were visibly relieved.  After all, Samuel did play tennis.  The older men acted like nothing was unusual and immediately went back to their beer.  Philip and Samuel returned to the other table and were welcomed back enthusiastically.  Mutomba was shaking his head.

            “I don’t believe it.  Take off your shirt.  You must be hiding the whip welts.”

            “He is white,” said Jean-Luc, eyes half closed, shaking his head.

            “My father is a good man,” Samuel said.

            “Aaaaah,” they all answered in unison and the matter was settled.

            By this time the half-liter of beer Samuel had drunk had passed right through him and he asked Philip where the hotel restroom was.  A pained expression came over the trainer’s face.

            “You need to shit or piss?”

            “Piss,” said Samuel.

            “Thank God.  Follow me.”

            Philip led Samuel through the hotel lobby and into the enclosed courtyard.  It was the local dump, littered with glass and trash of unspeakable origins.

            “Any wall will do,” said Philip and left Samuel to relieve himself.

            Samuel plugged his nose, kept his breaths shallow, and proceeded to piss, aiming for the maggots that swarmed around his feet.  He could not have been more grateful.  Returning to his seat he was accosted once more by Jean-Luc.

            “You just escaped a great calamity at the police station.  Surely your good fortune makes you generous.  Give me your tennis racket.”

            Samuel pushed away the guilt.

            The pickup finally did come, six hours late.  Sixteen people crammed themselves and their belongings into the tiny truck and they left as comfortable as sardines.  It was to be quite a memorable trip for Samuel as the tournament was held in the diamond city.  There were prostitutes, embezzlements, nightly drunken revelry, and oh yes, some tennis.  The tennis club at the diamond city had received a huge shipment of new balls two years before and these deflated bladders were proudly used for the tournament.  Samuel managed to secure fourth place while Philip won the tournament.  The next year the hosting club recruited the trainer with a diamond-city salary.  Philip didn’t care who he won glory for.

            Six weeks later, Samuel found himself at the international airport of the capital city.  The political situation was rather unstable, which was evident by the number of gendarmes at the airport.  His bags and body were searched at least ten times and twice he was sure he had seen the last of his passport.  However, he was not so lucky with his tennis racket.  He had come to the airport with it slung over his shoulder since it was too awkward to fit in his backpack.  He had hardly walked through the entrance when he was accosted by three military men with Kalashnikovs. 

            “A weapon!” they shouted and grappled at his racket.  He wrestled it back and unzipped the black case.

            “It’s not a weapon, see?” he said revealing the head with woven catgut string.

            One of the gendarmes smirked and said, “It is a weapon.”  He then proceeded to pry it out of Samuel hands.  Samuel was pissed and he ranted and raved in his most poignant colloquial—but to no avail.  His father was not known in this city.  Then he tried to regain it by physical means.  As he went to grab the racket he was brought up short when the nozzle of a rifle leveled at his face.  A hush was spreading across the airport and Samuel sobered immediately. 

            Several hours later, sitting in his seat on the plane, he felt ashamed of himself.  He pulled out pen and paper and lowered the tray in front of him.

            “Jean-Luc,” he wrote on the note he knew would never be posted.  “My humble apologies.”