Dinner Parties in Kinshasa: When Listening to Intuition Can Pay Off
DRC (Democratic Republic of the Congo)
Round two in Kinshasa was a given. I had heard the sign from my insides on my first visit a year ago when Africa wouldn’t let me go and knew that the next time, I’d most certainly cross countries from DRC (Democratic Republic of the Congo) to the RoC (Republic of Congo) via the Congo River. I’m with you if you’re a bit befuddled on the blurring of the names. Curiosity and/or experience helps to unravel their differences. Initially named the ‘Congo Free State’, DRC was carved out as a king’s private domain before becoming a Belgian colony. The richness of its natural resources coupled with its political volatility meant DRC (with a name change to Zaire and back to DRC) lost six million lives from fighting, disease and malnutrition. On the other side of the river, the Republic of Congo (often called Congo-Brazzaville) has enjoyed relatively more political stability - something that seems tacitly telltale as one wanders about.
The whirlwind in Kinshasa made the short stay tiring yet the output of these volunteer stints made it worthwhile. The reprieves came unexpectedly in late night convos and dinner parties. PS for those like me that needed a reminder, the latter is not the same as ‘going for dinner’. So I was promptly ordered by Temi back to my room to redo the jeans and breezy shirt. Dressing up and decking out was equally on tap as was the whole meal deal of cocktails, appies, multiple courses and aperitifs. Fine dinnerware was as much on display as was one’s knowledge of geopolitics, fashion and culinary tips.
Our hosts for the first party were Amelie and her husband. She was French and he was born in Kin with ties to the Middle East.
Hearing how people’s lives spiral from their initial forays into the wide lanes of the world always wows me - how does a Cuban air hostess end up working in RoC or a French theta healer and Zumba instructor find herself in DRC? I wondered how many of us would be surprised to see where we’ve landed if we rewinded to our childhood selves. Perhaps some are plunked perfectly in the present primarily as a result of personal planning but, I suspect many of us have sat somewhat aloof on Life’s amusement ride.
Passionfruit juice in a long stem glass, juicy olives and tiny tuna hors d’oeuvre debuted ahead of our first course of seasoned shrimps. A tasting plate of Sole, Capitain, Salmon and Barfish (yellow bass) with some carbs was followed by a dark chocolate mousse.
I was delighted to be designated a seat that put me in the heart of intelligent insights. In particular, I was drawn to the Brazilian Ambassador, a former architect, sailor, journalist and photographer. It had been a while since I met someone with a life and worldview so fascinating. Where would we have been had we followed all our passions along the way? I reflected on the delicate balance between the education that’s offered in institutions juxtaposed with the Universe itself. Interesting too are the intersections that can come later in life when one dabbles in such diverse disciplines. What are the learnings of the past that play a particularly powerful role in our present, I wondered. Imagine if we were to white board that out …
As we transitioned to the second living area, I went to the bathroom.
A little internal voice suggested that I leave the sliding door unlocked, but logic boxed out that idea. Why do intuition and intellect often enter the arena ready to agree to disagree?
Just then, I heard the piano recital begin. I was disappointed to be missing the start of a live performance, even more so when I realized, I was locked in. Incredulous, I jiggled the lock, the door, the latch ... nothing. Multiple attempts later, I considered when someone might notice and send in some supports. I looked at myself in the mirror - one of those moments when the reflection greets you as if they are another, wondering what’s brought you to this state. I recapped the fact that I, the last minute addition to this dinner party, was locked in the bathroom in a house of someone I had met about an hour ago, without a phone, on my first night in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Not fake news. The door could not be coaxed, so after a slight shrug in the mirror, I opened the window. Being in Africa, the security grill made that route also a non-option. The warm humid air joined me in my hot fluster, brining only a small sweet draft until the warmth from inside and out efficiently equalized to a more bearable space. I tried the latch again. My knuckles were sore from the suboptimal ergonomics and position of the lock. Muffled sound of the piece being played overshadowed my attempts to call out for help, both through the window to the outside world and the washroom door.
From my peripheral vision, I saw myself. Turning to face it full on, I looked in the mirror and laughed. How hilarious was this! The piano was pounding and drowning out my pleas, the window above me had zero chance for a secondary escape and so, it seemed obvious that it was time to close the toilet lid and just have a seat and surrender. After all, what we resist, persists … it was time for accepting: I was locked in the loo.
The twists of life made me wonder where we’d be if all things were linear. From the macroscopic ways in which we are led to the micro events that also surprise us, life is art in action - perhaps we can recognize it in the story that’s meant to be shared, the song that springs forward, the poem that finds inspiration in the mundane, or this post that was birthed inside these bathroom walls ;)
It seemed like this sonata was never ending, but when it did, upbeat music cascaded from the speakers almost without skipping a beat. I looked at the door and in hindsight appreciated the tension between intellect and intuition.
How loud and savvy is our inside voice and what makes us tap into it? Like sharpening a pencil, I wondered the ways in which I could hone and heed what’s in my head, removing the blur, refining it to pinpoint accuracy and then of course, for me to be open and ready to receive, read and be ready to rumble with the message.
I’m not sure which part it was - my reflection, my intuition, “me” - but the command to the door was “you gotto open”. And shockingly just like that, we walked out free to be, whether it was just one or all three of me, that’s an ongoing mystery (and definitely, pretty deep philosophy).
The group was lounging when I made my entrance, or rather exit. Wasting no time, Temi blurted out “were you stuck in there or what?” and so I squealed, letting the pent up glee and gratitude to gush into the gathering. We laughed and tumbled into each other as the story was told, the first of several renditions, of course. How does a simple string of events lead to bifurcations in outcomes and in the ways in which we interpret them?
I wondered if one’s outlook drives direction. For what could be mortification for one is simply a funny memory for another. What makes us see and say our narratives the way we do is a thesis unto itself. At that moment though, the punchline was when our hosts confessed that I wasn’t the first one!? Others before were also locked in ... they knew, they knew “ah that lock is finicky”, they knew, “your mother got locked in last time too”, they knew …
Luckily, the second dinner party was hosted by Temi with whom I was staying, so obviously, I’d already road-tested those bathroom locks. Personalized name tags and fancy plates spruced up the evening, as did the invited folks. Playing/being grown up can be an interesting ask. For now, I was grateful that my journey to and through it has been filled with spunky spins that have generated a selection of conversation starters, after all, don’t we need a few of these for our next dinner party?
May we have ample opportunity to feast while feeling the flow of life through parties, peoples and punctuated punchlines,