Letter to Andrée

Your father didn’t want me to go. Not because he disapproved of my interest in politics, but because by the time the caravan came to town, I was already seven months pregnant, and he was afraid something might happen to me in the crowd. He was right to be worried, but I was determined to go, and in those days, once I had made up my mind, nothing could change it.

It was your aunt Jocelyne who first heard about the rally. Back then, news didn’t travel as fast. We had the radio, a few newspapers, and that was about it. Your aunt was buying groceries at the downtown market when she ran into supporters of the PSA, the Parti Solidaire Africain. They were trying to convince people, especially women, to attend their event. They said that a woman from their party would be there to talk about women’s rights and health programs. Your aunt and I were very intrigued. An African woman on the campaign trail with Antoine Gizenga and Pierre Mulele, respectively, president and secretary of the PSA? At the time, there were few women in politics in the Congo, and even fewer in Kikwit.

It was 1960. We had been under Belgium’s iron fist since 1885, when the Berlin Conference decided the fate of millions of Africans and declared that King Leopold would rule the Congo as his personal property. Years and years of terror ensued. Oh, the suffering that those white men caused. And of course, we didn’t have the right to vote back then. We were the natives, ‘les indigènes.’ Our country didn’t belong to us.

But by spring 1960, everything changed. The winds of decolonisation swept through. We were about to have our first democratic election ever in Congo. People were excited. Everywhere, the same discussions. Who was going to be part of the National Assembly? Kasa-Vubu’s ABAKO? Lumumba’s MNC? Tshombe’s CONAKAT? Political rallies and meetings were being organised throughout the country. But women—me, your aunt, your grandmother—were not included in the debates. Only men over the age of twenty-one had the right to vote. It was so frustrating. Weren’t we part of Congo’s future, too? How could the country function without us? We were the ones doing everything at home! Some women even held high positions. In Kikwit, some had found work with the Religieuses de Saint André at Lycée Siama, the local secondary school. In Kinshasa, which was then still called Leopoldville, women journalists like Marie-José Sombo and Louise Efoli were true pioneers in the field. We had also heard that another young woman, Victorine Njoli, had obtained her driver’s license in 1955. The first woman to achieve this feat in Congo. But it seemed that women’s voices didn’t count. Many were afraid to speak up, but not me. I complained to your father every day about it.

Your father agreed with some of my arguments, but he was more moderate in his opinions. He said we had to do one thing at a time. First, we had to gain our independence, get the country back on track, and then we could think about women. Or he would say, “My vote will count for me and you.” That’s how most men thought at the time. I would roll my eyes at him and sigh. I don’t know if it was because you were in my belly, but I was often full of fire. So yes, when I heard about this woman, this Madame Andrée Blouin, who was going to talk to the women of Kikwit about our lives and our future, I knew I had to go, crowd or no crowd.

Your aunt Jocelyne was excited too, but she was more interested in what Madame Andrée was going to wear than what she was going to say. There were so many rumours circulating about her at the time. We didn’t know exactly who she was… Some politician’s mistress? A Guinean? A Brazzavilloise? A spy? People said she was absolutely stunning, that her beauty was breathtaking, and her sense of style was unmatched. We knew that she was a mixed-race woman. We had seen a photo of her in the newspaper, and it was true that she looked like a movie star. She was shrouded in mystery, and although your aunt and I had different reasons for wanting to attend the campaign rally and meet her, we agreed on one thing: we couldn’t miss the opportunity to see her and hear her speech.

On the day of the meeting, which took place at the end of April 1960, we arrived early. I wanted to make sure that we would have a good spot in front of the stage and be comfortable. People were coming from everywhere, even from neighbouring towns and villages, to attend this rally. Young men, old men, teenagers, women with children in one arm and a basket full of groceries on their heads. There were at least three thousand people. Everyone had interrupted their daily activities to make sure they would not miss the event. Your father was working and couldn’t make it that afternoon, but he was right to worry about me. The crowd was so excited that it was not very safe for a pregnant woman to be standing in the middle of it, but I handled the situation as best as I could. Plus, your aunt was pushing and threatening everyone around us to make sure that I had enough space to breathe. 

The crowd was ready; we had gathered downtown early, but on that day, the caravan was late. Can you believe it? We had to wait for them for so long that we thought they wouldn’t make it, and that the rally would be postponed. This was before the advent of telephones, and the roads were in poor condition. A single malfunction could immobilise a car for hours, even days, before it was rescued or a mechanic came to help. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case; these politicians just had a very busy schedule. They had visited many cities in the Kwilu and Kwango regions before arriving in Kikwit, including Fetshi, Mbanze, and the city of Kahemba, near the Angolan border. Plus, they were travelling with no less than fifteen vehicles carrying around dozens of people, including photographers, journalists, handymen, and musicians. Hence the lateness. But by early afternoon, just when the excitement was at its peak, the caravan finally reached town.

And let me tell you one thing: they were very well organised! They had their own sound system, electric generators, loudspeakers, microphones, and other equipment. They didn’t waste any time setting up their stage either. A prominent member of the PSA in Kikwit then asked the crowd to be quiet and introduced Antoine Gizenga, who stepped on stage under tons of applause. He spoke to us about his vision for the Congo and harangued the crowd for a good half hour. Then it was Pierre Mulele’s turn to speak. He gave more details about the history of the PSA, their platform, and all the reforms that they wanted to implement in the Congo after independence. The crowd gave him a round of applause, too. Finally, it was Andrée Blouin’s turn to take the stage. And oh, what a woman! Yes, I had seen pictures of her, but she was ten times more impressive in person. Her hair, her figure, her stature… And what a great orator she was! I totally understood why the PSA had chosen to work with her as their spokesperson for women. 

Madame Blouin could speak several languages, including Kikongo, Lingala, and French. When she spoke, everybody listened. Even Gizenga and Mulele showed her respect. She was one of a kind. We felt that she genuinely cared about us. She told us about her life. She explained that her father was French, and her mother was a Banziri woman from the Kouango region of Ubangi-Shari, which is now part of the Central African Republic. She told us that she was a mother herself, which was the reason she cared so much about the future of children. She told us about the Feminine Movement for African Solidarity and how she had enrolled over 40,000 women nationwide to become part of it. She believed in the future of Africa. It was a delight to listen to her talk. We all knew that this moment was special. 

Don’t ask me how, but your aunt managed to push us to the front row and shouted a question to Madame Blouin, asking her for details about what she was wearing. Madame Blouin kindly replied that it was a custom-made libaya, an African outfit, made by a renowned stylist from Leopoldville whose name I have since forgotten. As for me, I only asked her questions about her children. I wanted to know how she felt about leaving them behind while she pursued her political activities. She replied something along the lines of, “My children never leave my thoughts.” Then she asked if she could touch my womb. “You’re carrying the future of the Congo,” she commented with a beautiful smile. It made me emotional. I almost cried. 

I don’t remember much after that. The rally lasted a few hours. There were many questions from the crowd. I was quite tired. Then, Mulele and Gizenga took the microphone again to say a few closing words. Shortly after, their caravan set off for its next stop, and your aunt and I went home. Well, not quite. I decided to drop by our grandmother’s house first, your great-grandmother, Coco Kapinga. I wanted to tell her what had happened and share the excitement of the day with her. 

Coco Kapinga was my confidante and my guiding light. She knew me almost better than I knew myself. She could always read my mind. When she saw me arriving at her house, exhausted but excited after the rally, speaking so fast that my sentences hardly made sense, she told me to calm down. She offered me a cup of ginger tea and started lecturing me. “You’re going to deliver that baby before the time is right. Fanda! Sit down.” And then, as I wouldn’t stop talking, even after I sat down, she interrupted me again and said, “Your husband was right. You and Jocelyne could have been injured in town. Didn’t you hear what happened in Leopoldville last year? You should have taken your brother with you.” I pouted. Brothers, husbands. Always men, men, men. “Madame Andrée didn’t have any brothers with her, and she was fine! Oh, you should have seen her, Coco. How she commanded the stage! How men listened to her! And she agreed with us that Congolese women should have a say in this election!”

Coco Kapinga kissed her teeth loudly. “Elections, elections. Everyone has that word on their lips as if it means something good. When you reach my age, you will understand that all that glitters is not gold. Salt looks like sugar, but it’s not sweet. And salt on a wound is not good.” She shook her head and sighed. “A lot of these new politicians just want to replace the white men. They want power, not leadership. Our old traditional chiefs had real leadership; they led entire clans, administered justice and protected us. But these young politicians who want to run the country, MNC, ABAKO, and whatever the others are called… eh, I don’t know about them. But what do I know, I’m just an old woman selling food at the market, right? I don’t speak with big words and big sentences like your politicians.”

I protested vigorously. “Coco Kapinga, you know that’s not true. Madame Andrée said that Congolese women should get more involved. She has travelled all over the continent. She said that we all share the same fights, and that—”

Coco Kapinga interrupted me again. She seemed slightly exasperated by me.

“Madame Andrée this, Madame Andrée that… She’s not the first woman to want good things for this country, you know? Oh, child, have I not taught you anything?” She sat down next to me and poured herself a cup of ginger tea. She always did that before giving me a history lesson. She took a few sips, then cleared her throat. “Before the white man came and imposed his borders on us, we had our own borders. We were Mangbetu, Bayaka, Tshokwe, Luba, Hemba, Bakongo, Mongo, Tetela, Lunda, and many other tribes. We had our kingdoms. Trust me, women had a say in the affairs of this country. They were powerful. They held sacred knowledge. They could break or make empires. In the Luba Kingdom, for instance, a long time ago, the Mwadi was a woman who embodied spiritual power and ancestral memory. No king could be crowned without her involvement. In ancient Kongo, some of our ancient tribes were matrilineal, like the Mbala, the Yansi, and the Sakata, which meant that women decided who could inherit land, property, and family heirlooms. 

Coco Kapinga’s face lit up as she continued to tell the story. “In those ancient kingdoms, some of our women knew how to fight and even commanded armies. Queen Nzinga, of the kingdoms of Ndongo and Matamba, fought and resisted the Portuguese for more than thirty years in the seventeenth century. And what about Dona Beatriz, also known as Kimpa Vita? A pious woman, she opposed the slave trade, challenged Portuguese rule, and called for the unity of the Kongo back in the eighteenth century. She didn’t wait for a white man to tell her whether she had the right to vote; she took matters into her own hands.” Coco rummaged through one of her kitchen drawers and found a drawing of Beatriz Kimpa Vita that a young artist from Kikwit had made for her. “See. Congolese women have always been there. We’ve always been involved.” She handed it to me. “This is for you. Keep it. “

I put the drawing in my purse.

“Yes. We’ve always participated. But Madame Andrée is also part of this tradition. She is doing great work. Thousands of people have come to see her all over the Kwilu. That means something too!”

Coco Kapinga nodded. “Yes, that means something too. I just don’t want you to forget about all the women who came before her. Remember: “The tree always honours its roots.” I nodded. Coco poured me a second cup of tea before continuing. “When I was your age, there was a young Congolese woman who also opposed the Belgians. Her name was Maria N’koi, “the leopard woman.” She was a rebel and a healer who lived in the Equateur province. She protested against unfair taxes and forced labour. That was around 1915. The Belgians eventually arrested and deported her, but not before she inspired many of us.” My eyes widened. I had never heard about Maria N’koi. Coco continued. “And don’t think I don’t know the younger generation. Look around you. Open your eyes. The PSA is not the only party that includes women. I’ve heard that a woman named Julienne Mbengi founded FABAKO, the women’s branch of the ABAKO party. Another woman, Josephine Kapongo, joined the ranks of the MNC party. You want to preach about women’s solidarity, well, learn these names too.” 

Now it was my turn to nod in agreement. Coco Kapinga had never had the opportunity to go to school, but she always taught her children and grandchildren valuable life lessons. She was a woman of infinite wisdom. A knowledge keeper. I often wondered how she knew all these stories. When I would ask her, she would just laugh and say, “When you reach my age, you will know all of this and much more.” And often, her predictions came true.

From May 22 to May 25, 1960, your father and most men over the age of twenty-one went to the polls and voted. Lumumba’s MNC emerged victorious, followed by the PSA and ABAKO. The MNC and PSA decided to join forces to form a government. Patrice Lumumba was appointed Prime Minister, while Joseph Kasa-Vubu of ABAKO was appointed the first President of the Congo. As a reward for her hard work, Madame Andrée Blouin was appointed Chief of Protocol and became one of Lumumba’s trusted advisers. Your aunt Jocelyne and I were so excited that we planned to travel to Leopoldville in the fall to try to see her again.

Meanwhile, the doctors at the hospital had told me you would arrive on June 30, for Lipanda, Independence Day, but Coco Kapinga was convinced that you would arrive in the first week of July. As usual, she was right. You made a grand entrance on July 2, which also happened to be the birthday of Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba. What can I say? You chose your date well. You had big, curious, magnificent brown eyes and a head full of hair. Your father and I instantly fell in love with you. What a glorious, wonderful day!

But alas, less than two months after independence, chaos began to reign in the country. The Katanga province, led by Tshombe’s CONAKAT party, declared its secession in July 1960. The Kasai province, led by Kalonji’s MNC-K party, declared its secession in August 1960. On September 5, President Kasa-Vubu dismissed Lumumba from office. On September 6, Prime Minister Lumumba dismissed Kasa-Vubu from office. The Europeans and Americans had spies and double agents everywhere. The following week in September, Colonel Mobutu, then Army Chief of Staff, staged a coup and put Lumumba under house arrest. Over the next few months, unity disappeared. The whole country was in flames. We no longer knew who to trust. Executions and arrests were commonplace. Your father didn’t want me to discuss politics openly anymore. He was afraid that someone would misinterpret my words and find an excuse to have us arrested. The Kikwit branch of the Feminine Movement of African Solidarity slowly dissolved. As for Madame Blouin, people said that she had been expelled from the country shortly after Mobutu’s coup. 

In January 1961, Lumumba was assassinated. However, your father and I didn’t have time to despair; we had to stay strong for you. As the country collapsed, you were our reason for surviving and trying to stay positive. Every day, when I looked at you, I would think about what Madame Blouin had said when she touched my belly: “You are carrying the future of the Congo.” Was she right? 

After Lumumba’s death, Madame Blouin did not return to the Congo. It would have been too dangerous for her. She settled in Algeria, then in France. After a while, people stopped mentioning her name in the Congo. Her contributions were almost forgotten. I say almost because some of us still have fond memories of her.

It is now the summer of 1978. Your great-grandmother Kapinga is no longer with us. Your aunt Jocelyne lives in Lubumbashi, where she works as a seamstress. Her creations are always in high demand. As for you, you are preparing to leave the family home for the first time. You have decided to continue your studies in Europe. In Paris, France, to be exact. It brings tears to my eyes to think about it, but I also know that this is a wonderful opportunity. You are your father’s and my greatest pride and joy. You said you wanted to become a history teacher after graduating and that you were looking forward to teaching history to our people, especially our young women. I can’t help but notice that you are fulfilling both your great-grandmother’s dream and the vision that Madame Andrée Blouin had for you when I met her. Isn’t that wonderful?

I still have the Kimpa Vita drawing that Coco Kapinga gave me. And I still have the old picture of Andrée Blouin that your aunt and I cut out of a newspaper. I am enclosing them with this letter in the envelope. They are yours now. I hope that you will look at them often. 

I’ve never really explained all this to you. I thought you were too young, that some of these memories were too painful, and that we shouldn’t talk about politics out loud anymore. But now that you’re eighteen and about to leave home, I thought it was the perfect time for me to tell you these things. I often think about what your great-grandmother used to say about the importance of remembering and honouring our roots. That’s why I chose to name you Andrée Beatriz Kapinga. You were named after three important, strong-willed women, and their legacy lives on in you.

Andrée, my dear daughter, now you know everything. I am counting the days until you return to the Congo, stronger and wiser. The world is vast, but never forget where you come from… May all your dreams come true. Travel safely. Bon voyage!

Your loving mother, Espérance Mujinga. 

Kikwit,

July 2, 1978. 

---

Sabrina Moella is a writer from Congo, raised in Paris, who now lives in Canada. She has been published in Decolonial Passage, Brittle Paper, The Kalahari Review, AFREADA, Friday Flash Fiction, Africultures, Micromance Magazine, and elsewhere. Her work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions. She can be found online at sabrinamoella.com and on social media @sabrinamoella. 

Cover credit: Ebumnobichukwu Agu.