Set in three countries and across two continents, The Unexpected Homecoming narrates how Jean Pierre Elonga took a risk and fought several battles to follow his dream. Hear about what it's like to be an immigrant, to make sacrifices, to deal with financial strains, to leave your family behind, to be a supply teacher and a hard working parent but despite all of this, still aim to succeed!
Join Jean Pierre in his adventure that starts in DRC, through Uganda, then to the UK where he embraces his new life as a struggling student to travelling back to DRC to take a gamble despite threats of war and an Ebola outbreak. Along the way he comes across many challenges but even when his chances are destroyed by greedy, dishonest people, his faith in humanity is restored by those who go out of their way to help.
Original Title
Jean Pierre Elonga Mboyo - The Unexpected Homecoming a Diasporan Journey of Hope Against All Odds
Set in three countries and across two continents, The Unexpected Homecoming narrates how Jean Pierre Elonga took a risk and fought several battles to follow his dream. Hear about what it's like to be an immigrant, to make sacrifices, to deal with financial strains, to leave your family behind, to be a supply teacher and a hard working parent but despite all of this, still aim to succeed!
Join Jean Pierre in his adventure that starts in DRC, through Uganda, then to the UK where he embraces his new life as a struggling student to travelling back to DRC to take a gamble despite threats of war and an Ebola outbreak. Along the way he comes across many challenges but even when his chances are destroyed by greedy, dishonest people, his faith in humanity is restored by those who go out of their way to help.
Set in three countries and across two continents, The Unexpected Homecoming narrates how Jean Pierre Elonga took a risk and fought several battles to follow his dream. Hear about what it's like to be an immigrant, to make sacrifices, to deal with financial strains, to leave your family behind, to be a supply teacher and a hard working parent but despite all of this, still aim to succeed!
Join Jean Pierre in his adventure that starts in DRC, through Uganda, then to the UK where he embraces his new life as a struggling student to travelling back to DRC to take a gamble despite threats of war and an Ebola outbreak. Along the way he comes across many challenges but even when his chances are destroyed by greedy, dishonest people, his faith in humanity is restored by those who go out of their way to help.
The right of Jean Pierre Elonga Mboyo to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library. ISBN 9781785541971 (Paperback) ISBN 9781785541988 (Hardback) www.austinmacauley.com First Published (2015) Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd. 25 Canada Square Canary Wharf London E14 5LQ
Printed and bound in Great Britain
Acknowledgments
My thanks go to Vincent Asambom and Nicholas Oyugi for
proof-reading and other useful suggestions.
Contents
The authors personal statement: Why write a book on my
experiences?...................................................................................1 Prologue.........................................................................................4 Chapter 1: From the DRC to the UK via Uganda.........................9 Chapter 2: From the UK back to the DRC...................................30 Chapter 3: Dealing with the unexpected in the DRC...................49 Chapter 4: Leaving the DRC back to the UK.............................108 Epilogue.....................................................................................116 Preparing for DRC.....................................................................123
The authors personal statement:
Why write a book on my experiences?
Although migration flows from poor to rich countries
gain the most attention, return flows of migrants to their countries of origin are substantial (Dean Yang1 2006 p.715). While the stories and themes discussed here will touch on the question why return home?, this book is more about what happens once the decision to return home has been made, everything deemed necessary has been assembled and the shock ordeal that awaited me a few days after I set foot on my homeland (the Democratic Republic of Congo DRC). But in retracing the journey, it discusses a variety of other topics ranging from polygamy, leaving home, studies, priesthood, multiculturalism, war, poverty, immigration, culture shock, family, teaching, education, resignation, taking risks, hope, despair, help, crime, law to justice system. 1
Dean Yang (2006). Why do Migrants return to poor countries?
Evidence from Philippine migrants responses to exchange rates shocks, in The Review of Economics and Statistics, 88, 4, 715-735.
Here, I am not concerned about basic general facts
about either the United Kingdom as compared to the DRC. There are some generally accepted realities about the different weather patterns, geographical and cultural differences about these countries, for example, that may not need another book. Instead, the urge to share my story and thoughts springs from the contextual uniqueness of the experiences that I hope will shed some light into the state of mind of individuals, certain sections of society and various structures in Kinshasa/DRC, Uganda and the United Kingdom. Except for the 1% fiction part which I would let the reader determine, the rest (99%) is a real story that is set in a particular time and space and told, admittedly, from the authors perspective reserving the right to all those who might feel misrepresented to give their accounts as the experiences recounted here would have affected them. But, to respond to the great tradition of storytelling, we owe it to all readers and future generations to provide a trace of reality in my time and how repercussions to some of lifes difficult decisions and choices were handled. Any work that is meant to hopefully contribute to the development of humanity must aim to eradicate suffering rather than add to what is already out there. This is why I intend to use pseudo names such as Camille Fabien Bayu (CFB), Bill, Bo, Dan, Felly, Fiston, Honorable Patala (HP), Maboko Milai (MM), Paul, Ringo, Samuel, Stan, Ta, Tina or general terms such as wife, children, lawyers, to refer to people that the main characters here would have hired or sought advice from. Unless they choose not to, I mention real names when paying tribute to friends such as Vincent 2
Asambom, Charles and Angela Okula, Jeanette de
Suza, Maria Silva Rosa, Antoinette, Nicholas and Charity Oyugi, Francis, Henry, Anguo and Chia Bass. I will also use real names to refer to geographical places and institutions. Pseudo naming does not apply to main characters such as me/I (Jean Pierre Elonga Mboyo), Oscar Kapongo Kabata (OKK), Jean Claude Kabata (JCK), Oscar Kabata Balodji (OKB), Bibi Kabata, Mado Kabata, Thrse Kabata, Teddy, Koko, Sanza What you and the next generation will do next as a result of learning about these characters and what they did is a matter of personal choice. However, the detailed descriptions, situations, twists and turns, reflections and responses to dilemmas embedded in this particular story could be the talking point of diasporan communities, business men and women, lawyers and serve as a case study for students at law universities and to anyone new to the Congolese way of doing business and handling of the unexpected events that I witnessed. The intention to share my experiences may be construed as my attempt to vindicate my actions but I bet there will be moments when as a reader you might think I could have done things differently here. It is that sort of engagement that this publication hopes to achieve and in the process make us streetwise, so to speak.
Prologue
Although migration flows from poor to rich countries
gain the most attention, return flows of migrants to their countries of origin are substantial (Dean Yang 2006 p.715). Elonga and Theo (South African) discuss the quote Theo: if, thats the case then its great news. Elonga: why? Theo: our African leaders repeatedly call on the diapora to return! Elonga: but why? Theo: to contribute to the development. Has it not occurred to you that Africa is the future not Europe? Im sure once they are in their motherlands, they wouldnt want to leave again! Elonga: Eh, except that some do actually leave, find out why! Elonga and Mark (British) discuss the quote Mark: is that true? Elonga: it seems to be, according to Dean! 4
Mark: thats brilliant then,
Elonga: I wonder what happens to them once they return home. Mark: It wouldnt bother me mate; many of us would be grateful to swap a boat ride across the Mediterranean and a dark confined space at the back of a lorry into here for a heros welcome aboard Boeing 77whatever! Look, they are out and thats what matters! Elonga: Eh, except that some do actually come back, find out why! Fast-forward Deans assertion to the summer of 2014 and there I was set to return to the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) rounding off a three year stay in Uganda and a subsequent 15 eventful years in the United Kingdom. I was going back to where it all began. My DRC roots: Forget the Heart of Darkness of Joseph Conrad (1899) where the title of the novel portrays a generation that is very much concerned about the dual distinction between the more versus the less civilised or human. In a world now threatened by excessive greenhouse emissions and global warming, this real life story begins rather from an oasis of vast forest reserves which are home to some rare species such as Bonobos, rivers with huge varieties of aquatic creatures, and people straddling between the urge to preserve their cultural heritage and a burning desire for modernisation and better living conditions. We are in no other place than the territory of Djolu, within the 5
district of Tshuapa in the North Western province of
Equateur in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) where I was born and raised. Djolu stands at about 1000 km away from the DRCs capital Kinshasa and there are no direct roads linking them. Boats, transporting people and their goods from Kinshasa to the nearest ports (Befori, Boende, Mompono, or Lisala), take at least a month to get there. If you didnt want that, the only way in and out was by plane to Mbandaka, Basankusu or Boende which respectively stand at about 600, 450 and 240 km away from Djolu. Djolu itself has an airstrip that would only take some chattered small planes. Family: My mother is a trained midwife and one of the wives to my polygamous dad who after spending several years as a primary school head moved on to an administrative role still in education but outside a school setting. I am one of the 8 children from my mum and more than a dozen from my dad. Both, and sometimes three of my (step) mothers lived under the same roof. This may have had something to do with affordability problems as I wouldnt imagine the likes of President Jacob Zuma of South Africa keeping his four wives under the same roof. My mothers had their rows but could have some intimate conversations and laughs that can only be likened to the famous phrase in American politics: a team of rivals. Polygamy is not prevalent here but it does happen. It has been said that the wealthy and powerful men that give up polygamous practices, do so in exchange for votes from the poorer men. Others reckon a woman actually chooses to enter into a polygamous 6
arrangement if she thinks the man has enough dosh to
look after her. Here, the idea of having more than one wife (polygamy) may have something to do with male anxiety management. When growing up, we used to repeat a refrain of a song lost in my memory. Sang in Longando, which is my mother tongue, it used to go like this: boli omoko nsoleonjemba, bali basaso nsolealikambo meaning you marry one wife and you smell bachelorhood but marry three and you smell trouble. On a personal level, of the more permanent of my mothers, my biological mum remains cuddly and soft spoken. My step mother was more of a disciplinarian. Both qualities were needed in our household. Though my mum and dad worked, we didnt depend on their salaries for food. Our farms produce, fishing and hunting exploits provided us with our daily bread. We would sit around the fire, listening to traditional stories while waiting for our evening meal. There were good primary and secondary schools to go to but beyond that the nearest university was about 300 km away. Things are slightly different now with the creation in Djolu in 2003, of a higher education institute for rural development (ISDR Djolu in short) by a local intellectual turned politian Albert Lokasola Lotana. I completed my primary and secondary school studies within Djolu before moving outside the area in Baringa for a two year course in English and Spirituality as part of the programme set up by the Mill Hill Missionaries for their candidates to the missionary priesthood. Mill Hill Missionaries are a Catholic organisation made up of priests, brothers and lay members set up in 7
1866 by Cardinal Herbert Vaughan who also built
Westminster Cathedral in central London. They work all over the world including the DRC in the Diocese of Basankusu which has Djolu as one of its deaneries. With dwindling numbers of recruits in the west, Mill Hill society turned to young Africans to keep its work alive and this is how my teenage interest with their missionary way of life shaped what I would do next. I spent two years from 1994 to 1996 in the centre (CEFAS/Baringa) that they set up within the Diocese (Basankusu) before moving on to the next stage outside the DRC.
Chapter 1: From the DRC to the UK via Uganda
Priesthood: My missionary dream took me to
Jinja/Uganda where I spent a full three years (August 1996 till May 1999) without a holiday home in between. I was still in my early twenties then and the Congo war (that is still claiming its victims up to now) had just broken out soon after my departure. The war began as a joint Ugandan and Rwandan backed rebellion led by Laurent Kabila to oust an ailing dictator (Mobutu) whod been in power for 32 years. Once in power (in 2001), the self-declared president Laurent Kabila fell out with his backers who in turn sponsored other armed groups to allegedly rid Eastern Congo of renegade 1994 Rwandan genocide fighters. To the Congolese, this second invasion and continued support to different armed groups were just a pretext for Rwanda and Uganda to slice off or balkanise Congo and lay their hands on its minerals. In that mle that drew up to 10 African countries (Angola, Chad, Libya, Namibia, Soudan and Zimbabwe for the DRC government side and Rwanda, 9
Uganda and Burundi for the rebel sides) my family
members, in Djolu, had to sometimes take to the forest for days and weeks to flee from the different advancing and/or retreating (rebel or government) troops. Spending that length of time away from my family was understandably agonising. Luckily for me, the intellectual stimulation derived from studying philosophy was as therapeutic as the warmth of living in a welcoming environment that Uganda was in those days. I am grateful to the likes of Assoumpta and several families in Mbiko, Kokonjeru and others across Uganda. I am particularly indebted to the hospitality of the Okulas who turned their home into my/our home away from home. Charles and Angela Okula who we simply called daddy and mummy lived with their 6 children at about 3 miles away from the seminary house in Jinja/Uganda. Chia Bass and Anguo Justin both from Cameroon were two and a year respectively ahead of us and both visited the Okulas as their family friends. Since I was close to my Cameroonian friends in our year, we got introduced to them and this is how a Congolese managed to sneak into this circle of pure humanity, friendship and love. In those days, most people in Ugandan towns used bicycles to get around. There were people who would provide a bicycle ride for money and it was called Bodaboda meaning boarder to boarder (a practice that originated from taking people from the Kenyan border to the Ugandan border). We were given one bicycle each to get us around especially during weekends when we had to visit the community as part of our missionary work. When that work was over we 10
would turn up at the Okulas, usually unannounced,
and expect to be fed and watered. As well as the main house, they had built a boys quarter which became our dormitory at Christmas, Easter and other holidays. He would even organise excursions to his home village which meant organising transport to and through for 10+ of us. Some would argue that human relations are defined by personal interests but I fail to see what the Okulas would have gained from us. There are dreams which are only hopes within a realistic world that we live in. But there are dreams that are unimaginable because ones surrounding does not lend itself to the realisation of such dreams and yet they still happen to you. Living and growing up in Djolu it was beyond my dreams, as it were, to study with a mix of Africans from different countries in the same institution. But thats just what happened. There I was, in Uganda, interacting with the people that would later become my best friends from Cameroun, Kenya, Uganda, Zambia, and Tanzania etc. I may not have enjoyed consulting my EnglishFrench dictionary more than 100 times a day to keep up with lectures and social life, but in hindsight, this monotonous practice in the context of learning a language has its benefits that I know all too well. Besides mastering Longando and Lingala which are both my mother tongues and French which is the DRCs school and official language, I now had to learn 3 additional languages. It was so tough that even an old friend I reconnect with through social network had to remind me about asking our African Philosophy lecturer a daft question such as what does a deity mean? I was paranoid that I even fell out 11
with my Kenyan friend who happened to smile while I
was speaking and I thought my English must be so poor to make this guy laugh at me. In spite of those moments and many more, with hard work I have had more doors open than shut to me with my broken Luganda, not so perfect Swahili and now fluent English. London: One window of opportunity that opened up to me was coming to England in August 1999 to study Theology in the context of fulfilling my missionary dream. The cultural shock though when landing at Heathrow airport had the unimaginable effect of shutting this opportunity down and boarding the next plane back to Kinshasa, where full-on kisses were the exclusive business of the bedroom. But I was where I was and London was going to be my new home. As time moved on, England offered me more than a repulsive hanky-panky that one might encounter at the beginning of the autumn season at one of the worlds busiest airports (Heathrow). The sense of duty, the generosity of friends, and the understandable logic in the system that lay down the rules of the game for all, that can be associated with life in the UK, were enviable and attractive. The Ugandan experience had been beyond my dreams but living in North West London was surreal. Here I was studying not only with fellow Africans but with candidates from various continents. I had graduated from using bicycles in Uganda to having 1 or 2 students cars. They cared so much for you that they would even show you how to use a hoover. The 4 winged Mill Hill Missionaries headquarter at a time 12
was a listed building and it was so huge that it, at
times, felt lonely. Lonely but safe, shielding you from the hustle and bustle and complex transport system out there that made me not venture out on my own for at least 2 months. Two years down the line and my shot at missionary life didnt work out. I decided for legitimate reasons that I was going to do something else instead. I completed the Theology cycle nevertheless and wondered what to do thereafter. I opted for a career in education after being presented with some ideas such as marriage and/or applying for asylum status. This was 2002 and the war that has directly and indirectly claimed the lives of more than 4 million people was still raging in DRC. Just on death toll alone and 4 million is a conservative figure, the DRC could be said to have endured at least 470 devastating Ebola outbreaks similar to the 2014/15 West African one in the last 18 years. I could go on a rant about the moral scar it has left on the leadership at all levels (national and international) but besides the lives that have already been lost across the country, we can mention the many women and underage girls that continue to fall victims of sexual attacks in Eastern Congo. The rape of an 18 month old girl and family members being forced to sleep with their relatives before they are gang raped by armed men are dreadful stories and doctors such as Denis Mukwege who recently was awarded the European parliament top human rights prize for treating raped women cannot be thanked enough. The internal as well as external human displacement resulting from such instability cannot be underestimated. It was a no brainer then that my friend 13
would advise me to lodge in an asylum application
with the home office. Tempting though it was, it wouldnt only have been an insult to genuine people who, in fear of persecution in their countries of origin seek refuge in their host countries, but I also had trouble lying despite possible coaching sessions. And I am not talking about little white lies. Possible years of uncertainty were not things I felt comfortable with. I wanted to work hard even though teaching was the only viable card on the table. This is not to suggest that all asylum seekers lie and that they dont work hard. From priesthood to teaching: The fact that I ended up in education might have something to do with the family genes. It is a family love affair since my father and other family members, in DRC, are teachers. But in my new English context, it was the most practical thing to do. I was a foreign student paying fees at an international rate and I needed a less costly strategy that would get me into the world of employment in the shortest time possible. Though a few sponsorship applications were refused on the grounds that I didnt meet the residency criteria, the 8,895 one year fee worth of teacher training at Sheffield Hallam University (SHU) and the likely prospect of obtaining a work permit and gradually getting into a situation where I didnt need one were more attractive than a more costly (economics or other purely academic) masters degree programme. Raising the 8,895 still wasnt easy. Lets peddle back a little before starting with SHU. I had spent two 14
years studying fulltime with Mill Hill Missionaries.
And whenever I wasnt studying, I was visiting an HIV/AIDS centre around Camden Town and youth centre in St. Albans as part of the missionary work that had brought me to London. In the third year, I decided to part company with Mill Hill and ditched the idea of priesthood all together. With that came the consequence of finding my own accommodation and taking care of myself. I had to complete the Theology degree as well as find some work that would enable me to save enough money for my teacher training programme at SHU in the following year. Support work was what did it for me. There was the constraint of not exceeding 20 hours of work a week as per my student visa rules but in support work, there are flat rate sleepovers at the clients house which kept your hours low but increased your income somehow. I had a quiet and warm place where I could get my assignments done once the client was in bed. The change of career from priesthood to education required making a geographical move from London to South Yorkshire to reside in Doncaster and study with SHU. My Cameroonian friend Vincent Asambom had been living there and the reputable hospitality of Northen England were enough to convince me to brave the hostile Northen winters that are associated with this part of the country. I still remember my friend Maria Silva Roza driving me from London up to Doncaster on 22nd August 2002. How this particular stage in my life unfolded, and the formidable social and financial help of friends like Jeanette de Souza, Maria Silva Rosa, Vincent Asambom and Antoinette, deserve special mention. I 15
remember spending two weeks at my friends
(Vincent Asambom and his wife Mispa) house before finding some below standard accommodation for myself. I had enough money for my fees. So, my overdraft of 1500 and an additional 1500 that my friends Jeanette de Souza and Maria Silva Rosa had given me was the budget I had for rent, transport, bills and food for the entire year. The hardship of having to wake up with the coat I wore to go to work the previous day to keep warm, may not be something I wish on myself, my children or anybody for that matter but the skills and instinct of survival is something I wanted to hang onto forever. During this time and in the years that followed I had to get used to the Northern accent, the loneliness, the friendship, and everything that a foreign born trainee-teacher had to deal with. I also had to learn the ropes of teaching and build my teaching career in one of the most deprived secondary schools in South Yorkshire. I remember my friends would wait for a funny story of what would have gone on in my classroom. I also brought home great memories of the most fantastic students doing what they do best: learning. Hesitation and early career years doubt gave way to confidence and I soon began to feel comfortable as a teacher. It is official that it wasnt love at first sight between me and teaching. It was a matter of convenience, circumstances and not a passion that I have carried with me since being a child. It wasnt in my blood, someone might say. It was marriage for the wrong reasons. Have we not heard that before in our political talk about bogus marriages, British-ness, 16
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