"How can that be... I don’t believe it!" Commander Rom suddenly shouts. "They’re doing absolutely nothing, those bougnouls!"
Everyone around him nods or makes noises to show their agreement.
"Look, Major," he goes on, “now I see why the quotas aren’t being met! In my opinion, it’s time to step in, and hard!”
"Then let’s get down," Major Thys says, as laconic as ever, and at that everyone rises to leave the carriage.
We're awaited by a veritable welcoming committee beneath the station’s porch, some thirty whites but also quite a few blacks. They're all wearing long, coloured loincloths trimmed with fur. The man in the centre, however, is strikingly different. He wears a brown tweed jacket and even a bowler hat! It is obvious, not only from his clothes but also from his distinguished bearing, that he must be a chief of one of the great Bakongo tribes, the largest ethnic group in this part of Africa.
I'm struck by how tall and elegant these men actually are. They lack our tendency to stoop and bow our heads, as if burdened with the weight of the World. These 'primitives' instead display a natural pride, rare in Europe. I'm reminded again of the woman with the amphora. Without a straight back she could never have balanced that load upon her head.
Alongside the committee several elected officials of the FP are standing in their blue uniforms, who seem rather out of place there. The strange thing is that these men also try to display a lofty social status in their posture but, although they belong to exactly the same race as the Bakongo chiefs, they somehow fail. I conclude that they have spent far too long trying to assimilate to our way of life, and with it have absorbed our stooping posture. Next to the tribal chiefs they appear small, though in truth they are nothing of the sort.
The major climbs the station's steps, followed by the rest of us. He greets the whites with a wave of his hand but then turns straight to the man with the bowler hat, who he greets warmly.
"Chief Mokoko, what a pleasure to see you again!"
It's the first time I have ever heard a white man use the polite form of address towards a black man. It astonishes me, but it is probably just part of the diplomacy expected of us. The major shakes the chief’s hand, revealing a broad smile with teeth as white as pearls.
"Pleasure to see you again, great chief Major," Mokoko replies in rudimentary but endearing French, "your journey been good?"
"Yes, Chief Mokoko, very good, thank you."
"I am very, very happy, great chief Major! Only yesterday I tell tribe... great Chief Major return soon... he bring prosperity to our people!"
"And here I am," the major replies, "I’ve returned from my long journey to Belgium and I also bring you a message from the great King and Emperor of the Congo Free State, Leopold II."
"A message from King Chief... for me?" Chief Mokoko asks, astonished.
"Yes, Chief. The great King sends his greetings and wishes to thank you personally for your excellent work. He was particularly satisfied with the progress of the railway and with the generosity of the quotas of rubber and ivory."
Rubbish! The king wasn’t satisfied in the least, and we all know it. In fact, only last night at dinner Commander Rom had been ready to cut off the Congolese hands for being, in his view, too lazy. I’d wager my head that in his vast Royal Palace at Laeken, in the leafy outskirts of Brussels, the king has never even heard of a certain Mokoko, tribal chief or not. I have no idea what game the major is playing, but one thing is sure... I don’t like it. Without doubt his words are meant to keep the chief sweet. We still need the blacks if we are to raise the rubber quotas and finish this cursed railway. Chief Mokoko seems delighted all the same.
"Oh, wonderful!" he exclaims, beyond himself. "The King Chief pleased with me?"
"Yes, and that is not all," the major continues with a broad smile. "Our magnificent King, in his infinite wisdom, has decided to bestow upon you the Cross of Honour in the Order of Leopold."
Suddenly Commander Rom pulls a small blue case from his pocket and opens it. The major takes the medal and pins it onto the chief’s jacket. Mokoko can scarcely contain himself with joy, giving the impression he might burst into dance as we all applaud. Shouting with delight, he displays the medal to his companions, then runs along the verandah to show it to the rest of his retinue waiting behind the station. They all cry out in a language I can’t understand, but the cries are joyous, euphoric even. Commander Rom, meanwhile, winks at Louis, Captain Roger, and Sub-Lieutenant Bourgeois, as though to say: another monkey we’ve made a fool of.
What no longer surprises me is that the commander hasn’t aimed the gesture in my direction as well. No, this whole charade doesn’t please me one bit. The major signals to the tribal chief that he must return, and Mokoko comes running back at once.
"Chief Mokoko, there are also some less pleasant matters we must discuss. Let’s go inside, and I’ll explain," the major says, pointing towards the station’s central doorway.
"Of course, of course, great Chief Major," Mokoko replies, still in a state of bliss, as if he fails to grasp the seriousness of the moment. "I listen well!"
The major goes in first, followed by the chief and by Commander Rom, who sternly orders the chief’s companions and the FP soldiers to remain outside on the porch. I enter too, because my skin colour permits it, though I as unsure whether my presence is entirely welcome. The major sits down and motions to the chief to take a seat at his side.
"Chief Mokoko," he begins, "I also have more serious news I must share with you."
He removes his white pith helmet and smooths down his brown hair.
"As I mentioned earlier, our King was satisfied with the quotas of rubber and ivory, but he also expressed the view that the Congo can do better, and that these quotas must be doubled within six months."
The chief is left speechless, and I would have been too in his place. Double the production... in so little time? All the whites stand looming around him, threatening in their mere presence, surrounding that lone black man who suddenly seems no longer so grand and imposing, despite the bowler hat and the medal of the Order of Leopold pinned to his chest.
"Well then?" the major presses on. "How do you intend to proceed?"
"Proceed?" the chief replies. "But me no understand. You say you satisfied, eh?"
"Yes, Chief Mokoko, satisfied, but the Congo is a land of riches, and it must give back to its master according to its vast potential. Let me come straight to the point. Why are the workers out there not working? Perhaps they haven’t enough to do?"
"But great Chief Major…," Chief Mokoko answers with a grin stretching from ear to ear, his calmness as if this were nothing more than a jest, "Chief Major know plantation work plenty hard. Men must rest, yes!"
"Rest?" The major raises his voice. "They are not to rest, they are to work! The railway must be finished within a year, and that is an order from the King himself!"
The tribal chief still does not seem to grasp the seriousness of the situation. He even begins to laugh.
"Hahaha… But no worry! Railway go finish! We just wait new material come. Then men work hard, hard, hard, train go Léopoldville! No problem!"
At this point I believe Commander Rom would rather shoot the chief in the head, yet the major holds his composure with surprising restraint.
"Chief… I’ll explain once more. It’s true we have only just brought the new supplies. But why did you not continue digging the foundations for the rails? Why did you not keep levelling the ground towards the Kwilu River? Why..."
"Forgive me, Major," a white man with a Scandinavian accent suddenly interrupts, "but it is not their fault. We didn’t have enough explosives to cut the passage through the rocks."
The major shoots the Danish engineer a withering look, ordering him to silence. His opinion was neither asked for, nor welcome.
"Then why did you not dig by hand? Even to gain a few yards? Or better still, why did you not send these men to the plantations to help there? They must be expanded, production must be increased, and your men must all make a greater effort or they will suffer the consequences. Do you understand me… Chief?"
The chief’s smile fades. His bowler hat no longer lends him dignity, but the look of a pitiful failed clown. He squirms to free himself from the trap.
"But men work all day already… not possible work more…"
"On the contrary, it is possible. Very possible," the major barks. "They only need to be persuaded they can do better. And you..." he pauses, pointing at the chief, "you will persuade them."
"Me? Me tell men work more? But not possible!"
"It is possible."
The major reaches into his pocket and produces ten silver coins, each worth five Congolese francs.
"You will persuade them, won’t you?" he repeats.
The chief stares at the coins, then bursts into laughter. I am utterly appalled. He has clearly played this game before. Greedily he snatches the coins and roars:
"Yes, yes, no problem, Chief Major! Me persuade! Hahaha!"
Everyone laughs with him. The chosen of the chosen. The tribal chief who has just sold out his people for fifty miserable Congolese francs, though in Belgium it would equal more than a fortnight’s wages, let alone here.
"Good," says the major, who has not joined in the laughter for even a second. "Then persuade them."
He rises and gestures for the chief to go outside, where in the meantime all the men have gathered. There are hundreds of them, and the sight of that black army unsettles me. They are so many, and we whites no more than… thirty? Fortunately they are unarmed, while the men of the FP are armed and far too eager to show it, brandishing their rifles to keep the crowd cowed.
The chief steps up to the railing and begins speaking to his people in their tongue, gesticulating wildly. The crowd listens, motionless. No grumbling, no protests, only resignation to the order to work harder. Perhaps they have yet to hear of the uproars Belgian workers dare to cause through their unions. To me, Chief Mokoko seems to hold a strange power over his people, like some shaman casting a wicked spell upon his victims.
Yet a murmur of discontent rises from the crowd. A lone voice, no more than a common labourer, dares to challenge the words of the tribal chief, who tries in vain to silence him. He cannot. The crowd parts, revealing the dissenter. I cannot tell whether they make room so that he may speak, or because they fear being associated with him. No whisper of approval follows. He stands utterly alone, more and more isolated by the second.
Yes… here fear rules.
I see Commander Rom give a curt order, and four Force Publique soldiers push through the crowd with their chicottes. They seize the man and drag him towards the station’s porch. Desperately, he still cries out to the others, waving his arms, his bald head glistening with sweat. But it is useless. His body, frail from hunger and overwork, is no match for their grip. His ribs jut beneath his skin, his back a lattice of scars. One lash for each.
They force him to his knees before Major Thys and the tribal chief, whose face betrays not the slightest regret. The fifty francs in his tweed pocket are all that matter to him now. Rom draws his pistol, pressing it against the prisoner’s temple. The man trembles, no longer shouting, only pleading, whispering prayers through his chattering teeth. Perhaps a bullet would be mercy, I think.
To my astonishment, the major lifts a hand. For a fleeting instant, I believe in pity.
I was wrong.
"Commander, I have already explained, we must spare the ammunition," Thys says, his voice colder than iron. Reluctantly, Rom holsters his pistol. For a breath, the World holds still. Then, in a flash, he draws his saber and brings it down savagely on the man’s neck. The blade slices through flesh but stops with a dull crack at the fourth vertebra. The prisoner squeals like a slaughtered pig. Blood sprays in every direction. The soldiers release him, and he thrashes in his own crimson pool.
I turn away, but his animal screams drill into my bones. Only Rom remains unmoved, as though carving a roast. With effort he wrenches his saber free, then hacks at the man’s wrist, once, twice, three times, until the hand comes loose. Lifting it high, he roars:
"This is what awaits you if you do not do your duty! Do you understand?"
Hundreds of eyes, wide with terror, give no reply. The commander flings the hand into the crowd, scattering them in panic, then curses at the blood on his jacket and trousers. Stripping it off, he bellows for a soldier to fetch another. He departs in disgust, leaving the mutilated man to die alone.
Or not entirely alone. To my surprise, Brother Jacob kneels beside him, offering the last rites. A little further back, Harris sits slumped against a wall, staring blankly ahead, a pool of vomit at his side. I understand him too well. My own stomach turns; I can hardly bear to stay upright.
And then, just as I avert my gaze, thinking the horror is over, I make a fatal mistake.
The last freight car stands open. Inside, no supplies, no railway material, only human cargo. Dozens of men spill out, driven by shouts and whips. They stumble into the light, dazed, some unconscious, carried by others. They have been locked in the sweltering metal wagon for hours, perhaps days, without food or water, packed to the brink of suffocation.
We claimed to have driven out Tippu Tip and his Arab slavers. We claimed to have brought these people a better life. A better life! True, their necks no longer bear chains. Yet the whip is everywhere, though Rom refuses to call the chicotte a whip. “It merely caresses their skin,” he says, “to encourage them to work harder.” Judging from the scars carved into so many backs, I have learnt what “caress” means in the Congo.
I bow my head and follow the others toward the barracks. The Commander is already thinking of dinner. I will not eat tonight. My stomach is empty, but my hunger has died.
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