Chapter 11 - Mwinda

As if the Almighty Himself wished to avenge what had happened that afternoon, a violent storm breaks out at night. A storm like none I have ever seen before. Countless bolts of lightning strike the ground all around us. The thunder roars so fiercely it makes the barrack where I am lodged tremble. I hear the cries of the blacks outside, abandoned to their fate under the deluge that has turned the plain into a lake within minutes. Now I understand why all the colonial buildings here are raised on stilts. Out there it is all darkness now, the wild land illuminated only by the infernal glare of the lightning. I prefer not to look through the window without glass as it frightens me too much. Instead, I lie down on my cot to write a letter to the love of my life: Dear Marieke, if only you knew the barbarities I have already witnessed... No, I will not write that. She must never know. I will write something to say that I love her dearly… that I miss her… that I wish she were here by my side…

But tonight inspiration does not come. Angrily I throw the blank page to the floor. In truth, I have not eaten this evening and will likely not sleep either. The image of the sabre splitting the poor black’s skull will surely return to haunt me, and not only tonight. Here, in this God-forsaken place. What was I thinking when I accepted this mission? What did I expect to find here? Alas… there is no way back now. I am bound to remain here for at least another year. A year! Marieke! Help me, for I cannot endure this! Two days… two accursed days, and already I am weeping in despair like a child longing for his mother! And I long for you! I want to go home… now… to fall into your soft arms… to breathe your delightful scent… I need you so desperately, Marieke! I cannot bear it…!

Weeping will change nothing, I know. I made a choice in life, and now I must suffer the consequences. Perhaps God wishes to put me to the test? Perhaps this is the Calvary I must endure, head held high, with unflinching resolve? If that is so, then I cannot falter—I must find the strength to go on, even though I do not yet know how. My head still spins, a throbbing pain burns on my brow. Too many worries, too many emotions. I must release them somehow. I must find restorative sleep in the conviction that I will do everything humanly possible to fulfil my task as God intended.

Perhaps… Yet not only does the barrack shudder beneath the apocalyptic storm, but the others are clearly feasting out in the corridor. I do not know how they can after this afternoon, but I hear their drunken boasting rise even above the devastating thunder. They draw nearer to my room, and I pray they will not come in. No, I have no wish to join their untimely revelry.

For a moment, I think myself fortunate. The voices seem to pass my door. But then the door bursts open all the same, and I cannot find words to describe what happens.

“Cadeau!” the men shout, among them my friend Louis. I think he has adapted well to this wretched place. But that is nothing compared to the gift they fling into my room.

A black girl… completely naked.

Roars of laughter from the men, who slam the door again. I still catch a mocking “enjoy yourself” as they walk off to deliver similar gifts to the other rooms. Such sport!

I have not yet recovered from the shock, but there she stands, at the far end of my small room against the wall. She says nothing; she only gazes out of the window, her arms drawn over her body to cover what she can. She is beautiful. Black eyes set in a sea of pure white that contrasts so strikingly with the colour of her skin. Her hair in long braids, her face finely carved yet with the full lips of her race. Despite her humiliation, she holds her head high with a startling grace.

At my graduation ceremony at the military academy in Brussels three years ago, I had the extraordinary honour of shaking the hand of our magnificent king. His Majesty Leopold was there in person, with his new mistress Caroline at his side in place of his wife, Queen Marie Henriette of Austria, and accompanied by his three daughters. But not even the noblest ladies present on that occasion could rival this humble girl. She must be almost as tall as I am, with slender legs half the length of her body. A divine hourglass figure, still wet from the rain, her breasts full and inviting. Too inviting.

I cannot. No… I cannot accept this. It would not be right. I cannot fail God’s test! Marieke, I will remain faithful to you forever!

On instinct, I rise from the cot, take the blanket, and wrap it around the girl. Suddenly, she stops staring outside and looks straight into my eyes, a look of utter surprise. I gesture that she can sit on the bunk, and she does so, a little uneasily.

“Would you like something to drink?” I ask awkwardly. It is the first thing that comes to mind.

She continues to stare into my eyes. Of course, she has not understood me, and I do not know her language at all.

“Water?” I try again, as I reach for the carafe on the table.

Again, that look of incomprehension.

“Water!” I repeat, stretching the carafe towards her.

Now she shakes her head. She does not want to drink, or perhaps she does not dare.

“Water… good!” I insist.

I take a deep gulp from the carafe.

“Ahhh! Good water!”

I offer it to her once more. This time a faint smile appears on her face, and she accepts the gift gladly. She drinks quickly. She has probably not tasted clean water for longer than I dare imagine.

“Merci,” she says, with an oddly lilting accent, just like Chief Mokoko.

“So... you do speak a little French!” I exclaim, surprised.

“A little,” she replies. The smile has already faded. Her gaze has become once more that of a frightened wild animal.

“No… don’t be afraid,” I try to reassure her. “I will not hurt you.”

She doesn't answer. She has no trust at all in my intentions, and I understand. I do not even want to picture the horrors she has already seen, or worse, what others have already done to her.

I sit down on the floor in front of her. This surprises her again. Probably never in her life has a white man sat lower than she.

“What is your name?” I ask.

“Mwinda,” she replies timidly.

“Mwinda? What a beautiful name! What does it mean?”

“It means… light.”

A long silence follows. I do not know what else to ask her, and she does not seem inclined to speak much. I would like to know more about her, her origins, her family. But I realise the answers she could give would be nothing but nightmare stories, and I do not want to wound her further. So here we are. She sits on the bunk, I on the floor. We both lower our eyes, our thoughts drifting away from this place as the storm rages harder. Lightning flares more often, thunder crashes almost immediately afterwards. The rain lashes down with growing force.

We sit there. Both seated, both enclosed in our own space that neither of us wishes to break, not even with words. The silence between us grows all the heavier when it is broken by the appalling cries that reach us from the other rooms, louder even than the thunder. The walls are made of nothing but thin slats, and so there is no privacy. Women scream in terror, men howl like beasts. I am devastated by what I hear. This cannot be, surely this cannot be happening! We are officers, for God’s sake!

The wind gusts through the window, carrying away the empty sheet I had thrown on the floor. The rain sprays inside.

Slaps and blows echo constantly around us. One slap lands so violently that Mwinda flinches in terror. Above all, we hear the sickening laughter of men who, back in Belgium, are known as gentlemen, or even noblemen. The crème de la crème of European society, the so-called superior race of this land. Just two days — two damned days — and these gentlemen have already turned into swine, wallowing in the mire of decadence and the suffering of those they swore to protect.

“I swear loyalty to the King, to the Belgian Constitution, and to the laws of the Belgian people.” The words each of us had to proclaim at the graduation ceremony at the military academy still echo in my ears. But here we are not in Belgium. We are in the Congo, the personal property of the King, where the Constitution has no meaning. Here, only the will of the King or of his representatives, which is to say us, counts.

Another heavy blow from the room next door, and again Mwinda shudders in fear, before returning to her frozen posture. I have no doubt she has already endured whole nights with men who showed her none of the mercy I now try to show. A single tear slides slowly from her right eye. Her mouth trembles, as do her hands, fingers knotted tightly together between her tightly closed legs. With every scream, her eyes twitch nervously. The tear stays fixed on her cheek, her gaze nailed to the floor.

Another blinding flash of lightning, followed by an ear-splitting crash of thunder.

“You filthy whore!”

It is without doubt the voice of Captain Roger, the commander’s little favourite. He, who ought to set us the example, bearing as he does the highest rank in this part of the Congo in the absence of the major and the commander. More slaps follow, and the cries of his victim.

“Filthy fucking whore!”

Mwinda squeezes her eyes shut and presses her arms still more tightly against her body. She suppresses the impulse to cover her ears, for that would mean leaving her body unprotected. She wants to weep, yet does everything she can not to give in.

A heavy thud resounds amid the thunder.

“This is what we do to disgusting sluts like you!”

More and more bestial cries follow, both male and female, but of a decidedly different pitch. Frenzy unleashed against unbearable pain. Similar sounds reach us from the other rooms, muffled by the extra walls.

“Whore!”

“Slut!”

“Christ, you’re disgusting!”

The air is filled with monstrous voices. The pinnacle of Europe’s nobility. The very rocks upon which the chosen society of this World has been built. The supposed protectors of the weak, the gallant men who take les demoiselles by the hand to lead them to safety, who courteously cast their cloaks upon the ground so the ladies need not soil their shoes in the mud.

Bang!

Yet another heavy blow, answered by ever more desperate screams. The storm is directly above our heads now. The wind howls with all its force through the window.

“You like that, don’t you? I’ll take you up the arse! Filthy whore!”

This time it is I who would cover my ears. Meanwhile, Mwinda has drawn herself into a tiny ball, her head pressed upon her raised knees.

The carnal violence continues for hours. Even when the men achieve their satisfaction after only a few minutes, they go on for the greater pleasure of domination. The total power they can wield over these poor women, without any law — not even divine — to restrain them. Here there exists only their law, the law of the strongest, the law of the white over the black.

I feel deep compassion for Mwinda, but I realise there is little I can do. For now she is safe, inside the fragile bubble of my room. Tomorrow, who knows what will befall her, or which other girl they will gift me for the night… I could scarcely save them all.

At last the noises grow weaker. The men are spent, having poured out all their sexual frustrations upon these poor girls, after lives in which sex had always been branded a mortal sin. Rage from the priest who forced them to kneel for hours before the towering statue of Jesus in the church, simply for having tender feelings towards a girl. Rage from the beatings meted out by mother, father, or schoolmasters. At the academy, corporal punishment was a daily reality, the cane an unofficial constant we all endured. But here, with a continent between them and their God, even the most pious education proves to be little more than a thin veneer over a core of monstrous cruelty. Above all, they cling to the belief that striking, kicking, or raping blacks is no sin at all, for, as has been drummed into them, they are mere animals, incapable of human feeling. 

Permit me a small doubt on that point, when I see the tears upon the face of this innocent girl; when I see her so terrorised that she longs for death. And I can do nothing.