The Shah of Iran had just fallen, and the State Department stood accused of not having prepared for his fall by troubling to get to know the people who might take over after him. So the word had gone out to the political sections of overseas posts such as the US Embassy in Kinshasa, where we were for Cold War reasons on close terms with President-for-life Mobutu, that someone should cultivate the dissidents, the people who, without promoting violence, opposed the country’s dictator. In my embassy, thanks to Robby’s introductions, I was that someone.
What made me the ideal choice was that I was the officer least likely to worry President Mobutu’s secret intelligence chief; I was the junior-most officer in the political section and a woman. Also, although I had been a diplomat’s wife more than twenty years by then, I had been a diplomat myself less than seven years. I was officially in the consular career track, not political. Everyone knew that the only reason I had a job in Kinshasa’s political section was because the embassy wanted John as its economic counselor and his price for going there had been a job for me.
A barrier to my getting to know the political dissidents was that members of the country’s parliament were not permitted to go to a foreign diplomat’s house without the prior permission of the head of Mobutu’s secret intelligence service. This was a limitation that no diplomat from a free country can accept, but it was imperative that, if we met with these politicians, we did so in a way that would not put them in danger.
Moreover, it soon became obvious to me that the people of the Congo were unaccustomed to dealing with a Western woman who was not a missionary, a nun, or the wife of a bwana (the Swahili term for a white man, usually a colonial boss). Of the politicians I needed to get to know, few of them had wives with even a high school education, and still fewer of these men had any experience dealing with a woman diplomat.
I had discreetly invited some dissident members of parliament—chosen by Robby because of the high regard their colleagues had for them—to dinner at John’s and my apartment. The dinner party took place, and several of the dissidents came (leaving their wives at home), but the leading politician among them simply did not appear. We all felt his absence. I thought he might be understandably cautious about breaking the rule on going to a diplomat’s home without informing the secret police, but still I was disappointed. He was the one the others most respected; I doubted the others would come again to see me, given the risk, if he did not show that he was willing to do so.
It was now the afternoon of the next day and, at the embassy, our secretary said I had a visitor. I went downstairs to the lobby and was handed an unsigned handwritten note delivered by a tough-looking young Congolese. I guessed that the note was probably from my missing guest; it said I should go with the messenger in his car.
The thought crossed my mind that this might be a risky thing to do. The Congo was a dangerous place then; the Kolwezi massacre in which hundreds of Europeans had been murdered had happened the year before. But then I thought: If the note really came from my missing guest, it would be worth my taking a chance to talk to the country’s leading nonviolent dissident politician.
The messenger drove to an unfamiliar part of the city, where my being white made me stand out. There were few traffic lights, and Congolese men, women, and children were dodging traffic every few yards to try to cross the wide road. The road had potholes everywhere. Of the cars parked alongside, most lacked hubcaps and windshield wipers and some were without tires. Although in Kinshasa it rained most days, there seemed to be dust everywhere. Overhead above the road were cement and metal pedestrian walkways that were missing stairs up to them or were broken off halfway across their arc. They looked to have been abandoned in mid-construction years earlier.
The driver parked the car on the sidewalk, and we entered a dusty, dimly lighted café. The furniture looked shabby and dirty. The only contrast to this dismal scene came from a radio, which was blasting forth the vibrant Congolese popular music of the day. A pair of big, well-built young men, who were seated at a table, I presumed to be bodyguards. Behind them in a corner was seated the “no-show” of my dinner party. The driver made a gesture to point him out to me and went outside to wait to drive me back.
The man stood up—he was a very big, tall man—and indicated that I sit on the wooden chair across from him. We both sat down. There was no offer to buy me a drink and the conversation (in French) was brief.
He: “You invited me to dinner at your place last night.”
I: “Yes, I did.”
He: “I didn’t come.”
I: “I noticed.”
He: “I didn’t know what rules you play by.”
It was then that I realized that he had no precedents, no rules, for his dealings with me—a woman and a diplomat—and that he had sent the ball into my court. Suddenly aware that a lot could hinge on how I handled this moment, I sent the ball back to him by saying: “What rules do you play by?”
He: “I don’t want anybody else who is there to be uncomfortable about my being there. And I don’t want to be surprised about anybody else who is there. Also, I don’t ever want to be quoted to another African.”
By then I had lived in both Asia and Europe, and so I blessed the fact that, apparently, in Africa people would say what they meant a lot sooner than would any Asian or most Europeans I had met. “Those are my rules, too,” I said, realizing how sensible they were. “I never quote anybody in the host country to some other person of the host country.” “And,” I added, “just to make sure that you are happy with the guest list, from now on I will show it to you first, before I invite anyone else. You can then cross out—or add to—the names on the list.”
He stood up to indicate that our meeting was over—and, for the first time, he smiled. It was not just his giant size that was impressive. He had the presence of a leader. From then on, we trusted each other, and through him I was able to learn a lot about what was going on in the dissident camp and report it by confidential cable to the State Department. Anxious to protect my dissident sources, I got permission to use pseudonyms in cables and in vouchers seeking reimbursement for dinners I hosted for them. Only my bosses in Kinshasa knew the real names.
Since I was the “dissidents” officer, the ambassador eventually asked my views, among others, on whether to stick with Mobutu or to encourage the dissidents to take over. I pleaded for the dissidents to be given a chance on the grounds that if we waited until, inevitably, Mobutu lost power, the dissidents—who included virtually the only people in the country who had had access to a decent education and who for the most part had a commitment to democratic principles—would probably be too old to take power. And the Congo would then go the way of too many former colonies around the world, with their educated potential leaders killed or jailed, and ending up headed by near-illiterate charismatic but bloodthirsty bullies.
To my sorrow, the decision was made to stick with Mobutu, which even I had to concede was a reasonable decision, given that there were large stretches of the country where the dissidents commanded little or no support.
Yet, though I had to come to terms personally with the tragedy that I could see lying ahead for a country I had come to care about, thanks to my giant friend and the dissidents I met through him, my whole career path had changed. I was no longer regarded at the embassy as a “token” female. I ended my tour there promoted to the next higher grade and was invited to move to the political career track, which was better suited to my penchant for reporting and making contact with politicians than would have been remaining a consular officer.
The rules my friend taught me turned out to be sound rules for maintaining a dialogue with important contacts, regardless of country. But more important was the way in this brief exchange we had established that our relationship would be led by him. I was not the bwana’s wife or a nun or a teacher to whom he would have been expected to humble himself in the old colonial days. This was his place, not mine, and, by sending the ball back into his court, I had acknowledged that he had the right to make the rules. New as I was, I realized that this man, by reaching out to me and talking straight, was trusting me literally with his life. Together with me, he was inventing