Widow's Walk, Part II

A wife and a mother, lost to malaria. Photo: Matthew De Galan/Mercy Corps

In Monigi, as everywhere, the children wear the cast-off clothes of America and Europe. Especially the boys. Last Monday I saw a boy in a Superman T-shirt, then another with a Spiderman shirt, then a Batman, and finally another Superman. How many superheroes, I wonder, would it take to save Congo? Perhaps one of these four will light some new torch.

One of these young superheroes is named David, a stout young lad of 5, who totters regally around the dirt floor of his father's small house on the far end of Kisenyi street. His mother died earlier this year of malaria, and now it his father, Jean-Pierre, and his 13-year-old aunt who take care of him. The father, Jean-Pierre, invited us in, sending a neighbor running for chairs — the same ones we used in the last interview. The street, apparently, has one set of nice chairs for visitors

One thing I look for in a house is windows. If you have windows, you have money — it takes money to put in bars or glass or even a simple window frame and wood shutters. On Kisenyi street, a couple of homes have small, simple windows. Jean-Pierre has none. The next thing I look at are shoes. Jean-Pierre has shoes, and relatively new ones at that. He is, in fact, dressed pretty sharply — he looks more like he heading to the office than working in the fields.

Jean-Pierre, 22, makes 50 cents a day, essentially share-cropping on someone else's land. Some days, he hires himself out as a porter, hauling wood or charcoal into town. Sitting in his home, holding Davide in his arms, he looked bewildered, lost at sea. His responses were polite, complete. But in his eyes there was some terrible sense of loss and confusion. .

Perhaps the most revealing part of any interview, and the saddest, is question #26 — "Dans les derniers six mois, avez-vous emprunte ou prete de l'argent/les biens?" In the last six months, have your borrowed or been given any money or goods? About half say yes. A few examples:

• $5 worth of flour, $5 worth of fish, the repayment date is past — menace (being harassed)
• $15 for medicine, repayable in 4 installments.
• 300 francs (60 cents) of manioc flour borrowed a week ago, but not repaid.
• $5 payable to the Sake Health Center, due since June 2007
• $5 dollars borrowed in order to survive (menace)

A few months ago, Jean Pierre borrowed $20 from a money-lender to purchase some goats. He hoped it would provide a new income source, as well as protein for their diets. But as so often happens in Congo, things went awry. First one goat disappeared — one morning it was simply gone. Then soldiers came and took another. The third goat became ill and died. Now, he owes $20, plus accruing interest, and has no way to repay it. "Now he is being menaced," Christophe explains. "and he is very much worried."

If I were a money lender, would I lend him anything? I looked around the house. Three yellow jerry cans. A green plastic basin for water. Some clothes hanging on the walls — shirts and underwear. A few lava rocks prop open the door. The roof is tin, a good sign, as is one wall. Tin can be sold. Tin can repay a debt. And, he has nice clothes, and those, too could be sold. Three days later, in a food security focus group, I hear that, yes, people really do sell clothes, utensils and even their roofs to buy food or seeds for planting. I decided that Jean Pierre, father of the young Superman Davide, who intently rolled the plastic wheels of an office chair across the cool earth, was a good risk. Sixty dollars sits in my pocket. I can wipe out his debt, give him money for three new goats, and still have enough for dinner at the Ihusi. But our rules are clear — we can't give money, no matter how sad the story. Word would spread quickly. Everyone would expect something for talking to us, possibly even make it a condition. In the end, it would do more harm than good. That is what we tell ourselves. That is how we are able to say thank you, thank you so much, and good luck, and walk away.