Heart of Diamonds

Assassination of Patrice Lumumba - 50 Years Ago

2011-01-30T03:08:00.000-08:00

TODAY, millions of people on another continent are observing the 50th anniversary of an event few Americans remember, the assassination of Patrice Lumumba. A slight, goateed man with black, half-framed glasses, the 35-year-old Lumumba was the first democratically chosen leader of the vast country, nearly as large as the United States east of the Mississippi, now known as the Democratic Republic of Congo.

This treasure house of natural resources had been a colony of Belgium, which for decades had made no plans for independence. But after clashes with Congolese nationalists, the Belgians hastily arranged the first national election in 1960, and in June of that year King Baudouin arrived to formally give the territory its freedom.

“It is now up to you, gentlemen,” he arrogantly told Congolese dignitaries, “to show that you are worthy of our confidence.”

The Belgians, and their European and American fellow investors, expected to continue collecting profits from Congo’s factories, plantations and lucrative mines, which produced diamonds, gold, uranium, copper and more. But they had not planned on Lumumba.

A dramatic, angry speech he gave in reply to Baudouin brought Congolese legislators to their feet cheering, left the king startled and frowning and caught the world’s attention. Lumumba spoke forcefully of the violence and humiliations of colonialism, from the ruthless theft of African land to the way that French-speaking colonists talked to Africans as adults do to children, using the familiar “tu” instead of the formal “vous.” Political independence was not enough, he said; Africans had to also benefit from the great wealth in their soil.

With no experience of self-rule and an empty treasury, his huge country was soon in turmoil. After failing to get aid from the United States, Lumumba declared he would turn to the Soviet Union. Thousands of Belgian officials who lingered on did their best to sabotage things: their code word for Lumumba in military radio transmissions was “Satan.” Shortly after he took office as prime minister, the C.I.A., with White House approval, ordered his assassination and dispatched an undercover agent with poison.

The would-be poisoners could not get close enough to Lumumba to do the job, so instead the United States and Belgium covertly funneled cash and aid to rival politicians who seized power and arrested the prime minister. Fearful of revolt by Lumumba’s supporters if he died in their hands, the new Congolese leaders ordered him flown to the copper-rich Katanga region in the country’s south, whose secession Belgium had just helped orchestrate. There, on Jan. 17, 1961, after being beaten and tortured, he was shot. It was a chilling moment that set off street demonstrations in many countries.

As a college student traveling through Africa on summer break, I was in Léopoldville (today’s Kinshasa), Congo’s capital, for a few days some six months after Lumumba’s murder. There was an air of tension and gloom in the city, jeeps full of soldiers were on patrol, and the streets quickly emptied at night. Above all, I remember the triumphant, macho satisfaction with which two young American Embassy officials — much later identified as C.I.A. men — talked with me over drinks about the death of someone they regarded not as an elected leader but as an upstart enemy of the United States.

Some weeks before his death, Lumumba had briefly escaped from house arrest and, with a small group of supporters, tried to flee to the eastern Congo, where a counter-government of his sympathizers had formed. The travelers had to traverse the Sankuru River, after which friendly territory began. Lumumba and several companions crossed the river in a dugout canoe to commandeer a ferry to go back and fetch the rest of the group, including his wife and son.

But by the time they returned to the other bank, government troops pursuing them had arrived. According to one survivor, Lumumba’s famous eloquence almost persuaded the soldiers to let them go. Events like this are often burnished in retrospect, but however the encounter happened, Lumumba seems to have risked his life to try to rescue the others, and the episode has found its way into film and fiction.

His legend has only become deeper because there is painful newsreel footage of him in captivity, soon after this moment, bound tightly with rope and trying to retain his dignity while being roughed up by his guards.

Patrice Lumumba had only a few short months in office and we have no way of knowing what would have happened had he lived. Would he have stuck to his ideals or, like too many African independence leaders, abandoned them for the temptations of wealth and power? In any event, leading his nation to the full economic autonomy he dreamed of would have been an almost impossible task. The Western governments and corporations arrayed against him were too powerful, and the resources in his control too weak: at independence his new country had fewer than three dozen university graduates among a black population of more than 15 million, and only three of some 5,000 senior positions in the civil service were filled by Congolese.

A half-century later, we should surely look back on the death of Lumumba with shame, for we helped install the men who deposed and killed him. In the scholarly journal Intelligence and National Security, Stephen R. Weissman, a former staff director of the House Subcommittee on Africa, recently pointed outthat Lumumba’s violent end foreshadowed today’s American practice of “extraordinary rendition.” The Congolese politicians who planned Lumumba’s murder checked all their major moves with their Belgian and American backers, and the local C.I.A. station chief made no objection when they told him they were going to turn Lumumba over — render him, in today’s parlance — to the breakaway government of Katanga, which, everyone knew, could be counted on to kill him.

Still more fateful was what was to come. Four years later, one of Lumumba’s captors, an army officer named Joseph Mobutu, again with enthusiastic American support, staged a coup and began a disastrous, 32-year dictatorship. Just as geopolitics and a thirst for oil have today brought us unsavory allies like Saudi Arabia, so the cold war and a similar lust for natural resources did then. Mobutu was showered with more than $1 billion in American aid and enthusiastically welcomed to the White House by a succession of presidents; George H. W. Bush called him “one of our most valued friends.”

This valued friend bled his country dry, amassed a fortune estimated at $4 billion, jetted the world by rented Concorde and bought himself an array of grand villas in Europe and multiple palaces and a yacht at home. He let public services shrivel to nothing and roads and railways be swallowed by the rain forest. By 1997, when he was overthrown and died, his country was in a state of wreckage from which it has not yet recovered.

Since that time the fatal combination of enormous natural riches and the dysfunctional government Mobutu left has ignited a long, multisided war that has killed huge numbers of Congolese or forced them from their homes. Many factors cause a war, of course, especially one as bewilderingly complex as this one. But when visiting eastern Congo some months ago, I could not help but think that one thread leading to the human suffering I saw begins with the assassination of Lumumba.

We will never know the full death toll of the current conflict, but many believe it to be in the millions. Some of that blood is on our hands. Both ordering the murders of apparent enemies and then embracing their enemies as “valued friends” come with profound, long-term consequences — a lesson worth pondering on this anniversary.

Adam Hochschild is the author of “King Leopold’s Ghost: A Story of Greed, Terror and Heroism in Colonial Africa” and the forthcoming “To End All Wars: A Story of Loyalty and Rebellion, 1914-1918.”

A version of this op-ed appeared in print on January 17, 2011, on page A23 of the New York Times.

Women March Against Sexual Violenc

2010-10-20T07:06:00.000-07:00

The first lady of the Democratic Republic of Congo's today led thousands of women on a march against sexual violence.

Olive Lembe Kabila headed the rally in the town of Bukavu in the east of the country, where Congolese and foreign armed groups have operated for years.

On Friday, the head of the UN mission in DR Congo, The United Nations Organization Stabilization Mission (MONUSCO), said an estimated 15,000 people were raped there last year.

The demonstration saw thousands of women walk through the streets of Bukavu, the capital of South Kivu province.

Many of them carried banners with slogans such as "No to sexual terrorism," according to the AFP news agency.
"Coming here is important because violence towards women is used systematically as a weapon of war," said Miriam Nobre of World March of Women, which organised the march.

Nene Rukunghu, a doctor at a hospital in Bukavu said, "We must fight against impunity, so that the perpetrators of violence are punished, to allow women to regain their dignity. Despite what they endure, Congolese women are strong and able to stand up again."

Source: AllAfrica.com

Deliver Justice to All Congo's Victims

2010-10-20T07:03:00.000-07:00

Kinshasa — Last week, the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights released a crucial report that describes the atrocities committed in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) during its successive wars from 1993 to 2003.

The scale of suffering is staggering. The range of perpetrators is enormously complex. What is evident, however, is the importance of swift and targeted responses that deliver justice to the Congolese people.

We cannot ignore the need for a response to these international crimes. Judicial accountability remains key to ending the country's history of violence and brutality. In the east, massacres, rapes, and pillage are a routine, wretched reality. Pervasive lawlessness has allowed its biggest group of perpetrators – the Congolese army – to operate without fear of being held accountable.

The publication of the report is a critical step towards breaking the cycle of impunity that has fed the crimes that continue today. It comprehensively describes the gravity of the violence, much of which was directed at women and children, and the chronic failure to respond with any measure of justice.

Many suspected perpetrators of past crimes hold positions in the Congolese government and the army. Who they are is no secret. Certain political officials who took public positions to encourage or provoke these violations, for example, are named in the report.

Also, the High Commissioner now possesses a confidential database of alleged perpetrators, presenting a powerful tool for future judicial investigations. If these individuals are not brought to justice, what is the incentive to do the same for the present perpetrators of violence in the east?

The United Nations Security Council must remain active and push the Congolese government, some of whose most senior members are implicated in the crimes described, to follow the report's recommendations. In keeping with its "responsibility to protect" mandate, the council should address the UN report and initiate judicial and other measures to hold perpetrators accountable.

The report's recommendations for a hybrid criminal tribunal with international and national staff, and a truth and reconciliation commission, for example, demand immediate and serious consideration and support. These measures must be a priority, given the chronic failure to improve the security situation in the east, demonstrated graphically recently by hundreds of recent rapes in the Walikale region.

Truly breaking the country's cycle of impunity and violence also requires a major commitment to reform the country's justice and security systems. Only 12 military trials have been held since 1993 for war-related crimes. Despite long-standing calls to do so, the Congolese government has yet to identify and remove past human rights abusers from the army, police and other security forces. International logistical and other support for the security sector must be made conditional on necessary institutional reform, otherwise we risk supporting an unacceptable status quo.

The Congolese army is not the only state actor implicated: the UN report found a host of state armies – including those of Rwanda, Uganda and Burundi – and the proxy rebel groups they controlled to be responsible for crimes.

When a draft version of the report was leaked to the press in August, the government of Rwanda reacted angrily to findings of possible genocide of Rwandan Hutu refugees - who had fled to Congo - by Rwandan-controlled armed factions from 1996 to 1997. In response to the press reports, Kigali threatened to pull Rwandan peacekeepers out of the UN.

Last month's visit to Rwanda by UN Secretary General Ban Ki-moon should not be interpreted as a way of shielding Rwanda from the consequences of the actions of its army and proxies in the DRC. On the contrary, the severity of the atrocities that were committed and the violence endured merit a strong commitment to international justice, regardless of the alleged perpetrator.

The alleged crimes perpetrated by Rwanda remain only part of the story. The complexity of the situation underscores the importance of establishing an independent, internationally-supported judicial mechanism to investigate past abuses and deliver justice across the board. It is vital that the government of the DRC, as well as those of Rwanda and Uganda, act to support its creation.

The Congolese have borne enormous pain. A holistic approach is essential for the country to heal and forge forward. The Security Council should support a national dialogue on the report, ahead of next year's Congolese elections. Perpetrators must be held criminally responsible, the truth of past and present abuses must be revealed, state institutions reformed, and victims should be provided with the means to recover. The peace and stability of the country depend on it.

Source: David Tolbert, a legal expert and former deputy prosecutor at the Yugoslav tribunal, is president of the International Center for Transitional Justice (ICTJ). Suliman Baldo spent many years documenting violations in the DRC. He is a well known commentator on African justice issues and director of ICTJ's Africa program.

Senior UN Official to Investigate Mass Rape of Civilians

2010-10-20T06:57:00.000-07:00

A leading United Nations official in the fight against sexual violence during conflict began a week-long visit to Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) today to coordinate a response to the mass rape by rebels of more than 300 civilians two months ago in the country’s east.

Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon’s Special Representative on Sexual Violence in Conflict Margot Wallström will make an on-site tour of the area of the attacks in North Kivu province.

The known victims include 235 women, 52 girls, 13 men, and 3 boys, some of whom were raped multiple times, according to a preliminary report by the UN human rights report issued last week. At least 923 houses and 42 shops were looted and 116 people were abducted in order to carry out forced labour.

The attacks, which took place mostly after dark in the Walikale region, were carried out between 30 July and 2 August by some 200 members of three armed groups – the Maï Maï Cheka, the Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda (FDLR), and elements close to Colonel Emmanuel Nsengiyumva, an army deserter who has in the past been involved with the rebel National Congress for the Defence of the People (CNDP).

“The FDLR is once again responsible for grave human rights violations in the DRC,” Ms. Wallström said yesterday in Geneva on the sidelines of a UN Human Rights Council meeting there. “The establishment of responsibilities must begin with the leaders of this group and with those of other groups for not having prevented these outrages.”

She called on the DRC Government and the international community to mobilize to bring the perpetrators to justice “before the trail goes cold and media attentions flags.” Her mission is “to fight against impunity” and stop this crime against international law from “abandoning the women in their shame and leaving the perpetrators in liberty.”

A UN High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR) mission is already in the country to assess the issue of reparations for rape and sexual abuse victims.

Ms. Wallström will meet with UN agencies and national and provincial officials to speed up the enactment of a global strategy against sexual violence.

Source: UN News Centre (New York)

Chapter 7

2010-05-13T01:18:00.000-07:00

Diamanthe built Villa Blanca, a few hundred meters away from Medecin sans Frontieres. She owed them big time. Her mouth, lips and jaw had been hit by hundreds of slivers from an acacia tree. The lower part of her face was badly disfigured. Doctor Valero, a Cuban had painstakingly reconstructed her entire mouth and teeth. It had taken fourteen months. He steadfastly refused any money.

"Please. Let me help your country in kind," she had insisted.

He told her sadly."Diamanthe, no country is in the state in which the Congo finds itself. We need plasma, antibiotics, surgical instruments, mosquito nets, clean water, and plastic syringes. The truth is we need everything. It is mind-boggling. Whatever you can do, we will be grateful.”

Did Dr. Valero say they would be grateful? How can I ever repay them? Nothing I do will ever be enough! She reflected with a quivering heart.

She continued her donations even after Dr. Valero was called back to Cuba. All the doctors would have stayed in the Congo ad infinitum, but their health was usually affected, because they worked long hours and the human suffering they saw took its toll. Diamanthe lost track of the doctors. She was only familiar with Anita, the Italo–Congolese nurse because she lived in Kinshasa and no one could make her budge from the Congo.

Soon, dinner would be served at Villa Blanca. Unless she was entertaining a client at the Intercontinental Hotel, which was a five star hotel, it was her custom to dine "en famille."

They were all smiling at her. The twins, Kuya and Dongo, honor roll students at the Catholic Mission School run by Opus Dei; Tonko had a desire to become a priest and a doctor. There was a two-year difference between Kiru and Moko yet they seemed identical twins. Both had seen Akua disintegrate before their eyes: that made them quiet, and very pensive.

Along the way, Diamanthe had found Pepe, a twelve-year-old boy from Mozambique or Angola. He spoke some Portuguese so it was reasonable to assume one of these countries had once been his homeland. He had no clue as to which it was since he was kidnapped at age two. Almost a year ago to the day, Pepe had lost his left leg just below the knee, by stepping on a small land mine, on the outskirts of Kinshasa. Their family outing among the orchids and majestic canopied acacias was ruined. Now, they had picnics only inside the grounds of Villa Blanca.

"Part of the cache of the next batch of diamonds, fancy or white, will go to buy Pepe the finest prosthetic leg. Moko needs a complex operation and we may have to go to Switzerland for that,” announced Diamanthe before sitting down at the head of the table.

To honor her mother and father, the table was always set with hand-embroidered Belgian linen tablecloth, Sevre crystal, Cristoffel silver and Capodimonte porcelain.

Catherine Deneuve, an enigmatic, alluring and luminous French actress and star had recently agreed to finance an Italo-French company, which specialized in the most natural looking and flexible prosthetics for children.

"Pepe would be using a Deneuve prosthetic soon,” she vowed silently.

Pretty seven-year old Jinga, another one of the children whom she lovingly referred to as my pickups, wanted to know,” when will the burn marks on my legs go away?"

Her village, near Lumbambasha, had been bombed with napalm and phosphorus.

"You must try to be patient and I know it’s difficult, petit Chou. For that type of operation we may have to go to Zurich or Paris."

"It’s my turn to sing Mama Marena’s prayer,” said Pepe.

"Our dearest, most precious, never to be forgotten mother," declared Diamanthe, her eyes welling up with tears.

They all held hands and waited, "Mo-ne-tua-ka-sule-kango-Sao-Tome …” sang Pepe in a crystalline and melodious voice, then seven voices joined him in reverent song.

"How come we don’t know what we are singing and what the words mean?" asked Kuya.

He always asked the same question. It was part of their ritual of feeling safe and secure.

"We will discover it eventually by process of elimination," Diamanthe replied as she always did.

"It is not Congolese, or any of it’s offshoots," observed Dongo, Kuya’s twin.

"It is not even close to Swahili," added Tonko and Kiru in unison.

"Shangana Zulu and Zulu, it is not," affirmed Diamanthe.

"Someday, I don’t know when, perhaps when we least expect it, we will discover what language our Beloved Mama Marena’s song is and what it says."

She kept her reflections to herself. The melody is a cross between a lament and a prayer. The word – cross, struck her. In Africa, metaphorically and physically, we are very familiar with the cross. The Romans learnt the practice of crucifixion from the Carthaginians, a Semitic people, who conquered and traded in slaves in every direction of Africa. Mama Africa had known the pain of war and death and captivity long before the Egyptian and Babylonian captivity of the biblical Israelites had taken place, she reflected.

No! No! You must not delve into suffering again. Enough for one night’s reliving of past anguish, she scolded herself.

She was unaware that her mother Marena’s song was a lament sang in Kimbundu, one of the languages of Angola. It told of yearning for lost loved ones the Portuguese had sent to concentration camps on the desolate island of Sao Tome, off the coast of Angola.

She did know it had the tone of suffering, and rather than think of her own suffering she remembered that Madiba, Nelson Mandela, Father of South African Independence, spent 28 years in an infamous concentration camp – Robben Island, some place God had for a time, forgotten about.

Madiba was in Robben Island longer than I have been alive. That’s how I see it anyway. I must always remember that suffering is not unique to me or to members of my family or even to the Congolese.

Prologue (revised)

2010-03-30T23:23:00.001-07:00

Kinshasa. Democratic Republic of the Congo.
December 17. 1998

PROLOGUE

I am being offered Ten Thousand Pounds Sterling in gold for my ten year old Zizu, she of the turquoise eyes.

The mercenary Marcel de Merode pondered his situation. That’s not a bad business proposition, but I think I can get more argent – money. Zizu is a dazzling beauty, as her mother Flora used to be. I am certain that I am not her father. The Seller and his agents might care about that because they are obcessed with Goddess blood lines. The way these billionaires go on about their camels and horses genes. Putain la Virge! I would never even mention such a thing. No DNA tests. For that I am grateful to my wives supplications to the Goddess Jiyamangiya, I suppose the daughter of a handsome and merciless jackal like me does not displease them. I won’t concern myself if they don’t seem to.

Flora was endowed with a voracious sexual appetite. Her coupling juju was so fierce; it cooled the fever in my swollen cock. She demanded to be satisfied all the time, and I was helpless before her ripe and clamorous body. I will never again hunger for a woman as much as I did for Flora. I neglected my many businesses and the rest of my huge family.

Marcel had fifteen children, eight grandchildren, three wives and three concubines. They appeared to live in harmony, when he was around. It was all make believe. The intrigues and the character assassination, which took place, were as deadly as those in any harem in the Middle or Far East. Men in polygamous situations invariably fooled themselves into believing they could control their women and keep them in line. The women ensured that their husbands, lords and Masters wallowed in this self-delusion.

"Flora was an independent woman, a troublesome feminist. She filled my wives and concubines’ heads with her feminist jargon. It is nothing but Merde. I wish those bitches the worst bubonic plagues to befall them. Flora was a sexy virago and a troublemaker. I ‘m glad that she is about to do me the favor of riding herself from me.”

He felt a stiff erection growing at the thought of her peach-colored teats, her lithe body, hard ass and sweet smelling vulva. He forced himself not to think of La Belle Fleur – the Beautiful Flower – his unfaithful Flora.

Life in the Congo was difficult enough without a snooty, independent minded concubine who gave herself to every man who struck her fancy.

The tall, urbane, well-dressed Lebanese negotiator Sabry, gazed at his Rolex encrusted with diamonds and did not restrain his impatience.

"Monsieur de Merode, Ten Thousand Pounds in gold is an excellent offer for your daughter. It’s good money. Granted, she is a virgin, has lovely teeth, well-formed bones, and is flowing with good health."

De Merode, ever the mercenary retorted, "Ah! She is a virgin in every orifice, and you forgot to mention those beautiful blue-violet-turquoise eyes, against her olive skin. And you have observed her teeth. They are like pearls from Bahrein. In addition to all that, Zizu can read and write English very well. She is also fluent in French, Portuguese and Congolese."

"Look here De Merode, Twenty Thousand Pounds for your young female. That is my last offer on behalf of my employer."

“In gold? Asked de Merode almost roughly.

“But of course Monsiur,” replied Sabry, who did not attempt to hide the contempt in his voice.

"We have a deal," loudly replied de Merode, who was shocked at the price, but remained impassive at his good fortune. He beckoned to wife number two. "Get Zizu ready. She is going to the Middle East with the gentleman and the veiled woman beside him."

"Should she not say goodbye to her mother?" murmured Onga, in Lingala. As the second wife she was aware that her position and that of her children was tenuous at best, so, she never contradicted de Merode, which is why he shared almost all of his transactions with her. In truth, Onga always agreed to whatever her husband decreed and then did exactly the opposite but in secret. She was devious that way.

"Woman, are you mad? Her mother is dying of sexual putrefaction.” It was his nasty way of expressing himself; that Flora had HIV – Aids.

“If these people come to find out Zizu’s mother is in her last days, they might consider the child contaminated and offer less money or even cancel the sale.”

"But Monsieur husband, they know the child is healthy. They insisted on many tests and even brought their own doctors to examine her,” she protested, keeping her dulcet toned voice even as she glared at De Merode.

"Do as I say. It is in your hands. After a good dinner, when all the other wives and children are asleep, we shall discuss the money and how much I shall give each of you."

"Yes, Monsieur husband, I shall do exactly as you say," Onga replied casting her large eyes demurely down.

To Monsieur Sabry and the veiled woman whom he suspected was either English or American, he explained in French" My daughter will be with you presently. One of my wives is helping her in the preparations."

"Qui. D’accord," replied the husky voice behind the veil. De Merode knew human beings, the kind of venals like him. Indeed, the husky voice was American.

"I think the girl’s mother is either dead, or this killer has disposed of her in some manner. Divorce or murder, I could not give a toss. We have wasted enough time haggling. It is not my concern and I don’t care. I just want to fly back to Riyadh where I am going to mount a seventeen-year-old Princeling, who is equipped with a humongous penis, which is the envy of every stallion in the world. My Grand Master has promised him to me.”

"Candy, Candy, if you are able to acquire the filly with the deepest blue eyes at twenty thousand Euros you have my permission to ride the Princeling and be ridden by him all day and all night," stated her paymaster and absolute owner.

"The elderly Prince had offered fifty thousand pounds for Zizu. The difference will now end up in my Boss and Master’s bottomless pockets. If I initiate the young man into the sexual rites to my master’s satisfaction he might just give me a couple of thousand Euros plus a pretty diamond or two for my pretty pussy."

De Merode spoke to Onga out of the corner of his twisted mouth.

"Bring Zizu to me when she’s dressed prettily. I never liked her. She is not my child. You all know her mother made me cornu (figurative horns of cheated husbands), but we must observe the forms of civility."

There was something feral about the woman with the veil, which reminded him of Flora.

"I can see that she does not tolerate the niqab, which shields her hair and lips from the curious and the lustful. Yet she carries it with grace. She is uncomfortable with the khimar (gown) that covers the naked curves I sense with such craving. This is a creature in a state of perpetual sexual heat. I can smell her. Bien sure. She is definitely wearing the ensemble to hide her true identity."

His antennae warned him to watch his step. He intended to do just that. De Merode was not one to throw away reason in order to whet the appetite of his engorged cock. Flora had vaccinated him against that pussy passion and obsession for all time. He detected a slight Anglo inflection in the woman’s speech.

"And so? Child trafficking and slavery was a global business, just like diamonds, drugs, telecommunications, medicines, weapons of mass destruction, designer clothes, deseases and foodstuffs. The same monopolies involved in all those global empires exploited women and children without a qualm … just like me," reflected de Merode in a greedy and vengeful silence.

Zizu had known her beloved mama was never coming back. That hyena De Merode had ordered all her clothes burnt, her bedroom suite fumigated and then scrubbed with Lysol minutes after he had paid for an ambulance to take her to a private clinic. This had annoyed De Merode.

"Uff! Mother Teresa’s hospice is more than adequate for the putain (slut) but people would have called me cheap. It might become difficult to bed another desirable woman once word spread that I had placed one of my concubines with the Sisters who dedicate themselves to the indigent and the poorest of the poor."

"Mon ange, the cross will remind you of me forever. Remember to say your prayers to the Sacred Heart of Jesus and to Saint Jude. Promise me.”

The dying Flora had gasped to her Zizu, before she was seized by a paroxysm of coughing, which covered her white dress a bright crimson red. Her daughter would never know that Saint Jude Thaddeus, one of Jesus’ most loved disciples, was the Saint of the Impossible and of all things hopeless.

"Papa is talking to some people in the garden who are going to take you away. If you must know he has sold you for "beaucoup d’argent" a great deal of money.

"Shut up about it Marie Claude. What am I to do with you? It is not your place to reveal such things. Onga is supposed to talk to Zizu and inform her of her new situation," Marie France snapped at her daughter. She was wife number one, and by Congolese law, the only legitimate spouse of Marcel de Merode.

He had taken the rest of his wives in tribal ceremonies and he had paid in goods, which they had demanded. This rendered him responsible to the tribe for their well being, Tribal law was often fearsome for those who dared to break its bonds. He feared its consequences more than the so- called Law.

Marie France felt pity, guilt and relief at the same time. Zizu outshone all her brothers and sisters without even trying. She was aware of this for she was intelligent as well as perceptive. Marie France was an accomplice to the sale of a human being.

“Better he sell Zizu than one of mine,O chere Mon Dieu,” she prayed not with some guilt. She was sensitive enough that she could not stand to remain in the same room with Zizu. She strode out with her eyes downcast.

This revelation from Marie Claude, her eldest stepsister, an envious troll who spied endlessly on all her siblings, wounded her to her entrails.

"My father is selling me for a great deal of money of that I’m sure. That nasty stepsister Marie Claude would not have told me so if it were not true. In the entire world I have a feeling that people are routinely bought and sold. It never entered my mind that it would happen to me,” she spoke these words out loud for all to hear. But there was only silence.

The man I call Papa is probably not my father. I think he always intended to get rid of me as soon as my Mama had left the house. Why? I do not know. But I am not going to allow anything or anyone to upset me. I am not going to give that hateful man who behaved so cruelly towards Mama and brutally cold vis-à-vis me, the certainty that he has wounded me by his rejection of me. What a hateful way to show his rejection. The monster has sold me like a piece of property or a thing.

"I am so sad that I will not get a chance to say goodbye to my Mama before she dies. Last night I prayed that God end her suffering very soon. I think Onga must have known that de Merode was ridding himself of me like a broken piece of porcelain. I will not break down, come what may, for Mama’s sake. It was kind of her not to tell Mama."

In her childish innocence it never occurred to Zizu that the money, which the hyena that was supposed to be her father received from the smartly dressed man and the veiled woman for selling her, would be shared among his all wives and concubines.

"Running away from the murderous de Merode is useless. How could a monster like that have fathered me? The people who have bought me must be powerful people. They will not hesitate to hunt me down like a lion cub. Jesus have mercy on me," Zizu prayed quietly as she resigned herself to her new fate.
Then she pulled herself as tall and erect as her spine would go. At that very instant Onga came into the room. Zizu assailed her with determination.

"There is no need for you to be diplomatic or to use flowery words. Marie Claude with her usual lack of tact has already informed me that I have been sold."

"Oh Child," she murmured, glancing at her briefly and lowering her head. "What else can I say? I am not such a good hypocrite."

Zizu did not reply. She continued examining her books and belongings.
"I might be a thing to be bought and sold but inside my heart and my mind I will always be a free spirit. Nothing will ever crush or cow me. Nothing! I swear to God and to my dying Mama that I will die a free person."

Zizu strode imperiously in a royal blue organza party dress, which heightened the deep blue of her eyes. It was a hand-me-down from Margotte, another stepsister who despised her.

"This is the last time I shall ever be seen in some one else’s rejects. Even if I am more beautiful than you or Margotte and therefore, the dress looks more ravissant (ravishing) on me. From now on, I shall have nothing but Haute Couture," she hissed at Marie Claude, who was too taken aback at Zizu’s catty comments to retort.

"I will outgrow all my clothes. It is pointless to take them," she addressed the mysterious young woman with the veil, who was shod in the highest and most opulent heels she had ever seen, gold leaf. They looked real and she thought that they might be, considering that their occupation was buying and selling pretty children.

"Oh my dear, you will have the most fabulous wardrobe," she replied loudly, bending slightly over Zizu.

"This woman is bathed in the most delicious perfume or perhaps it is oil? I shall have as much as I want except that it will not be so overpowering,” she decided.

Then she answered the woman, "I shall not bother taking my battered suitcase. My leather school bag which Mama gave me will do nicely for my favorite books."

Mama gave me these books because she said they inspired and comforted her. Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables, The Three Musketeers by Alexander Dumas, Rafael Sabatini’s Scaramouche and Le Dame au Camellia by Dumas.

"And so it shall be. You are a clever little girl, Zizu," she chuckled, fiddling with the thick gold and diamond circlets on her wrists, which covered her elbows. Each strand had a horned beast in its center, much resembling a devil.

Very visible on Zizu’s neck was her mother’s cross, of rough blue and white diamonds. This caused the woman to suddenly tense but Zizu did not see it because all she could think off was to get away from her wicked Papa.

She approached her father, wound her arms around his bull neck and whispered softly into his ear.

"Monsieur canaille (sewage scum). I curse you. Jesus told us to forgiv but I cannot and will not. I hope never to see you again. I shall always pray for my beloved mother."

Despite the fact that he had just sold a human being, his daughter, an illegal and immoral act in most parts of the world including the Congo, De Merode was an empty vessel. He insisted and constrained everyone around him to observe "the forms." He would have wanted nothing better than to kick the little tart to death with his heavy boots, but he smiled as if she had murmured the sweetest things into his ear.

“It’s the best thing for you Zizu.You will soon be an orphan and girls like you with beauty and brains surely have a better future elsewhere,”uttered Merode the monster.

Zizu turned towards Onga and ignored de Merode’s remarks She smiled her most captivating smile.

"Thank you, Onga, for your kindness.”

"Onga was the only one who came to visit my maman in the clinic and she was generous enough to take me to her, " she reflected silently.

Zizu turned towards the man and the young woman, symbols of her new Master and of a new beginning.

"I’m sure anything will be better than the inferno of de Merode. He has denied my mother and me the mutual comfort of saying adieu, till we meet again. May God punish him and condemn him for all time."

Without a backward glance at De Merode, Onga and the house she had lived in for ten years, Zizu declared loudly and clearly, "Bien. Allez. Madame et Monsieur."

"Ah jolie Zizu, you may call me Candy,” exclaimed the husky voice.

In Saint Mer, a wealthy suburb of Kinshasa, its residents considered Marcel De Merode an odd personality - the Belgian mercenary who went bush and possessed many wives and concubines. He was a rich man because of the raiding and the plundering he had committed all across the Congo as well as Africa.

"La vengeance c’est une plat qui Se mange bien, quand on le mange froid."

"Vengeance is a plate best eaten cold," so declared the French aphorism.

De Merode had sold Zizu for revenge … against Flora, her dying mother and his former great passion. Indeed, his only passion and the one woman he had ever lusted for with his whole heart and soul. Perhaps, he might even have loved her.

"I do not consider that the handsome profit I received for the transaction would ever be adequate compensation for my wounded pride and loss of face before Society.”

What De Merode would never admit to himself was that he did not give a toss about the opinions of so called Society. Flora had hurt him and his thirst for vengeance would never be quenched.

As a consequence, De Merode never felt any guilt or remorse over his action. The passing of time only exacerbated his rage and bitterness.

"I regret I did not ask more pounds sterling for that piglet daughter of a sow. A cheat to the end, Flora died too soon, thus depriving me of my only opportunity to torment her as she did me."

Flora felt a series of stabs perforate her heart and lungs.

“ Something dreadful has befallen Zizu. He has sent her away. That is the punishment De Merode is exacting upon my person. May Jesus and Saint Jude protect her for I am powerless and unable to lift a finger. I hope she had the opportunity to take the four books we both love. Each one of them has a key to a safety deposit box in Credit Suisse, Banque Pictet, Sal Oppenheim and Julius Baer in Switzerland, There is enough liquidity and diamonds in the banks to see her through the best schools and live a very decorous life away from De Merode’s evil clutches. More stabs of endless pain ran through her whole being. Wave after wave of coughing attacks left her in rivers of blood. They colored her gown and her bed crimson. Tears of blood flowed down her cheeks.

“O Deus Meus, I am about to die. I love you Zizu,” she murmured and entered into a coma.

It was past midnight when Onga was at last able to steal away to the clinic.

"Flora died peacefully in her sleep this afternoon. Brother Jean Leon administered the Last Rites. It seems Flora had turned to Sister Nita of the Missionaries of Charity (Mother Teresa’s Religious Order) when she felt the end was near. They will give her a proper Catholic burial. Flora was Catholic and never abandoned her religious beliefs even if she strayed very far from the flock," the Head Nurse informed Onga.

I envy Flora and Zizu, thought Onga. In one-way or another they have left the Congo. Perhaps they are the lucky ones?

She thanked the Head Nurse and gave her a generous tip. It was a local custom.

"Thank you Madame de Merode, but I cannot accept it. A young stylishly uniformed Congolese Officer, Police I think, who may also be involved with one of the multinationals in the Congo, delivered a thick envelope with more than enough money to build a small mausoleum for Flora dos Santos, beloved mother of Zizu. He assured us that someone powerful in the West would assume the financial responsibility of educating Zizu in Switzerland."

"That could only mean Zizu’s birth father!"

Onga fainted on the spot. When the smelling salts revived her she revealed that just a few hours ago, Zizu was sold in marriage by Marcel De Merode to an unknown family in the Near or Middle East."

"Please keep the secret," she implored the Head Nurse. "There’s no telling what influential and bad men will do to all of us in their wrath. My husband hated Zizu. He might have abandoned her on the streets of another African country or even sold her to marauders who would have raped her until she died."

"Perhaps we could say Zizu just disappeared? She ran away because of the cruel attitude of De Merode towards her? I shall stick by that story if you will," suggested the Head Nurse in desperation.

"We are comforted by the fact that Flora will have a lovely final resting-place. Zizu will certainly lead a serene and pampered life. May God forgive us for passing out these lies," sobbed Onga, who embraced the Head Nurse. Tears of guilt blinded her and she ran out of the clinic to disappear into the night.

"Flora, forgive me. I could do nothing. How can you ever rest in peace? How will I spend the rest of my life knowing I was an accomplice of De Merode because I did nothing?" Onga cried silently.

Her lover’s car was waiting a block away from the clinic. She sat next to him and made sure that her thighs rubbed hard against his. He was ready for her. She saw his unbuttoned trousers. She ran her hands over his genitals and bent down to greet them with her tongue. "Comme ca va mon grande dessert?"

"Don’t be too upset about it. You could do nothing to stop the sale of the child. Your position and mine is precarious enough as it is," said Thierry in solidarity tinged with bitterness.

He was himself one of de Merode’s mercenaries. If he ever found out that all his wives and concubines had chosen men in his army as lovers he would shoot them all dead. Danger was always a concomitant to howling dog sex.

"How much time do we have?" asked Thierry, caressing her thigh and slowly lifting her soft skirt. Onga raised it past her pubic area and spread her legs as an eagle would its wings.

"We have all the time in the world. I gave him a strong sleeping potion," she murmured

"Whose turn is it to look after all the children?" he asked stroking her clitoris lightly.

"Monique (wife number three) is sleeping with him tonight to make sure he does not wake up for any reason. All his drinks, including the water have been mixed with valerian, passiflora, hawthorn and Bella Donna." She explained in short and quick breaths.

"My sweet. Tonight’s the night for good coupling," replied Thierry.

Christmast Comes Late to the Congo

2009-12-24T01:31:00.000-08:00

Christmas comes late to DR Congo

By John James
BBC, Kinshasa

Enlarge Image

Millions of members of a Democratic Republic of Congo sect have been celebrating Christmas.

Members of the Kimbanguist church believe Jesus Christ was born on 25 May and not 25 December.

Followers, wearing green for hope and white for purity, have spent the day eating, praying and dancing at a centre in the capital, Kinshasa.
The church has around three million believers, mainly concentrated in central Africa.

It was founded in 1921 by Simon Kimbangu, a self-styled healer and prophet, who was educated by Baptist church missionaries in the west of what was then the Congo Free State.

In 1999 the leaders of the Kimbanguist church decided that after several prophetic "revelations", Christmas should be celebrated on 25 May instead of in December.

This was coincidentally the birthday of one of the church leaders, Salomon Kiangani Dialungana.
They urge the rest of the world to follow suit.

'Great atmosphere'

Encouragement to join the all-day ceremony came from a marching band which headed out of the main compound at the conference centre and into the suburbs to literally drum up enthusiasm.

Mama Annie Sita said she had gone to join her fellow Kimbanguists and spend the whole day together at the church dancing, praying and eating.

The village of the Kimbanguist founder is called New Jerusalem

"There's a lot of joy here and everyone's singing, which makes for a great atmosphere. People have walked from far and wide to come and celebrate," she told the BBC.

Alcohol was not allowed but the crates of soft drinks were stacked high.
Beside them people sold photos of church leaders. There were also photos of the church's headquarters in the village of Nkamba, which was Simon Kimbangu's home and is now called the New Jerusalem.

Many of those celebrating took their own plastic chairs and large colourful umbrellas to create their own patch of shade.

"We have a revelation - we want everyone to celebrate on 25 May," says Bienvenu Sakuameso, a journalist who works for the church's national television station.

"We don't force, but we only ask them. We say that we have found out this day and we ask them to pray and they too will find out and join us."

So what do Kimbanguists do on 25 December, the traditional date of Christmas.
"For us it's just a normal day," he said.

Chapter 6

2009-12-12T01:38:00.000-08:00

She calculated that she was 18 years of age and still a virgin in every orifice. That meant a great deal to her. She was hoping Jacques would treasure her gift forever. Her loins were burning and aching for him, especially since he had uttered the magic words, ”rule me with your body". He had given her a choice. Perhaps it was an illusion, but he cared enough to play the illusionist’s game. She decided she would not be coy; in any case, she could not stop the desire flowing out of her vulva.

They made love in the stream, undulating and gyrating. Nothing about this unique creature surprised him. She was an assassin, just like him. She had killed to avoid being killed and to save the lives of her brothers – her gene pool. Her maidenhead was intact and pure, as the crystalline waters running over their bodies. He was curious to know how she had managed that, but he knew better than to ask her and she would never, never tell. Jacques was gentle and did not enter her all the way. He ejaculated twice. There was an endless supply of him just for her. She could not tell which was her liquid and which was the water. Both cleansed them. Her vaginal juices, their heat and his copious saliva, on her engorged butterfly, eased the pain of that first penetration and copulation.

Thus, was born the joint venture operation of the Congolese Revolutionary Liberation Front. The CRLF for short. De la Rue knew the exact location of a diamond mine, forgotten long ago, because it had changed hands so often, no one could agree on anything. In the end, after years of fighting and killing, there were no survivors.

Ebony voices and velvety voices, families of drums-bangoma, played with naked hands on the skin heads, spread stories about Heart of Diamonds. In Kinshasa, a city of four million people, perhaps five, or six? Congolese, Afro- Cuban and Belgian jazz musicians composed a variety of arrangements, with Heart of Diamonds as their Muse. The Congolese called these arrangements rumba ndombolo. The dizzying rhythms reminded the people of sex, and its power of regeneration.

"The rumba ndombolo is the sexiest music in the world," pronounced Miles Davis, the trumpet player and composer, the coolest cat in the planet.

This was two generations ago. Patrice Lumumba, the only true Father the Congo has ever had, inflamed the ancestors of the present musicians, minstrels, performers and griots, to create the rumba ndombolo. At that time the Congo had a collective hope and faith. That was no more. Now they endured, as did their diamonds.

"The raw diamonds in our mines are more plentiful than those in the Kalahari Desert, a tributary of the Congo River runs through it, you see," Jacques de la Rue eagerly explained to Diamanthe.

They called the mine The D and J Mining Company. It stood for Diamanthe and Jacques. Once word spread about the union of Jacques and Heart of Diamonds curiosity and mystery did the rest.

"Who is she, where did she come from?"

Expert cutters and cleavers sought them out. Jacques created the most professional army in the Congo. They could pay for the best men and armaments, for there was an endless supply of diamonds. The best part was that no one knew their source.

They discovered there were diamond merchants who were ready, willing and able to transact business with them, rather than with Mobutu’s people. First of all, they were undercutting their enemies and competitors by 20%,

"Let’s not be too greedy," suggested Diamanthe.

The buyers were avid, as they knew they would be. Therefore, the buyers kept their transactions with D and J Mining, a secret. It was mutually beneficial to do so.

Diamanthe and Jacques built up an enormous liquidity, which went into banks in Hong Kong and Luxembourg, where banking secrecy was still sacred. Many of their clients came from China, India, Japan, and Thailand. They were delighted to oblige them since they were all banking with the same bank, which had branches in their respective countries – The Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation.

In addition, Diamanthe had her court of miracles, the maimed, burnt, crippled, mutilated child - soldiers who had no one to turn to, because they had been taken at such a young age. Most hadn’t a clue as to their true identities, their real names or where they had been seized. They began creating little pieces of jewelry and objet d’art, which turned out to be valued highly in the posh ateliers of Europe She discovered she could mark the goods up to 500%. This was the decision behind her opening a series of high-end shops through out France and Belgium. "Heart of Diamonds" The flagship was in Lyon, because Madame Charmaine, who was her trusted manager, liked living there. It was within driving distance to Paris, which was useful, as she could look into the Paris shop frequently.

Charmaine had grabbed Diamante’s offer. General Mundavi removed her by force from her parent’s house in Bunia, in the northwest part of the Congo and given her as a birthday present to Mobutu, when she was twelve years old. It was believed that virgins restored sexual vigor. Virgins were supposed to cure men of AIDS as well. There was just one small inconvenience. As part of his new image as the Father of his country, Mobutu had converted to Catholicism and had made a very public display of his monogamy and fidelity to his one wife. She was herself a Catholic and clearly, not a minor.

Cardinal Primate of Kinshasa Frederic Bamungwabi would have rebuked him in public, had he known that Mobutu was secretly keeping a harem of little girls and boys. Indeed, Mobutu went one further. His lawfully wedded wife had an identical twin, a deep secret except to a select few, which included several prelates in the Vatican Curia. Mobutu always slept with both twins in his massive bed. On official state and religious occasions, those in the know engaged in a guessing game as to which twin was playing the part of "the one and only wife"

True to form, Charmaine had changed her name, and fled the Congo, the minute Mobutu entered into a coma, never to wake up in this world again. She was following a script millions of human beings had done over thousands of years.

Get a new name, and a new life, and then you must become that new person.

Chapter 5

2009-12-09T01:34:00.000-08:00

Special Forces and white mercenaries ambushed them. The fighting was savage and pitiless. It took no prisoners. The Kariya who had been - positioned herself high atop a thick acacia tree. She picked off the tough commandos one by one. As the days stretched into nights, she vowed never to close her eyes.

"No dolls, white or brown sugar, palm wine or other shit for me."

Her rage kept her awake and alert. Out of love for her family, she had allowed Mobutu’s soldiers to turn her into an iconic sniper. She hated the mercenaries who constrained her to kill them, thus giving Mobutu’s commandos a better advantage. She shot at any human who moved or stirred. They could not triangulate her position, because she kept jumping from tree to tree. That was when she overheard an officer exclaim in French.

"Hey! You up there and every where. You are not human. You are a demon who has diamonds for a heart."

Kariya, who was no more, had at last found the name she was looking for. Diamanthe - Heart of Diamonds! It was a beautiful name. It conjured up images of hardness, for diamonds were the hardest substances on earth; of beauty, for diamonds dazzled you; of radiance for they protected you; of light for they surrounded you with it. That was enough in those dark times to keep the spark lit in her soul.

The motto of De Beers declared "Diamonds are forever" but she was unaware of that, deep in the jungles and rainforests of the Congo. She knew from her science class that diamonds were made of carbon minerals, which were millions of years old. Only a diamond could cut another. Thus, a diamond was eternal.

Heart of Diamonds was born!

“That will be my new birth date. My new Life,” she decided.

Henceforth all the people in the Congo would hear her name and cherish it for it represented their Pride and their Majesty. Most of all, it stood for their heart, the most vital organ in the human body. What was the Congo without a Heart of Diamonds figuratively and literally?

They had beaten back the onslaught of the mercenaries. She had time, at last, to recite the Our Father for her parents and her two dead brothers. After her prayers, she heard a familiar voice, the officer who had unwittingly inspired her name.

"Listen. My lady of the diamond heart! I need to talk to you. I have stayed behind with my men. I’ll come out into the clearing. You can remain unseen, wherever you are. Keep me within sight of your Kalashnikov, just give me your word you won’t kill me, and listen to what I have to say. Ca va."

She replied to his question with another question. "How come you know who I am and what I am doing? I know nothing about you or your men."

"Aaah," he sighed loudly. "You are Black Amazon. I think Heart of Diamonds suits you better. The Congo has many amazons and warriors. There is no one like you. We have been in skirmishes before. I know what I am talking about."

"Ca VA. I agree. It’s a deal,” she stated.

That was the first time she had set eyes on the most handsome and elegant Congolese she had ever seen. He was covered in grime, filth, sweat, and stank of urine and feces, as did she, as did they all. But this man stood tall and proud. She swung herself down.

His eyes were on fire at the sight of her.

"Heart of Diamonds," he murmured, acknowledging her presence with a slight bow of his head.

"I am Jacque de la Rue. A dilemma has developed. You see, most of your people, those hated soldiers of Mobutu - your captors, are all dead; I killed them. You, on the other hand, from your wooded tower up there have eliminated all of my masters. We are the only ones left, give or take a few of our followers."

He studied her reaction. She remained silent and impassive. Only her eyes glittered at the thought of calling the shots from now on.

"We can be stupid and exterminate one another. Why would we do that? I love my pitiful and pitiless country. So do you,” stated de la Rue

She made no attempt to repress neither a smile nor a series of chuckles. Not only had he given her a beautiful new name, Diamanthe, Heart of Diamonds, he was proposing an alliance.

"Who will be the boss?" she asked suddenly, gazing boldly into his dark eyes.

It was his turn to smile showing small even pearly white teeth.

"I won’t make a strategic or tactical decision without consulting you first, but this is still a patriarchal society and you will give me, at least the appearance and the lip service that I am in command."

She did not speak, but her eyes were smoldering embers. It was the best choice she had been offered since the night her father had vanished and her mama was murdered. That was fine with her. She would give him Face. All would be lost without it.

Let him appear to be the Boss, Le Patronne. Jacques is giving me a great deal of space in which to maneuver.

"One very important thing. I want you as my woman. You decide the time and the place, if ever. In that regard, you will rule over me,” he told her ardently.

"Let us wash and purify each other’s bodies in the stream nearby, then we can explore our bodies and pleasure ourselves,” suggested Diamanthe to seal their agreement.

Chapter 4:

2009-12-06T05:32:00.000-08:00

Around the same time, Medecin sans Frontieres, a volunteer organization, which means Doctors without Borders, was providing emergency medical aid and performing near miraculous operations. They were acting under the most arduous conditions in their clinic in Kinshasa. MSF as it is sometimes called had come to Kinshasa since nineteen eighty-five, at least five years before Kariya was born.

"We must be in the deadliest city on the planet. No one needs us more than the people of the Congo."

Immediately, the doctors were inundated with the wounded, the mutilated, and the diseases that were an inevitable consequence of constant war. The most horrifying thing about these savage wars was the fact that children, hundreds of thousands of them were slaughtering other children without a pang of mercy and remorse. Leprosy returned with a vengeance, as did the tsetse fly, which gave them the deadly sleeping sickness. Tuberculosis ravaged lungs in a few months. Malaria killed them like flies, so did dengue fever, another virulent disease brought by mosquitoes who, unlike the malaria/anopheles which only sucked its victims blood at night, feasted on humans at all hours of the day and night. HIV/AIDS was particularly deadly. The Ebola virus for which there was no cure and no medicine lurked close by.

"We need help now. We need doctors and nurses. Mon Dieu, we need more volunteers," declared Doctor Bernard Kouchner, one of its founders. In a short time, he would become a legend.

God must have listened, for Cuba, France, Italy and India sent doctors and nurses to the Congo.

Like war, death and disease: the music went on relentlessly. So too did the drums. In the rain forests pregnant with orchids, in their boats as they sailed down the great Congo River, in the jungles, tracking down an enemy militia, or ferreting the white mercenaries.

Even the rat- AZ – tat of the Kalashnikov rifles came with strangely pitched ululations "Ayiiii…yu… yi…ya…yay."

They sang in the wards of the clinics, on the streets, by the burial pits, the cemeteries, and by their infant’s cradles. They chanted laments while massaging special oils on the corpses of their loved ones so that they would not become "konono" a poetic way of describing rigor mortis. They danced and rejoiced during Christmas, the New Year, and a victory of one rebel guerilla group over another.

The Congo did not need the Associated Press or any other news group. What did they know? The Congo understood what interested the people and they sang it throughout the two million square miles that was their Congo. Fifty–eight million and perhaps sixty million souls employed their voices for pain and suffering. Tears? The music told them everything they wished to know. Friend and foe alike listened and understood.

In the jungles, forests and rivers, two of Kariya’s brothers were killed, quickly and thankfully. One-stepped on a black mamba, as they moved noiselessly in the jungle night. He was dead within seconds. A land mine blew five years old Akua to bits. There was nothing left of him, except pieces of his little fingers as they floated past a stunned Kariya and her band of brothers, on the mighty Congo River.

They had been inside the horror for so long tears or cries of sorrow would not ensue from their lips.

Once we were nine in the family, now we are five, mourned the girl deep in her heart, she who had once been Kariya.

Kono, the minstrel composed a song about the valor of Black Amazon and her small brave brothers, scantily clad and barefoot in the jungle.

"That is something to be thankful for, one brother dead in a few seconds, after meeting up with Black Mamba. I suppose he never realized what happened to him. Little Akua reduced to a few fingers. I am grateful to the Congo River for showing me that he did not suffer at all.”

The explosion, which killed her youngest brother Akua, marked the beginning of an ambush by Belgian and South African mercenaries. It would be several days of ferocious fighting before Black Amazon found the time to recite the Lord’s Prayer silently for her brothers.

“No more tristesse for today,” decided Diamanthe. "The past and the present live in an uneasy symbiosis inside my body. That’s the way I want it, high drama just a hairbreadth away from tragedy or comedy. Everything in life could always go either way. You must be prepared to change, modify and adapt. I will never forget the past, even if all I have is the Now to attempt to build a future where many odds are against me,” she ruminated. Her memories traveled very far.

If I ever forget where I came from, I will never know where I am going.

Chapter 3

2009-12-02T04:27:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER THREE

In Kinshasa, Kariya Kailane, a willowy black girl, whom many described as a Black Panther because of her sinuous and imperious demeanor, luxuriated in the fact that she had studied and worked at being named class Valedictorian at the all girls Catholic School of the Holy Spirit.

"Congratulations Kariya. All that beauty and brains too. Your parents will be able to fetch a huge dowry from whoever desires to wed you and bed you," declared Major Oron who was the father of her best friend Vele.

Kariya disliked and distrusted the man and she could not explain to herself why she had these suspicions. In fact, she felt guilty about them.

"I value Vele’s friendship. I wonder if he is a good father to her and to her brothers. He has a disrespectful attitude towards me. It is unseemly to feel this way about my best friend’s father. Major Oron is also my father’s friend."

She put all disagreeable thoughts out of her mind the moment she espied her father at the wheel of their pickup truck. He always came after school was over to collect her and her brothers and drive them home.

"At thirteen, you are the youngest girl to ever be chosen Valedictorian, your fourteenth birthday is not until August, almost four months away," her father greeted her with pride in his voice.

"Cher Papa. I am happy that you and Maman are pleased and proud of me," she replied, planting a warm kiss on his cheek.

Her father Mawanga taught history and mathematics at the exclusive boy’s school Saint John’s which her six younger brothers attended. Mawanga Kailane was a white elephant in the Congo, for he refused to be corrupted. He kept refusing bribes, which were offered to him by the high-ranking officers serving in the army of President Mobutu Sese Seko.

"Come. Come. Kailane. We need good, new blood in the Armed Forces. Some of those school boys might even turn out to be excellent spies, dispenser of justice, and informers and enforcers for the CIA and the Sdece (the French Secret Service)."

"I have yet to see a white man turn away from thrusting their cocks and tongues into our girls and women. They are also crazy about our beardless boys and girls so young they still have no pubic hair," remarked Colonel Riko so casually that it struck a chill in Kailane’s spine.

"Colonel Riko is right. You are being unreasonably stubborn. You will be richly rewarded. This is the Congo. Even if we blacks appear as its leaders, the white men run it and they do whatever comes to their greedy and grasping minds. To ensure our good behavior towards their lust, their likes and dislikes, they have a constant supply of CIA, MI6 and SDECE agents at our ribs. Now that you know the score, just hand over a list of the brightest and most promising pupils in your school. You know Kailane the most trainable ones for the Armed Forces,” said Major Oron forcefully.

"Don’t forget the virgin vulvas. The whites will be soaked with semen if they know our black swans are educated in Christian schools," declared Rico with indifference and ease.

"It sounds as if he is used to uttering these obscene comments about our youth,” pondered Kailane sadly.

He turned towards them with disdain in his eyes and contempt in his voice.

"How many times must I repeat my reply? We are talking about girls and boys, ages ten to fourteen. They are adolescents, little more than children. They should be holding fountain pens, not AK – 47s. The answer is no, as always," Kailane countered in indignation, as always.

That golden moonlit night, soldiers smashed into Kariya’s house with the butts of their rifles. She and her family had been enjoying a purple colored cassava pudding for dessert.

The lieutenant tramped towards their well-appointed table and wordlessly brought the barrel of his Magnum down on her stunned father’s face with such force the silverware, the purple cassava pudding as well as their faces were spurted with their father’s blood. He continued striking him with the Magnum. Their father’s nose and mouth disappeared. Slivers of his brains splattered the white linen tablecloth. Pieces of bones from his forehead, cheeks and jaw struck them with such force that Kariya screamed a series of long blood curdling screams.

"Aaaaaaaaa! Please. Please. Please. Noooooo!

The soldiers dragged what was left of their dead father outside. Kailane was brutally thrown into the black van, never to be seen or heard from again.

Kariya’s mother Marena, screamed. pleaded and yelled. She ran after the sinister black van. Marena was in shock. She did not realize that her husband was dead.

"What has he done? He is a good man. Let him go! Come back. Return him to his family," she begged them collapsed on her knees.

In frustration and retaliation, they turned on Marena, who was Kailane’s only wife for they were Christians. Dozens of soldiers crazed with amphetamines, cocaine and heroin, and armed with machetes, jungle knives and hatchets, brutally raped her.

Others stuffed guns into the mouths of Kariya and her six brothers so that they could not cry out They would then know the fear of the powerless for they made them watch in numbed horror.

For some grim reason, which still remains a mystery to me, I had stopped counting the jackals that tore at my mother’s breasts, intimate parts and intestines, at number thirty-seven. Only God knew how long it would take for her to die!

Marena begged the only soldier who had not participated in the mass rape to kill her and end her suffering. In her heart she was thinking more of her children than of herself. A slow agony would be worse torture for them than a quick death.

The children could not understand a word their mother said – all her teeth were gone, her tongue was swollen three times its size. Every bone in her body was reduced to gristle and pulp. Kariya sensed her mother did not wish to wait for death to come.

"If you are a Christian, I implore you, show mercy and shoot me."

The Tutsi youth, from Rwanda did not speak Lingala Congolese, but was sensitive enough to understand that their situation was hopeless.

"The poor woman is begging me to kill her? I must end her suffering," he said in a quivering voice.

He placed his gun directly on her eyeball. He was holding a 22.calibre Beretta; the best weapon for a close and accurate kill. He shut his eyes and blew off the back of Marena’s head.

Diamanthe surveyed the soldier, imprinting every feature into her mind where it would remain forever. He was devoid of expression, an eighteen-year-old walking dead man.

"The woman asked me to do it. It was the best way to end her suffering,” he repeated in toneless and passable French.

She threw herself upon her mother’s mutilated body, shrieking, sobbing and screaming.

"The woman as you called her was our mother, Marena Kailane. Do you hear?”

She whirled several times in grief. And yet … and yet … she never lost her self-possession.

"I must not show these monsters that I am in deepest despair even if it is so. They will surely finish us off. Oh my God, help me," she prayed silently.

She had not lost her powers of observation. The main street and the side street were empty. All their neighbors were cowering and defecating in terror inside their homes. The shutters and the louvres were shut. Except for her stifled sobs and the loud ones from her brothers, there was nothing but silence coming from the closed houses.

"I understand what you are telling me. I can expect no help or quarter from any of you. May you all rot in hell," she yelled and cursed with such desolation that her vocal chords became strained and she realized that her voice was suddenly raucous.

"Girl, we are sorry. We can do nothing except survive. You must do the same," inner voices crackled inside her heart.

"Answer me soldier. Did you hear? The dead woman was our mother, she was somebody," screeched Kariya. By now her voice had disappeared and only a croak ensued from her mouth.

The young soldier tugged at her white sleeve now horribly scarlet with her mother’s blood.

"Quelle dommage pour votre mere." I am sorry about your maman Marena Kailane. But you must stop screaming now. There is no choice. Girl, they will kill you too, unless you come quietly. If you don’t, they will sell all your pretty brothers to pedophiles and pederasts in the West as sexual pets, or cut their throats and sell off their body parts. Decide."

The word pretty lacerated her. It was a kind of chilling code the Tutsi soldier used to reveal to her the horror that was to come if she did not comply with the human beasts that held power over her.

"I will bow my head and bend at the knee in order not to lose my spirit. I will do anything to keep my family together," she swore silently.

Heart of Diamonds name, when she was captured and allowed the Army of President Mobutu Sese Sekou to turn her into a child soldier and killer before her fourteenth birthday, had been Kariya.

"On the same day that Mawanga and Marena Kailane, mother and father of Kariya and six brothers died their savage deaths, I, Kariya no longer existed."

In order to save her six brothers and keep what was left of her family together, she volunteered to become a sniper for the Army of Mobutu. Even at that age, she was a skillful negotiator.

"You need a good sniper more than you need a whore. Let no one lay a finger on me or on my brothers. If you take my six brothers, the youngest of whom is five, you will not regret it."

She had sworn out of desperation. She did not know the first thing about guns and firearms but she was a strong-willed and determined young woman.

"I will not be crushed, and neither will I allow my six brothers to be trampled underfoot." This became her motto, which she would repeat endlessly.

"Do you want a good whore or the best killer? Don’t lay a finger on me or on any of my brothers. Whores are plentiful. Super snipers are not."

She became the best sniper in the Congo. Each time she had a man in the cross hairs, white or black, she kept her brothers in mind. They lived and breathed because of her. By then, the Congolese Army of President Mobutu referred to her as the "Black Warrior".

A legend in her own time: The Africans called her Simba – which meant lion in Swahili. To the white and black mercenaries who served various warlords, mostly American, Belgian, English and French; who fought on any side provided they were paid in gold South African rand; she was the "Black Amazon".

The musicians and troubadours, and the brutalized people of the Congo, for many of them their country was just a figment in their souls, roamed the villages and forests chanting and reciting the exploits of the She Simba. They exalted her. Above all, the people sang. Music kept the Congo alive.

Kariya and her brothers were forced to march with the wicked soldiers of Mobutu and take part in shootouts with rebels and rival government forces.

“Someday, at the right opportunity, I will cut as many of you as I can into pieces,” she vowed to the dead spirits of Marena and Kailane, her unforgotten parents.

Revised versions of Ch 1 and Ch 2

2009-09-16T11:37:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER ONE

Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo
December 2004

"That’s her! That is Heart of Diamonds.There’s no one in the world like her. She is as unique as a scarlet diamond and tougher than steel to negotiate with," remarked a Belgian diamond merchant, in an undertone, to his colleague, a trader from Dubai.

She glided past them and made a slight acknowledgement of their presence. The folds of her white silk robe swished softly in the wind. The handle of her white leather handbag, which was studded with small F grade diamonds, glittered in the morning sun. She was shod in brilliant white leather sandals; its high heels carved in ebony wood, encrusted with gold dust here and there. Her sculpted head was turbaned in white with a large fancy pink gem adorning its center.

"Heart of Diamonds is a fitting name for the young woman. Diamonds are the hardest substances on our planet,” murmured the Arab jeweler.

"She is spellbinding just the same," whispered the Belgian.

“In the Arab world our poets compare her to the Queen of Sheba,” added the trader from Dubai.

Diamanthe was her name, and she always dressed in white. She was aware of the effect it had on people, especially men. For Diamanthe was as black as the darkest night in blackest Africa – the Congo.

To quote Lord Byron, the mad, bad, and dangerous to know English poet, "She walked in beauty like the night."

Diamanthe was like a giant polished trunk of an ebony tree. She was proud of her Negritude.”

"I have often been told that I have an exquisitely sculpted head. I believe it. No wigs or any of that rubbish to straighten my hair. Jamais! Never. I think I will either go bareheaded with diamonds stuck here and there in my Afro- bob or wear white turbans studded with fancy diamonds."

Naked she was one meter and eighty-two inches in height. Round, wide shoulders, small and delicate bones with a tiny waist that glided softly into well-proportioned buttocks and a high derriere. Her fine bosom and cleavage was always adorned with tear shaped diamonds. She possessed a long torso and legs that never seemed to end. Intense hazel eyes, which appeared yellow against her black skin, reminded her friends and foes alike of a coiled serpent poised to strike when you least expected it.

"Only diamonds for me, ma Cher,” she always declared to anyone who listened.

Her tapered nails, painted in silver and white nail polish, contained the tiniest of diamond crusts. The Pythoness Mangana, who lived in Malemba Nkulu, hundreds of miles away from Kinshasa created the polish just for Diamanthe. It was said to contain incantations and omens. The diamonds gave of tiny lights detected only by Heart of Diamonds.

Whenever she was with clients the lights told her if she had someone truly interested in acquiring diamonds and gems or if they were just bluffing and fishing. More importantly, their phosphorescent light warned her if the individual before her had a good or mal-intentioned heart.

I know that I am the best publicity and advertisement for all diamonds. I am in a position to show off the most fabulous gems, on my fingers, neck, wrists, waist, ankles and toes. The mortal men, who are privileged to see my nearly naked body by my swimming pool, will swear that I wear a twenty-five carat blue diamond on my cleavage. A slim belt encircles my waist studded with baguettes. An inverted pendant of D flawless diamonds reposes majestically on my mound of Venus.

"If you truly wish to see the phosphorescence of a D flawless blue diamond, place it against gorgeous black velvet skin," thus spoke Baron Etienne Duvalier, over two hundred years ago.

Duvalier, a ruthless maven, represented all the interests of His Majesty, King Leopold ll of Belgium. Its absolute Master, the King, in the person of his minions, had the power of instant death. His rapacity for blood and gore, were outmatched only by his lust for diamonds, gold, emeralds, sapphires…anything and everything that the Belgian Congo, as it was then known, possessed. Legend has it that Baron Duvalier wore a belt buckle studded with D flawless square cut diamonds, which formed the letter P – for Plunder.

"Most of all, my formidable nose for "les affaires" centered on the business of ebony. As you know my dear colleagues," Duvalier wrote to the British guilds," the word ebony is a double entendre for the rare, precious wood, which abounds in the rain forests and jungles and the slave labor, which always outruns the fertility of their soil."

Back to present day Kinshasa, at the Atelier “Heart of Diamonds”, Diamanthe would slowly and in a low pitched voice, tell her greedy clients,” You realize mon cher clients that you cannot hide your anxiety from me. You wish to buy the best diamonds but at rock bottom prices.”

She was facing Belgian and Arab dealers who were attempting to haggle over each and every gem endlessly. They had been doing it for a quarter of a century and they were skillfull in the art of bargaining.They hoped to tire her out. Never!

"Unless I take a decisive course of action, the meeting will run into the next one. My timetable and earnings will surely be affected, to say nothing of my image."

At this point of the meeting, Diamanthe would rise slowly from her straight backed gilded chair, like a majestic Venus from the diamond studded mines deep in the bowels of the earth.

"I am aware of my country’s bloody history and the plunder which continues to this day. You see before you, a smart black woman, lady, and cookie, whatever you wish. I know all the mark ups, and the tricks. The best crooks and criminals were my teachers. That is not a secret. So, you know and I know that we are both getting a good deal. If you are not convinced, I believe the expression is “take it or leave it."

Heart of Diamonds would not wait for the shocked clients’ reply; she would be on her way out of her austere atelier. She made them run after her.

"Bien Sure. Certainly. We accept!”

I feel a sense of poetic justice that the mzungis / rich foreigners – white, yellow, brown, and mixed color pallette, depend on the good graces and the smart ethical moves of a black woman, to obtain the best cut and uncut gems in the African continent, she mused contentedly.

Yes indeed! Diamanthe - Heart of Diamonds was a shining young black woman who by sheer force of will became the most successful dealer of cut and uncut diamonds as well as of other gems in Kinshasa, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. The Congo is the heart of Africa. It has ever been thus.

Most certainly, in good and bad times Diamanthe used her acute and creative intelligence judiciously. She loved her brothers and sisters without measure, which, was also a driving force towards success. She was endowed with an uncanny knack for choosing the right lover, protector and partner. Loyalty in an extremely volatile and duplicitous business carried great financial rewards. Heart of Diamonds cultivated her clients with care and charmed them with an almost brutal candor.

"Heart of Diamonds had zenze,” pronounced the ancient members of the Baluba tribe.

Long before the Romans as the first white men in recorded history ever-set foot in Africa; the Baluba roamed the continent at will, conquerors, visionaries, and miners of diamonds, seers, magicians and sorcerers all. After many wars and expeditions they chose the Congo as their special region. The magicians and sorcerers had seen the whole continent of Africa in a series of visions.

"This is where we shall live and settle down, in the heart of our continent, where the heart would be if the land were human. That is how the Congo will come to be."

"Zenze meant that in addition to positive attributes which outshone your negative ones, all living creatures had the capacity to endure whatever the fates brought you. If you endured, you had zenze and emerged victorious. If you lacked zenze the Congo swallowed and re-absorbed you," so stated the Baluba.

CHAPTER TWO
Marcel de Merode, a wealthy Belgian mercenary, sold Zizu de Merode, a ten-year-old enchanting beauty, endowed with turquoise eyes, for 20,000 Pounds Sterling without so much as a qualm or a twitch of conscience; She thought he might have been her father. He knew otherwise. Flora her mother was one of his concubines, but he could never rein her in. She had always enjoyed numerous lovers.
Hours after his return to Kinshasa, from a six months absence, Flora had told him boldly, "I am expecting a child by another man. I will never reveal the name of my child’s father and plan to take the secret to my grave. I have enough money from him so that you need never humiliate me about monetary expenses. I am just six weeks along so your precious face and male pride will be spared any chinks in it."
Marcel had been part of an expeditionary and mercenary force, led by General de Clerk into Sierra Leone. Their principal motive was plunder. The orders had come from their Pay Master, Gerard Reiserman, a Belgian businessman who crisscrossed New York, Antwerp and Africa in his private Bombardier. He was a gems dealer, collector, and confidante of Presidents Johnson of Sierra Leone, Taylor of Liberia, and more importantly of Laurent Kabila, President of the Congo.
It was murmured in fear and in reverence, that not a hand moved in the diamond and sapphire mines without Reiserman’s blessing. He wanted a large stockpile of diamonds and sapphires removed from Sierra Leone and taken to the Congo. Reiserman knew he could trust Marcel de Merode more than the other mercenaries. He never stooped so low as to pilfer diamonds because his instincts told him his mangled corpse would be fed to the ravenous crocodiles that endlessly cruised the Congo River in search of human meat. "I am a professional killer and thief, of the highest caliber. De Merode does not rob chickens."
When Flora, was diagnosed with full-blown AIDS, de Merode sent her away to a clinic to die. It had been ten years since he last bedded Flora, when she had gleefully informed him she was pregnant and not by him. Her ferocious and atavistic sexuality terrified de Merode; he was relieved not to couple with her ever again. He showed his dislike bordering on disdain of Zizu, fruit of her pregnancy by ignoring her on his good days and being rude if not cruel to her on his dark days.
He hastened to sell Zizu to a representative of Prince Naim bin Nayef of Saudi Arabia. His Royal Highness was desperate for new blood. He needed it quickly to re-invigorate his mentally defective, deranged and disease ridden in bred line. He was not alone. All the so-called royal houses in the Persian/Arabian Gulf had piss poor protoplasm – in other words a depleted gene pool.
"My sons and daughters are coupling with their cousins. I realize we need to cement alliances with the tribes; I myself have done so, but I think it’s time to rethink this policy of mating only among our select group of relatives. We don’t breed our horses, falcons and camels in the same incestuous way we produce our families and clans … it is reckless. We know better."

Zizu was fortunate. The aged Prince Naim welcomed his beautiful slave and investment kindly. One glimpse of her eyes and he declared,” Henceforth you shall be called Turkhasa, like the gem we call Turkhas (turquoise) He had his best and brightest son Karim aged thirteen, in mind for her, once her blood began its flow (her menses)

In the meantime, she would attend the madrassah for girls, and learn the holy Qu’ran in classical Arabic. Prince Naim had gifted her with a necklace of the largest turquoise spheres money could buy. His agents had scoured all of Iran for months to find them. It was a country the size of Germany, France and the United Kingdom combined.

She was allowed to keep the cross of rough blue and white diamonds, which her Mama had given her, provided she kept it out of sight. This singled her out as someone unique, and nurtured envy, jealousy and hate among her classmates and the future wives of Prince Karim bin Naim bin Nayef.

"Inshallah, she will make a good fourth wife for Karim. The other three wives would still come from the same gene pool," he sighed deeply and with regret.

This is very stupid politics for in the end our heirs are unfit and inept to govern. They are only good at copying the vices of the west, like gambling, womanizing, drinking, snorting cocaine, stuffing their veins with morphine and corrupting their lungs with tobacco.

Prince Naim was aware that his eldest son Salim, who would celebrate his seventeenth birthday soon, was being broken into the ways and mores of coupling in the west.

"I agreed to what I consider perverse acts, we are forbidden to seek out pleasure with women other than our own wives. But Salim’s women have complained to their mothers that his sexual sword is too big and painful to accommodate them. Salim has a cruel streak; I have always feared that. The harlot, I cannot bring myself to say her odious name, (Candy) is under orders from her Western Master to train him in techniques, which I hope will induce his wives to receive his organ with less tension and more serenity."

He pondered that this was the principal reason why he gave the entrancing Congolese Zizu, henceforth to be known as Turkasa to his son Karim.
Karim has a good- sized piece of procreative flesh and he is gentle with his wives, so I have heard.

"It is a small step I have taken with Turkhasa. She is as fertile as the Nile and the Congo Rivers. Bright. Wise. Kind. Brave. Loving. She will give us many sons and daughters who will be extraordinary in every way. Inshallah," he told his son Karim.

He gazed at him for a long time. Father and son spoke through their eyes. Sometimes what is not said carries more value than words. Silence can be a potent language.

“Our society is polluted and contaminated. Our leaders are venal, debauched and depraved. Am I nothing but an old wishful dreamer out of step with all the rest? Bribable, corrupt and dishonorable men govern our country. It was easy for the Anglo-Americans monsters that call the shots to turn many of them into wicked and immoral people.

“The fault lies with us. We had a choice, once, nearly 110 years ago. We decided on Sin,” mused Karim. I am a youth possessed of idealism. Will it be of any use?”

Prince Nayef broke the silence. “She cost me the equivalent of a luxurious car like a BMW. Mind it’s not the price we must think of but also the value. Therefore, learn to cherish Turkhasa, my beloved son.”

“Yes Babba, I shall love her.”

For centuries, the Al Nayef clan had been prosperous merchant Bedouins. The Prince’s grandfather had come from Yemen at the urging of his blood cousin, Abdel Aziz Ibn-Saud who needed support in his fight for control of the vast country of Arabia. With the unending financial and military assistance from the British bankers and secret agents, he had defeated all his enemies, most of whom were clansmen. Then, in a gesture fraught with destiny and blood, he had ensured that his country would henceforth be known as Saudi Arabia. That was his name - Abdel Aziz Ibn-Saud (son of Saud). Of such stuff are dynasties created.

Truth Spoken by a Teenager

2009-09-02T06:48:00.000-07:00

An important aspect of Heart of Diamonds is that the youth are the ones lobbying hardest for environmental changes. Enclosed is a wonderful video called

The Girl Who Made the World Silent for Five Minutes

www.youtube.com/watch?v=eg8MsAx3TVE&feature=email

She is another girl with a heart of diamonds.

Chapter 2

2009-05-31T04:11:00.001-07:00

Marcel de Merode, a wealthy Belgian mercenary, sells Zizu de Merode, a ten-year-old enchanting beauty, endowed with turquoise eyes, for 20,000 Pounds Sterling without so much as a qualm or a twitch of conscience; She thought he might have been her father. He knew otherwise. Flora her mother was one of his concubines, but he could never rein her in. She had always enjoyed numerous lovers.
Hours after his return to Kinshasa, from a six months absence, Flora had told him boldly, "I am expecting a child by another man. I will never reveal the name of my child’s father and plan to take the secret to my grave. I have enough money from him so that you need never humiliate me about monetary expenses. I am just six weeks along so your precious face and male pride will be spared any chinks in it."
Marcel had been part of an expeditionary and mercenary force, led by General de Clerk into Sierra Leone. Their principal motive was plunder. The orders had come from their Pay Master, Gerard Reiserman, a Belgian businessman who crisscrossed New York, Antwerp and Africa in his private Bombardier. He was a gems dealer, collector, and confidante of Presidents Johnson of Sierra Leone, Taylor of Liberia, and more importantly of Laurent Kabila, President of the Congo.
It was murmured in fear and in reverence, that not a hand moved in the diamond and sapphire mines without Reiserman’s blessing. He wanted a large stockpile of diamonds and sapphires removed from Sierra Leone and taken to the Congo. Reiserman knew he could trust Marcel de Merode more than the other mercenaries. He never stooped so low as to pilfer diamonds because his instincts told him his mangled corpse would be fed to the ravenous crocodiles that endlessly cruised the Congo River in search of human meat. "I am a professional killer and thief, of the highest caliber. De Merode does not rob chickens."
When Flora, was diagnosed with full-blown AIDS, de Merode sent her away to a clinic to die. It had been ten years since he last bedded Flora, when she had gleefully informed him she was pregnant and not by him. Her ferocious and atavistic sexuality terrified de Merode; he was relieved not to couple with her ever again. He showed his dislike bordering on disdain of Zizu, fruit of her pregnancy by ignoring her on his good days and being rude if not cruel to her on his dark days.
He hastened to sell Zizu to a representative of Prince Naim bin Nayef of Saudi Arabia. His Royal Highness was desperate for new blood. He needed it quickly to re-invigorate his mentally defective, deranged and disease ridden in bred line. He was not alone. All the so-called royal houses in the Persian/Arabian Gulf had piss poor protoplasm – in other words a depleted gene pool.
"My sons and daughters are coupling with their cousins. I realize we need to cement alliances with the tribes; I myself have done so, but I think it’s time to rethink this policy of mating only among our select group of relatives. We don’t breed our horses, falcons and camels in the same incestuous way we produce our families and clans … it is reckless. We know better."

Zizu was fortunate. The aged Prince Naim welcomed his beautiful slave and investment kindly. One glimpse of her eyes and he declared,” Henceforth you shall be called Turkhasa, like the gem we call Turkhas (turquoise) He had his best and brightest son Karim aged thirteen, in mind for her, once her blood began its flow (her menses)

In the meantime, she would attend the madrassah for girls, and learn the holy Qu’ran in classical Arabic. Prince Naim had gifted her with a necklace of the largest turquoise spheres money could buy. His agents had scoured all of Iran for months to find them. It was a country the size of Germany, France and the United Kingdom combined.

She was allowed to keep the cross of rough blue and white diamonds, which her Mama had given her, provided she kept it out of sight. This singled her out as someone unique, and nurtured envy, jealousy and hate among her classmates and the future wives of Prince Karim bin Naim bin Nayef.

"Inshallah, she will make a good fourth wife for Karim. The other three wives would still come from the same gene pool," he sighed deeply and with regret.

This is very stupid politics for in the end our heirs are unfit and inept to govern. They are only good at copying the vices of the west, like gambling, womanizing, drinking, snorting cocaine, stuffing their veins with morphine and corrupting their lungs with tobacco.

Prince Naim was aware his eldest son Salim, who would celebrate his seventeenth birthday soon, was being broken into the ways and mores of coupling in the west.

"I agreed to what I consider perverse acts, we are forbidden to seek out pleasure with women other than our own wives. But Salim’s women have complained to their mothers that his sexual sword is too big and painful to accommodate. Salim has a cruel streak; I have always feared that. The harlot, I cannot bring myself to say her odious name, (Candy) is under orders from her Western Master to train him in techniques, which I hope will induce his wives to receive his organ with less tension and more serenity."

He pondered that this was the principal reason why he gave the entrancing Congolese Zizu, henceforth to be known as Turkasa to his son Karim.
Karim has a good- sized piece of procreative flesh and he is gentle with his wives, so I have heard.

"It is a small step I have taken with Turkhasa. She is as fertile as the Nile and the Congo Rivers. Bright. Wise. Kind. Brave. Loving. She will give us many sons and daughters who will be extraordinary in every way. Inshallah," he told his son Karim.

He gazed at him for a long time. Father and son spoke through their eyes. Sometimes what is not said carries more value than words. Silence can be a potent language.

“Our society is polluted and contaminated. Our leaders are venal, debauched and depraved. Am I nothing but an old wishful dreamer out of step with all the rest? Bribable, corrupt and dishonorable men govern our country. It was easy for the Anglo-Americans monsters that call the shots to turn many of them into wicked and immoral people.

“The fault lies with us. We had a choice, once, nearly 110 years ago. We decided on Sin. I am a youth possessed of idealism. Will it be of any use?”

Prince Nayef broke the silence. “She cost me the equivalent of a luxurious car like a BMW. Mind it’s not the price we must think of but also the value. Therefore, learn to cherish Turkhasa, my beloved son.”

“Yes Babba, I shall love her.”

For centuries, the Al Nayef clan had been prosperous merchant Bedouins. The Prince’s grandfather had come from Yemen at the urging of his blood cousin, Abdel Aziz Ibn-Saud who needed support in his fight for control of the vast country of Arabia. With the unending financial and military assistance from the British bankers and secret agents, he had defeated all his enemies, most of whom were clansmen. Then, in a gesture fraught with destiny and blood, he had ensured that his country would henceforth be known as Saudi Arabia. That was his name - Abdel Aziz Ibn-Saud (son of Saud). Of such stuff are dynasties created.

Chapter 1

2009-05-31T04:07:00.000-07:00

Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo
December 2004

"That’s her! That is Heart of Diamonds. She is tougher than steel to negotiate with," remarked a Belgian diamond merchant, in an undertone, to his colleague, a trader from Dubai.

She glided past them and made a slight acknowledgement of their presence. The folds of her white silk robe swished softly in the wind. The handle of her white leather handbag, which was studded with small F grade diamonds, glittered in the morning sun. She was shod in brilliant white leather sandals; its high heels carved in ebony wood, encrusted with gold dust here and there. Her sculpted head was turbaned in white with a large fancy gem adorning its center.

"Heart of Diamonds is a fitting name for the woman. Diamonds are the hardest substances on our planet,” murmured the Arab.

"She is spellbinding just the same," whispered the Belgian.

“In the Arab world our poets compare her to the Queen of Sheba,” added the trader from Dubai.

Diamanthe was her name, and she always dressed in white. She was aware of the effect it had on people, especially men. For Diamanthe was as black as the darkest night in blackest Africa – the Congo.

To quote Lord Byron, the mad, bad, and dangerous to know English poet, "She walked in beauty like the night."

Diamanthe was like a giant polished trunk of an ebony tree. She was proud of her Negritude.”

"I have often been told that I have an exquisitely sculpted head. I believe it. No wigs or any of that rubbish to straighten my hair. Jamais! Never. I think I will either go bareheaded with diamonds stuck here and there in my Afro- bob or wear white turbans studded with fancy gems."

Naked she was one meter and eighty-two inches in height. Round, wide shoulders, small and delicate bones with a tiny waist that glided softly into well-proportioned buttocks and a high derriere. Her fine bosom and cleavage was always adorned with tear shaped diamonds. She possessed a long torso and legs that never seemed to end. Intense hazel eyes, which appeared yellow against her black skin, reminded her friends and foes alike of a coiled serpent poised to strike when you least expected it.

"Only diamonds for me, ma Cher,” she always declared to anyone who listened.

Her tapered nails, painted in silver and white nail polish, contained the tiniest of diamond crusts. The Pythoness Mangana, who lived in Malemba Nkulu, hundreds of miles away from Kinshasa created the polish just for Diamanthe. It was said to contain incantations and omens. The diamonds gave of tiny lights detected only by Heart of Diamonds.

Whenever she was with clients the light told her if she had someone truly interested in acquiring diamonds and gems or if they were just bluffing and fishing. More importantly, their phosphorescent light warned her if the individual before her had a good or mal-intentioned heart.

I know that I am the best publicity and advertisement for all diamonds. I am in a position to show off the most fabulous gems, on my fingers, neck, wrists and toes. The mortal men, who are privileged to see my nearly naked body by my swimming pool, will swear that I wear a twenty-five carat blue diamond on my cleavage. A slim belt encircles my waist studded with baguettes. An inverted pendant of D flawless diamonds reposes majestically on my mound of Venus.

"If you truly wish to see the phosphorescence of a D flawless blue diamond, place it against gorgeous black velvet skin," thus spoke Baron Etienne Duvalier, over two hundred years ago.

Duvalier, a ruthless maven, represented all the interests of His Majesty, King Leopold ll of Belgium. Its absolute Master, the King, in the person of his minions, had the power of instant death. His rapacity for blood and gore, were outmatched only by his lust for diamonds, gold, emeralds, sapphires…anything and everything that the Belgian Congo, as it was then known, possessed. Legend has it that Baron Duvalier wore a belt buckle studded with D flawless square cut diamonds, which formed the letter P – for plunder.

"Most of all, my formidable nose for "les affaires" centered on the business of ebony. As you know my dear colleagues" Duvalier wrote to the British guilds," the word ebony is a double entendre for the rare, precious wood, which abounds in the rain forests and jungles and the slave labor, which always outruns the fertility of their soil."

Back to present day Kinshasa, at the Atelier “Heart of Diamonds”, Diamanthe would slowly and in a low pitched voice, tell her greedy clients,” You realize mon cher clients that you cannot hide your anxiety from me. You wish to buy the best diamonds but at rock bottom prices.”

She was facing Belgian and Arab dealers who were attempting to haggle over each and every gem endlessly. They hoped to tire her out. Never!

"Unless I take a decisive course of action, the meeting will run into the next one. My timetable and earnings will surely be affected, to say nothing of my image."

At this point of the meeting, Diamante would rise slowly from her straight backed gilded chair, like a majestic Venus from the diamond studded mines deep in the bowels of the earth.

"I am aware of my country’s bloody history and the plunder which continues to this day. You see before you, a smart black woman, lady, and cookie, whatever you wish. I know all the mark ups, and the tricks. The best crooks and criminals were my teachers. That is not a secret. So, you know and I know that we are both getting a good deal. If you are not convinced, I believe the expression is “take it or leave it"

Heart of Diamonds would not wait for the shocked customer’s reply; she would be on her way out of her austere atelier. She made them run after her.

"Bien Sure. Certainly. We accept!”

I feel a sense of poetic justice that the mzungis / rich foreigners – white, yellow, brown, and Technicolor, depend on the good graces and the smart ethical moves of a black woman, to obtain the best cut and uncut gems in the African continent, she mused contentedly.

Yes indeed! Diamanthe - Heart of Diamonds was a shining young black woman who by sheer force of will became the most successful dealer of cut and uncut diamonds as well as of other gems in Kinshasa, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. The Congo is the heart of Africa. It has ever been thus.

Most certainly, in good and bad times Diamanthe used her acute and creative intelligence judiciously. She loved her brothers and sisters without measure, which, was also a driving force towards success. She was endowed with an uncanny knack for choosing the right lover, protector and partner. Loyalty in an extremely volatile and duplicitous business carried great financial rewards. Heart of Diamonds cultivated her clients with care and charmed them with an almost brutal candor.

"Heart of Diamonds had zenze,” pronounced the ancient members of the Baluba tribe.

Long before the Romans as the first white men in recorded history ever-set foot in Africa; the Baluba roamed the continent at will, conquerors, visionaries, and miners of diamonds, seers, magicians and sorcerers all. After many wars and expeditions they chose the Congo as their special region. The magicians and sorcerers had seen the whole continent of Africa in a series of visions.

"This is where we shall live and settle down, in the heart of our continent, where the heart would be if the land were human. That is how the Congo will come to be."

"Zenze meant that in addition to positive attributes which outshone your negative ones, all living creatures had the capacity to endure whatever the fates brought you. If you endured, you had zenze and emerged victorious. If you lacked zenze the Congo swallowed and re-absorbed you," so stated the Baluba.

Brava!!

2009-03-23T03:43:00.000-07:00

Author's Notes:

Jeanne Rejaunier is the author of 8 books, including the best seller "The Beauty Trap" and is a freelance writer living in Florida.

She received the first draft of my upcoming book Heart of Diamonds (all except the last 10 chapters) and sent me the following email, which I am reprinting with her permission.

Brava Isabel,

Your chapters are absolute marvels. Heart of Diamonds is an amazing work that excels on so many levels, as you venture into areas untrod by other writers. The plundering of the Congo, untold cruelties by rapacious, inhuman degenerates, disgusting acts by people who will stoop to anything and stop at nothing, the slaughter of innocents – the book shocks and I would venture to say, will wake readers up to things they never dreamed existed before.

Then there is the spiritual dimension, the satanic and the angelic, and the Catholic church, a depiction of which will surprise many (who are used to a totally different picture of the church). You show Catholicism in a light which will be a revelation to most readers. Might one say this is the "true Catholicism," as practiced by very few today, representing the ideal that was originally intended two thousand years ago.

The slavery angle makes a very interesting focus, and should cause people who view slavery solely in terms of that which was practiced in the US till the 1860's to do a volte-face (and with a red face, too).

I should not neglect to mention your command of trade-craft and spook knowledge, which rivals that of the best writers of that genre. (I’m still wondering how that plane changed from blue to green). The characters are wonderful, the story moves along swiftly, the reader keeps wanting to turn the pages.

In terms of definition, I think Heart of Diamonds could also be considered an adult version in the "Harry Potter" genre. But truly, it is a hybrid, a sui generis work that surpasses classification. Brava! I am in awe of your effort and am eager to read to the end (which I don’t want to come, because I’ll want to keep on reading).

Baci,

Jeanne

Fighting for the Heart of Africa

2009-03-10T11:22:00.000-07:00

Every day we hear about Iraq and Afghanistan. From time to time there are comments about Darfur, but nowhere is man’s inhumanity to man more visible than in the Congo.

While the English speaking world looks at the battle for oil – they miss the most important battle for world resources today: the battle for the riches of Africa. What the colonialists lost – the Chinese are now winning.

Forget resources for minute. The Congolese are amazing people. The ancient kingdom of warriors and sorcerers the Balubas defined as the heart of Africa.

“If the continent were human that is where the heart would be,” they decreed.

Let no one challenge this. Most Africans do not. White people who have lived in the Congo tend to agree. Genocide is taking place in the Heart of Africa. To be exact, a series of never ending genocides have hit the Congo since the depraved, debauched, greedy and gruesome King Leopold ll of Belgium in the late 19th and early 20th century first send his scouts to darkest Africa. He took it, mined and exploited every natural resource known to the Belgians at the time. The greed of the Rich knows no bounds. Jesus tells us. Philosophers tell us. So, they became the masters of the ebony trade. It is a double entendre for the rare wood - ebony and for the slave trade.

“Just look at the Congolese. Strong, well built, a handsome people, they take longer to die than other Africans. The slave trade is made for them and perfect for us, Your Majesty,” declared his most corrupt courtier, the Marquis de Sauvignon.

The Congolese experienced every horror: Slavery, Rape, Mutilation, Manumition and mass slaughter. Entire villages were deracinated. Dozens of others burnt and erased from the face of the Congo. The King and his infamous company Societe General de Belgique swam indifferently in Congolese blood.

“What of it? Blacks are not exactly human. We are making so much money, the British wish they had the Congo as a colony to rival the British and the French in Africa with their many possessions,” retorted they to the criticisms and denunciations of the Catholic Church and its many missionaries there.

Like the Germans, of whom it has been said that they never know when they are beaten, the Congolese never know when they were dead. In the midst of Death, the Congo vibrated and pullulated with the sounds of Music, Poetry, and Dance. Even their drums were like heartbeats. Anyone who has heard the drums can attest to feeling their chests quiver with their rhythm.

Amnesty International and the Nobel Prize Laureate for Peace MSF - Medecins sans Frontieres, Doctors without Borders, estimate that more than five million people have lost their lives as a direct consequence of their savage Civil War. Will Peace ever come to the Congo? Not anytime soon. Here’s why.

The Congo is vast. Its wealth of natural resources, minerals, metals, flora and fauna is just as vast. It has inexhaustible amounts of uranium mines. Copper and nitrate mines abound. Diamonds and all conceivable types of gems proliferate. The fertility of the soil runs neck and neck with the fecundity of its people. The telecom multinational cartels are making a killing in all senses of the word by their exploitation of Tantalum. This mineral is vital to microchips as well as computer chips. In the West, we call it coltan. The world would come to a tragic standstill without the precious tantalum-coltan. And so gangsters, thugs, mercenaries serving in the armies of Rwanda, Uganda, Burundi, and Angola continue the killing. One of the sons of that repulsive monster Idi Amin is very much involved in the Army of Uganda. All the above mentioned killers and mercenaries are taking scrupulous care never- but never to endanger in any way the mining, logging, child slavery, child pornography, child soldiers and child assassins. Why should they” They are paid handsomely in liquidity and in armaments to continue the war indefinitely. This is in order to enable the cabals, monopolies and cartels from Europe and the United States to continue their innumerable business-as–usual enterprises; undeterred and undisturbed.

The Congo is endowed with clever Youth. You can find child soldiers tougher than the militias in Iraq. Child snipers more unerringly accurate than the best Army marksmen. Child prostitutes so debauched that they repel some men. Child entertainers so naturally talented, Britney and J-Lo and Shakira and Beyonce are mere mediocrities beside them. Millions of homeless angels and sparrows (as the children are called by the older population) survive quite well on the streets of Kinshasa. They are masterful thieves and con artists. I once spent a couple of hours with a Combonian missionary priest among the angels and the sparrows of Kinshasa. They were way cool despite the horrors they had endured. No one wailed on my shoulder asking for pity. They told me that banding together was important to survive.

They need to stay together because child slavery is alive and well in the Congo. The children are kidnapped and taken everywhere: The Middle East and to the Far East. Europe and America. Organ harvesting is common. Surrogate mothers as young as thirteen are bought used and killed after giving birth to a white, yellow, or Semitic infant.

N. B. I am mostly referring to Arabs. Most Ashkenazi Jews look of Turkic or Mongol origin to me, which is not to say that some Jews are not availing themselves of these opportunities.

All these crimes against humanity are occurring every minute of the day. Hands are cut off, legs are blown, and shootists kill all sorts of people, priests and nuns with a Beretta, (they are the best to use at close range) so the sparrows tell me.

“They aim for the eyes. There are no survivors,” Father Filippo told me. His religious order has lived, worked and died in the Congo for over fifty years.

Actress and Diva Catherine Deneuve has quietly invested money in a company, which makes unusual and practical leg and arm prosthetics – used in the Congo. They are also inexpensive.

The Congo is a predominantly Catholic country. Its Cardinal Frederic Etsou- Bamungwabi has repeatedly and strongly spoken out against the Genocide. Aside from L’Osservatore Romano, Vatican Radio and Catholic magazines, all the world Media at the moment, ignore the Genocide in the Congo and instead consider Darfur a la mode.

For all its wealth, beauty, music, dance, sorcery and shamanism, juju (magic), its vastness, rainforests, flora, fauna, a primate including Man – the Congo is not an “IN” country to endorse. Thanks to the reprehensible silence of the Media and the clear indifference of those whose wealth ensures that the Genocide continues, it is not PC - politically correct to be seen lolling around in a canoe in the mighty Congo River. It is also infested with 20-foot long crocodiles, but did that deter John Huston, Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn, film legends all from making “The African Queen” in the Congo? No! Critics and the public of various generations have rated it one of the five greatest movies ever made. That was back in the fifties. No one told Huston, Bogey and Kate where to go, what to say and what to omit. They had Bravery and Balls.

As we end the year 2007, the Congo is not cool. It’s not chic. We will not see the likes of Gorgeous George (Clooney). Bono who is usually found like parsley in the trendy and high profile meetings of the elite or is it more correctly termed the ILL-LUMINATI? Good Bono is nowhere to be seen. One must ask, would La Jolie Femme Angelina, dare to challenge and offend her Sponsors at the CFR (Council on Foreign Relations) and visit the Congo on her own initiative? I am not holding my breath.

In spite of all this horrors, there is hope for the Congo. It may be long term but it is there nonetheless. I am betting on the Congolese people themselves. Last October, they saw through the lies and the webs of deceit in a presidential election and voted for the young Joseph Kabila, who stepped in when his father Laurent was assassinated. Joseph is quiet and astute, somewhat of a mysterious man. He is a Tutsi, so the horrors he must have lived through cannot even be imagined. He rarely gives interviews.

“Fools names and fools faces are always seen in public places,” says an old Congolese aphorism,

Laurent Kabila adopted him when he in turn lost all his blood sons to sickness and war. Joseph may be kin. We just don’t know. His birth name may not have been Joseph either. That matters little or nothing in the Congo. Like Jews, they change their names to forget, to put on a new skin, to have a more positive life, and to live once more. Joseph cannot speak Lingala Congolese fluently, but his English is impeccable as is his French and quite possibly his Mandarin, Africaans and Swahili. For the Congo Joseph’s reflective manner and decisive action when necessary, has proven to be a cunning political leader. Some of his most trusted Advisors are elderly Chinese men and women from Mainland China. I think we can all draw our own conclusions. He does not lose himself in long speeches. He promises little. He talks about Hope That is something every Congolese holds on to in their heart of hearts. Joseph is also attractive which does not hurt his image. His wife Olive is a pretty woman. Both keep a low profile. She is a Roman Catholic and Joseph is Protestant. In a spirit of ecumenism their marriage was celebrated in both rituals.

There is a Warlord, Nkundi who has retreated with his multinational army of mercenaries into a small area of the Congo, as large as Maryland. He has refused to accept the result of the Presidential election, which gave Kabila a large majority of the votes. It suits the multinationals to have a malleable but ruthless man who plays the part of a buffoon. He talks to the press often. He provides yet another diversion to keep the tension high and the blood boiling high. In other words, continue with the rape and the killing.

Kabila never stoops to counter his vile accusations. As I said, Kabila is young and he knows how to wait. He has The People’s Republic of China behind him. A formidable ally in every sense of the word. A line has been drawn in the rain forests, the lakes, rivers and immense wealth.

“This far and no further.”

On the geopolitical chessboard we have the quagmire in Iraq, which might last twenty years. Lest we forget Afghanistan and Pakistan. Quelle horreur! Ca va sans dire, a possible military confrontation with Iran. While the US has focused the world's attention on the Middle East – perhaps the the most important battle for resources taking place is access to the riches of the Congo, and Africa – and the winning hand seems to be going to the Chinese right now.

It is in the Congo where the fate of Africa will be determined. If you think the black continent is irrelevant, think again. Read Joseph Conrad’s masterful novella “Heart of Darkness.”

Francis Coppola used the story for his “Apocalypse Now” motion picture. He did not change the most powerful scenes in Conrad’s book. That would have been sacrilegious. “The horror of it … the horror,” rasps the dying evil Kurtz in Conrad’s book and in Coppola’s film.

Conrad was not referring to African cruelty towards their fellow Africans. He meant white brutality against Africans - the Congo to be exact. As I said in the beginning of this essay, the Congo, like the Germans cannot be killed. They will never lie down and die. They will fight in a thousand ways. A few of us are witnessing it.

The world may yet see an African Renaissance exploding in the Congo. And don't be surprised if there is a strong Chinese influence in bringing it about.

Introductory Remarks

2009-03-10T05:48:00.000-07:00

"Sometimes I wonder whether the world is being run by smart people

who are putting us on or by imbeciles who really mean it.

Mark Twain

"Insane people for insane objectives are running our society.
I think we are being run by maniacs for maniacal ends.
I think that I’m liable to be put away as insane for expressing that.
That’s what’s insane about it."

John Lennon

"In the beginning was the Money and the Money was with the Masters
and The Money was the Masters"

Contessa Isabella Vacani