A Long Way to Home

By David L. Allen

In the early 1960s an eleven-year-old boy from an isolated bush village in the Congo forest climbs on a passenger train at a small station near Angola to sell fruit, but he fails to get off in time. Believing the train will reverse direction, hes carried across central Africa to Elisabethville. Armed soldiers force him off the train, and he enters a city where he knows no one or how to survive.

Alone and knowing nothing about life in a rapidly growing, modern African city, the boys pleas for help go unanswered. Hes lost and alone until a street boy teaches him how to steal and beg. His attempts to slip aboard a train to return home remain blocked by armed soldiers. He learns to live by his wits and becomes adept at stealing purses, wallets, and unguarded parcels. He witnesses the death of a friend, is caught in the middle of a military battle for the city, and lives in fear of being killed by a local thief.

Suspicious and distrustful of white people, hes reluctant to accept assistance from a foreigner who offers to send him to school. He becomes ill and almost dies until found by the one willing to help. He becomes part of this mans family and visits the site of his old home in the bush. He never loses his desire to locate his village family, but he discovers that home isnt a place but people who care for him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Mar 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781973621812

David L. Allen

David L. Allen, a United Methodist minister, was a missionary in the Democratic Republic of Congo from 1961 to 1973, where he taught high school, directed a pastoral training center, and served as a community developer. Upon his return to the United States, he was administrator of a large mission and superintendent of mission churches in eastern Kentucky. Allen now lives in a retirement community for ministers and missionaries in north Florida.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The phone on the side table rang sharply, jolting John awake. He was sitting back in his blue recliner, feet up, glasses slipped down to the tip of his nose, a newspaper spread across his lap. Blinking to clear his vision, he leaned forward and released the footrest. But still, he remained uncertain about where he was. His eyes slowly focused on a painting of an African woman that hung in their den. It was a valued gift from the artist who had illustrated Kiswahili literacy materials for him in the Congo.

He managed to pick up the receiver on the fifth ring and clear his voice. Un-huh! Hello, he answered huskily.

Mateeni, a familiar voice responded. How are you, Dad?

Monga! Is that you? Seventy-three-year-old John Martin was now fully awake. How are you, son?

Fine, Dad. But I must first tell you I’ve just a moment to talk. I’m in a late meeting in DC, and others are waiting for me. My reason for calling is to ask if it’d be convenient for you if I make a quick visit home this weekend. I’ll be coming alone.

Of course, son. It’s always convenient for you to visit. You know that! But why’re you coming alone? Is everyone okay?

Don’t worry, Dad. Julianne and the kids are fine. Something important has come up, and I want to talk it over with you and Mom. They already had plans for this weekend, and this can’t wait. I wish I had time to discuss the details just now, but I must go. I’ll email my flight number tonight. Okay?

Are you sure everything’s all right?

I’m sure, Mateeni. Don’t worry, Monga answered with a chuckle. I have to run now, Dad. Tell Mother hello and that I love her. See you late Friday evening.

Before John could respond or ask another question, the phone was dead. Frowning, he hung up and tried to figure out what the brief phone call could be about. It was unusual for Monga to make a quick trip home and even more unusual for him to come alone.

Who was on the phone, darling? asked Margaret, John’s wife of fifty years. She came into the den from the adjoining kitchen, drying her hands on a dishcloth.

John and Margaret Martin lived in a garden apartment with a small yard and flowers, mostly roses and red geraniums, across the front. A few tomato plants grew in huge plastic buckets near the back door. After years of missionary service abroad in a tropical climate, they had settled in a community for retired ministers, missionaries, and YMCA workers near Jacksonville, Florida. During his missionary career, he had served as a pastor, teacher, and administrator, and she had been educated as a teacher.

John and Margaret chose this community for the many volunteer opportunities it provided. They had always been active and were not ready for rocking chairs or for someone to wait on them. Their community had a small golf course, but they seldom played. The entrance and monthly fees were in their price range. Having moved so many times, they did not plan to pack up again.

It was Monga. He smiled up at his wife and shrugged. But he didn’t have long to talk. He said he was in a late meeting and others were waiting for him.

What did he want?

That’s the curious part. He asked if it was convenient to fly down for a visit this weekend. But alone! He clearly said he was coming alone!

Alone? she repeated, making a face. What about Julianne and the kids? Why aren’t they coming?

You now know as much as I do, he answered with another shrug. He said he had something important to share and planned to arrive late tomorrow evening. He did say the family was fine. But he hung up before I could get any details.

That’s odd! Don’t you think so? she quizzed him. What’s the ‘something important’ he wants to talk over with us? Didn’t he at least give a hint?

Absolutely nothing. You know Monga as well or probably better than I do. He’s always kept things to himself until he was ready to share. When he gets ready to tell us his news, he will. Until then, we’ll just have to wait.

Huh! she retorted. I still think it’s unusual! As she retreated, she added, Did he say what time he’ll arrive?

He’ll email the details, he responded. John could not remember a time since Monga and Julianne had married twenty years ago that he had come home alone. Even if Monga’s stay was going to be short, John was happy he was coming home.

John smiled at the thought of Monga and his family. Their adopted son was a civil engineer, an honors graduate of Georgia Tech, and a successful employee of General Electric for over twenty years. His family had been moved about twice and now lived in Philadelphia, where he was active in his church and community. Recently, he had been recognized as the board chairman of a local institution that worked with troubled youth. He was also gifted with languages, fluent not only in his native Kimbundu but in Kiswahili, French, and English.

If Monga had ever been a problem to them, that problem took the shape of their worry that he would never get married. When he did, he got the pick of the litter with Julianne. It was no wonder their children excelled at everything they tried.

She was a lovely wife and mother who taught social studies at an inner-city high school. Tall, still slender, and fit, she had large brown eyes and smooth light-tan skin. Always well groomed, she was humorous as well as intelligent, soft-spoken but not shy. What a great help she had been to Monga, especially in their early years when dark memories of his lost childhood in Congo refused to remain repressed.

Granddaughter Tasha was as beautiful as her mother, filling out this past year to show signs of what she would become as an adult. An excellent student, she would enter the ninth grade next fall. She loved sports, played clarinet in her middle school band, and was always at the top of her class.

Her older brother, Mpoyo, a high school senior, was named after his father’s childhood friend. He looked like his dad, and like his father, he was slender and tall, his complexion a little darker than his mother’s or Tasha’s. He was a good student, also interested in sports, and a fierce competitor in any game.

They had raised Monga since he was almost twelve. Later, they had endured the long process of legally adopting him before leaving Africa the last time. They had two children of their own, Susan and Thomas, both several years older than Monga. They also lived out of state, but they all came home at least once or twice a year.

Leaning back in his recliner, again raising the footrest, John closed his eyes. But this time, he did not nap. His mind was filled with images of Monga, both as a homeless boy and now as a man. He had shared memories with them from his early life from the bush village in Angola to the alien streets of Elisabethville, now renamed Lubumbashi.

John accepted that he would never fully understand many of Monga’s African tribal customs and ways. While their twenty-nine years of missionary experience had helped somewhat, he knew Monga would remember his days and events as a lost street boy very differently from what his foreign father and mother could imagine.

Chapter 2

His adoptive parents had been surprised to learn that Monga was not a native, or even a citizen, of the Democratic Republic of Congo. His birthplace was a small bush village in north-central Angola, then still a colony of Portugal. He did not know the date or month he was born, only that it was during the rainy season. He was the youngest son of a village headman of the Mbundu tribe that inhabited much of the African plateau south of Congo’s border.

The boy would share numerous other surprises as he learned to trust his adoptive parents. They had found parts of his personal story almost impossible to believe, while other events in his past generated bouts of laughter or streams of tears, often both at the same time. Not that they doubted the truth of what he shared. His unusual story had been as strange and event filled to them as theirs had been to him.

* * *

Monga had little memory of his birthplace before he was five years old. Then his village had been strafed, bombed, and basically destroyed by planes flown by Portuguese army pilots. Later, when he was older and could better understand, he would hear the story of the surprise attack retold many times by his father, Kanjundu Frederique. Having attended a mission elementary school, his father could understand enough Portuguese to grasp what was taking place in his country. The struggle to become independent had gone on for several years, and many innocent villagers had lost their lives.

A natural leader, wise, kind, and strong, Kanjundu was respected by his people. He wanted his country to be free but had chosen not to be active in the struggle because of the pain it might bring them. The pain came anyway. He suspected a nearby Kikongo village had spread the false rumor that he was a freedom fighter and his village was a hotbed of rebellion. It was untrue, of course, but a shrewd ploy on their part, for it was the Kikongo tribe that had joined willfully in the Angolan natives’ struggle for freedom from colonial rule.

In less than fifteen minutes, twenty-six of Kanjundu’s villagers, all of them subsistence-level farmers, had been killed. Their church, the largest structure in the village, was the first building to receive a hit. Only a Bible, or what was left of it, had been salvaged from the ruins. The lay pastor and his family of four were among those killed.

Other villagers died soon afterward from their injuries. Their grass-roofed huts had easily burst into flames. The inhabitants suffocated from the smoke before burning to death as the walls of the mud-brick huts had collapsed, crushing those inside. Mongo remembered hearing the screaming and crying for God’s help. Those not too severely wounded had fled to the nearby forest in fear the planes would return to finish the task.

After the dead were buried and the injured cared for, Kanjundu had gathered the survivors for a palaver, the African method of settling problems and making group decisions. By this time, many who had fled had returned. Everyone had their say on what they must do, all agreeing the village must move. A small number wanted to seek revenge on the Kikongo village, but his father had counseled this was not the right or safe thing to do. Some also wanted to remain in the area where their ancestors had lived and died for centuries; it was agreed that these would go to other nearby Mbundu villages. Forty-six, in seven families, chose to follow the leadership of Kanjundu eastward to a yet to be decided place, somewhere that was safe and far from the war.

In fear of another attack, it was decided that all should leave immediately. Those staying nearby departed that very day, with plans to return for what they had to leave behind. After gathering all they could salvage from the ruins, those with Kanjundu set forth two days later with all their possessions in their arms, on their backs, or atop their heads.

Some, wanting to take mementos of their old village, dug up charms and sacred totems hidden in a corner of their dirt floors or pulled them from the grass roofs over their doorways. Despite the teaching of their dead pastor, they still believed the charms would ward off evil spirits. Others just wanted to make certain the ancestral spirits traveled with them.

Kanjundu’s family took only the bare necessities and the partially burned Bible rescued from the chapel. Food carried in grass sacks had top priority. He would read the Bible each evening for his family and those who wanted to join them.

On two occasions, the eastward-bound trekkers found an acceptable village site but both times were soon forced to move. Each time, hostile neighbors had destroyed their gardens, ripping newly planted citrus and other fruit trees from the soil. On the second occasion, a hut was set on fire, injuring a small child. Revenge was again desired, but Kanjundu refused; instead they abandoned their newly built homes and gardens as they headed eastward to their promised land.

Along the way, several of the original forty-six died from the difficult travel and scarce food; others became so disillusioned they returned to their old area. Some of them felt that evil spirits did not wish for them to leave and were punishing those who did; others were just too tired to continue. Only twenty-one of the original group were with Kanjundu when they at last found their land of Canaan beside a river.

Monga had few memories of their months of searching for a new home, but he remembered vividly how everyone celebrated when they at last reached the river that marked the border with the Democratic Republic of the Congo. He was approaching his sixth birthday. When his father had announced their search was over, he said a prayer of thanksgiving for their safety. That evening, around the cook fire, he read the story from his damaged Bible of another weary band of people who had sought a new homeland where they would be free. They had also undertaken a long, dangerous journey, at last crossing a river to flee from persecution.

Everyone was nearly exhausted, some sick, one near death, but they shared their scarce supplies of food to rejoice and give thanks to a gracious God. Surely, they prayed, their days as refugees were now over. Recovering their strength, they sang and listened to stories, some humorous but most sad and nostalgic. Most were about better times back at their former home village.

The following day, while the older and sick ones rested, the women and older girls washed clothes in the river. They laughed and sang as they scrubbed and pounded their dirty linen, much of it falling apart from the long, rough wear. Leaving the joyful group, Kanjundu and three trusted men crossed the river to explore for a good place to settle. They returned in the late afternoon filled with more good news; a village site lay only a half day’s walk north. The talk around the fire that evening was about the chosen site being protected by the river on the west and a large swamp on the east. Two streams flowing from the swamp guarded each side of the chosen site.

The explorers reported the new village site had no signs of recent inhabitants. After finding none, they stepped off the high, dry area to determine if it was large enough for their huts, plus ample space to plant gardens and fruit trees. In answer to anxious questions about neighbors, the men reported that a small village lay beyond the swamp. The wetlands, however, made the site almost inaccessible from every side except during the height of the dry season. An overgrown path appeared to circle the swamp, but it showed no sign of recent use.

The men had encountered several local hunters, who turned out to be from the Tschokwe village. From them, they learned the river they had crossed was called the Kasai and had plentiful fish. Because of the swamp, they went to the river to fish farther north, and even then only during the dry season.

They also reported that Dilolo, a small Congolese railway town and government post on the Angolan border, lay a half day’s walk to the north.

Monga spent the next five years of his life in the new village. A little sister, Namina, was born when he was nine. Mukanda, his older brother by two years, often accompanied Monga and village friends his age as they explored the near edges of the swamp and the forest beyond both streams. Kanjundu was his teacher, sharing with him their family and tribal traditions, including how to fish, hunt, set traps for small animals, and survive in the bush. His mother, Mukanda, passionate and kind, saw that he carried out his family responsibilities.

Although there was no pastor, Kanjundu built a new chapel where he could regularly gather those interested to hear him read the Bible. A few, however, slowly slipped back into their early and more traditional native worship of ancestors and spirits.

Still fearful of anything governmental, the villagers had agreed not to report their presence to the Congolese officials in Dilolo. As a result, the presence of Kanjundu’s village had so far not come to their attention. The Tschokwe neighbors were their only visitors, now coming from time to time to purchase dried fish. There were infrequent but necessary trips to the railway at Dilolo to sell fruit and vegetables to passengers on passing trains. In this way, they soon learned the basics of Kiswahili, the local trade language.

When Monga was eleven years old, Mukanda stepped on a thorn, and his foot became so infected he could only hobble about. Since a needed visit to the railway line at Dilolo had been planned, Kanjundu decided his younger son would accompany him. Thus, on a chilly, dry season (July) morning before the sun had risen, father and son set out for the railway, both carrying baskets and heavy backpacks filled with various kinds of fruit. Both were barefooted, dressed in sleeveless shirts and short trousers. Monga’s shirt had once been white, his shorts a faded green, and a pass-me-down sweater from Mukanda was gray. He looked back and waved at his mother as he fell into step behind his father, excited but also fearful about the trip. He did not linger, however, for he was determined to keep up with the steady pace set by Kanjundu.

Twice, they paused for a rest for Monga to catch his breath, his father to massage the sore spots rubbed by Monga’s backpack, and to share a bottle of water. He was an active boy, but his father’s steady pace soon exhausted him. By the time they arrived in Dilolo, he wanted only to lie down and rest. As a result, he saw little of the town before it was time for the train to arrive. His father promised they would visit some of the small shops along the train tracks before they returned home. There were supplies they needed to buy.

The Benguela railway, owned and operated by American, British, and Belgian corporations, built the town of Dilolo exclusively as a convenient stop near the Congo border with Angola. Here, they were able to resupply the firewood and water needed to make steam for the few wood-burning locomotives still in use. The tracks linked the mineral-rich heart of Africa to the Angolan port of Luanda and thus cargo ships to Europe. What made the line profitable was the abundant copper, uranium, cobalt, and other metal ores that were converted into useful and very profitable products for the world market. Little of the wealth generated in Congo would return to Africa, as it was retained in Europe and America.

The rail line at Dilolo consisted of the main line plus a short side track used to switch locomotives and park idle railway cars. Great stacks of firewood waited beside the main line along with a water tower for refilling the boilers.

Dilolo’s main street ran beside the tracks and contained the small shopping area before it turned north into the interior. A raised sidewalk gave access to a string of small shops operated by expatriates from India and east Africa. Each contained a variety of cheap goods, mostly bolts of cloth, household goods, and cheap shoes. A foot-pedaled sewing machine stood beside the entry of each store and was manned by a skilled male seamstress who was ready to fill orders immediately. In a few minutes, while the customer waited, they could produce a lady’s kikwembe skirt, a colorful African shirt, or a pair of trousers.

The main building in town was the one-room railway station that also lodged the ticket and telegraph offices. In the rear was a shed for making simple railway repairs and a storage depot for barrels of diesel oil and gasoline. Semi-attached to the depot was an eight-room, two-story hotel with a small dining room, the only place in town to buy a meal.

Other than the rare vehicle from the east or north that passed through town, the Dilolo traffic consisted of a dozen ancient pickup trucks that seldom moved. Along the highway north, an expanding cluster of small, sunbaked adobe houses provided shelter for the city’s population, 95 percent of whom worked for the railway.

Finding a place in the welcome shade under a huge ironwood tree, Kanjundu and Monga put down their baskets before eating some of their fruit. Afterward, they got a long drink from a faucet behind the railway station, Monga’s first experience of drinking from a faucet. He had never seen water come from anything other than a hand-dug well or stream. He was so weary and thirsty, however, he only wanted a place to rest.

He immediately fell asleep, awaking only when aroused by his father with the news that the train had arrived. His father had to call a second time for him to hurry, but his weariness vanished when the huge engine rumbled past, spouting clouds of steam and sending sparks flying. He gritted his teeth and grimaced at the screech that came when the locked steel wheels slid past to a stop on the metal tracks.

Preparing Monga for his role in selling the fruit, Kanjundu quickly gave a few simple instructions. He could see the uncertainty in his younger son’s face and tried to assure him there was nothing to be anxious or frightened about. His task would be simple, he promised. All he had to do was to board the rear railway coach and sell fruit to passengers. His brother Mukanda had done it without mishap on numerous visits, he said.

But hurry and be careful, he added. The train has a schedule to keep, but you must not be in such a rush that you forget to collect the money. Then, knowing the time was critical, his father sent him with his basket aboard the train.

To Monga’s surprise, the task was easier than he had imagined. Within minutes, he had sold all the oranges, bananas, guavas, and mangos in his basket; the coins and wadded bills were safely stuffed into his pocket. Now grinning, he returned with new confidence to get a refill from his father.

Although it had been cool when they left the village, the sun had heated the air, causing beads of sweat to run down his forehead. He refilled his basket four times while his father peddled fruit to passengers leaning out the train windows. Together, they were collecting enough money to make all their needed purchases in the track-side shops.

Rushing to keep the train on schedule, the crew had switched locomotives; the first was now ready to return to the Angolan side of the border. The replacement engine was already in place, being loaded with more cords of firewood and the reservoir filled with water from the tower.

Monga was in the middle of the coach when the