Crispy Stories in the Tropics

By Simon Dinkala

Many of these stories revolve around the forbidden fruit and the conquering of another's heart by using a fetish, making him helplessly captivated. There are numerous stories of jealousy, envy, and other natural phenomena. The reader will find some samples of those in this

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Vine Press
• Release date: Sep 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781955885669

Simon Dinkala

Dinkala Simon was born in a village in the Belgian Congo on March 3, 1953. When he was a child, everyone talked about his storytelling and comedic talents. He started making people laugh by telling, in his own way and with particular originality, a story that all his listeners had yet participated or witnessed. It was said of him that he would have written the gospel if he had wanted to, without having been part of the story. Has that influenced his choice for studying psychology and development at the university? We find traces of this in his adventure as a writer, musician, and filmmaker. He even led this with passion as soon as he entered what he himself called the “third age,” the age of deep conception. Literature, travel, and various family, social, and professional experiences, including in the Congolese and Canadian public administrations and in the United Nations System, have contributed to this. Just in this first volume, Simon Dinkala already gives us a peek of what to expect on the second volume for juicier stories.

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Contents

Foreword

The Student Victim of Witchcraft

Infidels of the Batéké Plateau

The Woman and the Boa

Baby and Aids

The Total Malfunction

The Folly of Mandona

The Smells That Make You Escape

A Punishing Sleep

The Corporate Executive Officer Lost

The Tree in the Middle of River Kuyu

The Mice Guard

Ovules Make Victims

The Beautiful Girl with a Masked Face

The 12 Gauge Became a Rocket Launcher

The Director and Her Employee

The Necrophilia of the General Hospital

Just a Symbolic Tool

The Jealous Win

The Student Guilty of Adultery

Little Fish Makes Great People

Afterword

Foreword

Many of these stories revolve around the forbidden fruit and the conquering of the other person’s heart by a fetish, making him helplessly tied. There are numerous stories of jealousy, envy, and other natural phenomena. The reader will find some samples of those in this book.

Traditionally, a lot of ink, saliva, and even tears have been poured about sex, especially when it is about guilty relations between two lovers, relationships in which one of the parties, at least, is officially recognized as in a relationship or married to another person. These relationships are commonly and humorously referred to as forbidden fruit by analogy to the legend of the Garden of Eden.

In Africa, especially in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), many people have had to suffer not the rigor of the law for their infidelity against their spouses but the painful fate spells related to custom. This is particularly true when it is about guilty relations with a wife or husband of another person.

Indeed, many husbands, jealous or just not confident in their relationships with their wives, trap them with spells and charms of all kinds so that if the wife misbehaves with another man, the consequences, either immediate or delayed, are felt by the unfaithful wife, the cuckold, or both lovers.

We invite you to follow us in a few adventures, a light sample of what happens every day in the fields, the bushes, and the closed rooms or vice houses.

What are the supernatural phenomena, trials, punishment, or suffering that those who crunch the forbidden fruit face?

Stories you are told through these recitals are not the result of collective imagination; several witnesses had experienced these scenes. Family members of the people concerned, neighbors, police, and customary, judicial, and administrative authorities who are most often involved can confirm different accounts in more detail.

Is the path we take in life all mapped out? Are there events that inevitably influence our life choices and can change the course of our lives?

Is it true that there are opportunities to get a man to do things he does not want to do, that he loathes? You might think of natural or legal constraints or pressures of all kinds. I am speaking of the invisible forces that can distract you from your path.

The most incredible things happen in the tropics, where occult or obscurantist forces can divert you from your right path, and this is without you knowing anything about it.

The Zakala Ha phenomenon is a living example. This phenomenon is defined as the evil force concocted by traditional witch doctors to neutralize the will and to tear on their behalf or commission the love of a man or a woman without his/her consent.

In our Congolese society, many people, men and women and even young people, use these fetishists to conquer hearts they would not otherwise have conquered. These witch doctors give, upon their consequent, retribution, of course, a potion, dust, bark, formula, prayer and other rituals, ceremonies, and mantras used in a manual that will tell you, and this in addition to what he has asked his invisible entities, all to destroy the ability of the other person to say no or to think about what is happening to him. The victim becomes like an object that does the will of his executioner, something he would never have done without this external competition of the fetishist.

I have written this book to tell real life stories, some as crisp and as incredible as the others. But I have written it, first, to denounce retrograde behaviors we demonstrate in our daily lives and, second, to encourage the development of attitudes that can contribute in the joy, peace, and therefore individual and collective well-being.

I denounce the behaviors that are burdens on the path of love, humility, justice, fidelity, forgiveness, consistency, harmony, and sincerity. I denounce acts of negative witchcraft, envy, jealousy, guilt, and infidelity. I denounce carelessness, laxity, theft, rape, and harmful fetish practices. I denounce all kinds of abuses, easy gain, forced and early marriages, and practices that violate human rights. I denounce backward and obscurantist positions and violent and hateful amalgams.

I encourage all initiatives that, in everyday life, lead to the implementation of virtues. Whether individual or collective actions, educational, cultural, social, or economic actions, I congratulate the artisans and encourage them not to give up but to go as far as possible. As examples, these artisans will lead each of us to demonstrate in their behavior what best he has in him and thus accumulate each day of big wins, which are those that one achieves over oneself. Thus, each and all will be ready to conquer universal wellness.

Warning

Apart from the author and a few family members, other people will recognize themselves in one or more stories in this book. But this is simply because of pure chance and is proof, if proof were needed, that these stories were actually real.

1

The Student Victim of Witchcraft

At the end of the year 1972, when this story begins, Kisangani is a pretty good, great town between both banks of the Congo River, with four communes on the right bank and one commune on the left bank.

This city is located at more than one thousand kilometers from Kinshasa and is the capital of one of the largest provinces of the Democratic Republic of Congo, the Equatorial Province, which is called, at the time of the facts, Haut-Zaire Province.

There was good ambiance in this city, especially with the presence of thousands of students from the third largest university in the country.

And when students received their scholarship and invaded nightclubs and other places of fun, life took a different pace, more jerky and spicy.

Many people loved this city and liked to live there. We proudly called it the beautiful Boyoma.

This story came from my experienced, and it is one of the most important stories of my life. Far from any naïveté in full possession of my faculties, what happened to me is simply special, memorable. This story was so marked that the memory lived, still fresh in me after thirty- nine years. I should still tell in every detail the twenty coming years.

On October 30, 1972, I landed in Kisangani in Northeastern Zaire, now the Democratic Republic of Congo, through the Air Zaire Fokker F27 aircraft. It was my first time to take a flight. I had just finished high school, and the National University of Zaire in Kisangani offered psychology studies I wanted to pursue.

Too late, I’m told at the administrative secretariat of the university. Registrations are closed since ten days. All my prayers have not worked. I must return to Kinshasa. But I did not have enough money to buy a return air ticket. I decided to take the boat; the cost was affordable, but the trip took a week to get to Kinshasa.

Yes, I was returning to Kinshasa and then going to see my parents in the village, eighty kilometers south of Kinshasa—them who, through their meager farm income, have ruined themselves by financing the adventure, which is coming to an end so unhappily. I could hear them say, You went to study away from home for you to become a man in life, and you came back so quickly. What will you do this year? Enrollment is closed in all university campuses!

The next day, I went to the river port to buy my boat ticket. A long queue was waiting for me; many people were to travel by boat to Kinshasa. For nine hours, I was in the queue, moving very slowly. I moved, I moved forward, and then it was almost my turn. There were more than two people in front of me before arriving at the counter. And that is the general surprise. The ticket seller looked at me and started screaming out loud, You’re crazy, you little crazy. Why do you say that I am slow in selling tickets? Do you know my seniority? In short, a bunch of insults toward me, which were going to push those behind to lynch me. Thanks to God, my direct neighbors testified that I had not even opened my mouth.

With that, the seller had closed the wicket, asking everyone to come back in the afternoon. The ship’s departure was on the following afternoon. If I missed my ticket that afternoon, I could still have one last but small chance the next morning, before the ship’s departure. But I did not prefer to come back that afternoon because the jailer could still recognize me and vent his anger on me. I opted for the following day.

I returned in the evening at the home where I was lodged by Emmanuel, a friend I met at the minor seminary. Emmanuel was a priest and had come in Kisangani to continue his studies. Having listened to the unfortunate story of my hot day, he decided to take care of my registration using all the connections he had with the university. Two days later, I was registered.

The moral of the story was it’s not necessarily a bad thing when somebody shits on it. If I had bought the ticket, I would definitely return to my village without studying for a whole year.

Emmanuel lodged me during a quarter in his room at the priests’ home. All his friends had pity on me and had to feed me. Because— and that’s important—my registration was filed late, I was not entitled for scholarship for the whole year; I had to live as I could, making recourse from time to time, to my parents’ meager resources.

Registered three weeks after the beginning of the academic year, I had courses to copy, multiple courses, which is difficult for a student just out of high school. Doing two things at once seemed very difficult. It was necessary to first copy the courses before my enrollment and, at the same time, participate in various academic works. I had to adapt. Two months after the start of classes, when life seemed to normalize and everything was running smoothly, one evening while I was studying my lessons, I received a heavy blow on the head. I was alone; no one was around me. My head gave the impression of splitting into two parts, the left and the right. My head no longer formed a whole. I had two heads.

The rest of the story begins with this hammer blow that I could not avoid. Since then, I had a series of daily migraines, a nightmare that will last two years.

In late December 1972, I left Emmanuel and joined Raymond, another friend from the minor seminary who had found a small house in the city on Yahuma Street in the commune of Tshopo. Emmanuel and Zéphyrin, another friend, gave me some furniture: a small study table, a bed, a chair, and a couple of other small things. Raymond and I would be celebrating our New Year’s Eve in our new little house. We tried to rest during the Christmas holidays and start back studies with strength and vigor after ten days. We even had a few walks to discover the beautiful city of Kisangani. We knew in the months that followed that January could be the last for us, as the so-called eliminations were waiting for us in early February, and those who would not have obtained the fixed average will have to go back home definitely.

The beginning of January 1972 remained unforgettable. We were moving toward the end of the Christmas holidays. I decided to read about my classes, after a restful nap. I felt good, even very good. No more headaches, nothing. After reading the first page of the syllabus, the crushing blow came back; I had a head again into two separate pieces. I collapsed on the bed rugged.

The most curious thing was when this heavy blow was happening to me, I could play football, sing in the Catholic university choir, and go to karate training in my club at the university; I could do many things that needed energy, and I even started boxing workouts. All this I did it without suffering, without damage. I was at ease. I could read a great mystery novel, read two or three comic strips (I loved), and do what I could do. I was at ease; my head was one and only one. But opening a syllabus or a book as part of my studies was enough to repair a head in two pieces and more violent headaches.

Raymond, my roommate, was my nurse. He had drawn up a good rope fabric that he would tie around my head as if to bring the two parts together. He did it so well that it gave me a semblance of relief.

Another curious fact: during these migraines, if I decided to sleep or not to read the course, everything was immediately better.

I practically lived with this ordeal every day. As soon as I thought of the studies when I attended the course, the process automatically came back into place. So I knew what I had to do if I wanted to have wellness.

Some of my friends and colleagues were constantly prophesying about what was sure to happen to me in the heats, namely, my return home. I myself was sure too. How could I succeed without really getting to the bottom of the multiple syllabi of different courses? All my readings were superficial, time for a page, Raymond’s rope around the head every day.

I understood that I should not study. The problem was there, doing everything except studying. What else could I do—me who had gone to Kisangani for studies?

My torture having continued, I introduced myself to the heats with three quarters of an empty head. There were more than a dozen courses with large syllabus, like books. I had to master all subjects to pretend succeeding and continuing the way to the end of the academic year.

In my pain, I prayed every day and asked God to deliver me from these atrocious migraines my young age could not bear, especially far from my family.

The exam period was similar to other days, with my headaches and my rope around the head. To feel relieved when my cup was really full, I abandoned the syllabus and went to practice karate, soccer, or anything.

Raymond often consoled me; he really knew how to play his role as an elder. He accompanied me in my plight and brought me some relief. He was doubly sad. If his younger brother went back home, he would be alone renting a studio, he who was accustomed to my company.

And the heats came as expected. For the university, the goal is to degrease first-year audiences, which were crowded with people; they had to be cleaned; everything that should not be counted had to be eliminated, gotten rid of. Therefore, first-year students had to undergo their first fire tests for a whole week, their first exams at the university, which caused stress from worrying that you would be sent back to the family for one wasted year.

Preparation for these tests was not familiar to me. My head was still splitting into two parts. The results would be displayed in the office of the faculty early Monday afternoon. Fearing to have a migraine attack, I preferred not to go there personally. Raymond, in a heartbeat, went. He had no other choice.

Waiting for his return was long. There was no cell phone then unlike today, and everything had to be done by physically moving. Hours had passed, still no Raymond. Was he afraid to tell me what had happened to me? He might hang here and there, but he would come back, and I will be informed.

Toc, toc, toc.

Mic, we both have succeeded. For me, it was hard to believe. I hardly prepared for that session, and yet I was chosen to continue my academic year. God is great, I repeated all evening.

Mic and Mac (we are called so; Raymond was Mac) should have fun. We would walk and buy ourselves a rooster that we will prepare to celebrate all that. This was done, and all night, Mic and Mac talked about many things and shared a lot of joy eating their cock. For me, this incredible success of qualifying was simply a miracle.

The respite brought about by this success was short, as it was necessary to manage the rest of the year with its set of duties. Migraines had tripled in intensity as if to punish me for having succeeded. I was actually closer to death than to life or, to be more precise, closer to madness than to normal life.

After succeeding in the qualifying rounds, I went to see the university physician and told him the whole series of my misery. He had engaged in a series of biomedical analysis and neuropsychiatric consultations, worthy of a good disciple of Freud. After one week, the recommendation came immediately. You are sick. Your nerves will not take long and will not support the weight of your academic assignments, and you must take a medical rest for one year. You come back tomorrow for the recommendation note I’ll write to the vice president.

The result was that he never saw me again because I naturally had a meltdown. I could not bear going back to my village and spend the rest of the year doing nothing, not even reading a novel, for what the doctor wanted to prescribe prohibited any intellectual activity, particularly reading.

This insistently made me look for the authorities of the faculty. Thank god, his term was ending, and he was leaving. I remember he was Cameroonian. His departure threw into the water all notices of research he had started to give me medical rest forcefully. His departure still gave me little hope to continue my ordeal.

Because of my success in the heats, I faced the issue with great determination, saying that the miracle could happen again in the year-end exams.

After the heats and before the heats looked like two drops of water with its set of daily migraines. There were sufferings when I opened a book or a syllabus. Conversely, I felt at ease and well when I practiced karate or when I played football or even when I cried to the choir during rehearsals or when I sang during the mass.

All my complaints and my daily tears made Raymond suffer, who was still playing his role as a consoler and a nurse. The fabric rope to unite the two sides of my head was still within his reach. There were four more months before the year-end exams, four months in the style of a true Way of the Cross. Four months in an almost programmed and assured death. Four months of pain, suffering, and excruciating migraines.

I harbored the hope of returning to the family for the holidays and giving the necessary explanations to my parents so that they could find a solution. I also harbored the hope that a solution would be found in Kinshasa at the Neuro-Psychopathological Centre (CNPP), where a proven expertise was available.

There was nothing special to say about this four-month period, when courses were continuing and when, of course, my misery was permanent. My daily participation in the course was very predictable. I could wake up in a good shape and have, in the room, my daily migraines, which forced me to go home early.

Finally comes the month of July in 1973. The exams will begin in a few days, and I feel very bad, almost every day, when I think of the studies. Raymond, Emmanuel, and other friends are more than worried about my health. Other friends beg me to rest and return to Kinshasa CNPP and get treatment before it is too late. They were all right because my health was visibly disturbing and much deteriorated. The preparation for year-end exams for me was more than a crown of thorns. Every day was more painful than the day before. I plunged into a higher degree of suffering. I took the exams with many difficulties; there were many chapters in some syllabi that I did not open.

On July 27, 1973, there is a persistent rumor that the results of the first session will be posted on the notice boards of the faculty. I tremble. I fear having an attack. I know what awaits me after such a disastrous session. Finally, it is two o’clock; the results are