November 2009

Confidences driver's Minister

The return of confidence to Yoka Lye (Herve Thanks Dad!) Not to forget our Congolese friends!

All sinister!

the potential

Sinistré. As a refugee. As repressed. As cursed. Kipulu is devastated and I told my boss, the Minister of Strategic Affairs (pronounced with respect ...). I told my boss that Minister Kipulu neighborhood is my neighbor, but low-d'en below, where the accumulated erosion. Kipulu is almost a colleague as he is also a driver, but ... taxi. Kipulu has eight children and lives near the river Sala-ngolo-zaku. Here in this neighborhood d'en-low-down lying on the bed of the river, the night's rain-nighters. While the city grouse at Binza, Limete, Gombe, Righini's music lulls the rain and dad sings son's dreams of girls mom Kipulu, his wife and eight children have nightmares dressed in poor Devils hounded by fear. Kipulu and his wife can barely read and write, but they can count the smallest raindrops on the roof, against the door and window, as there are the blows ... A Binza at Limete in Gombe, the son Dad and Mom girls awaken with a start stupidly panicked by the thunder. Kipulu and his family are not afraid of thunder. The thunder is so far and he does not knock on any door. Thunder, for Kipulu, is the most democratic thing: it does not strike at random, which of course he chose and why he punishes, but it indiscriminately punishes the roof of the rich as that of the poor. Therefore Kipulu not afraid of thunder. He was afraid of water, oozing, throbbing, piercing, deadly. As the tears of women. Binsonji Bakaj bia!

I told my boss the other Minister Tuesday night November 03, Kipulu woke up as always in such a storm, slowly, deliberately. With the same gestures soft, mechanical, fatal. Kipulu woke his wife and children. They, too, with the same gestures as exercised under the warning of a bomb, began to store their treasures and hide menus above the table and wardrobe. But the great treasure had remained outside: the taxi. It was quickly clear the old jalopy to the park just as quickly on the main avenue, near the fuel pump. But the road has never been so long in the shack to the pump gasoline. Tuesday should be a bad day since that day God himself seemed to be surprised. Kipulu failed to clear the old taxi and the vehicle became stuck and drowned in the mud rushing down. More seriously, a child drowned! Kipulu but did know that after rain, when doing the accounts. The youngest was missing, probably because he did not find enough space on the cabinet or table, get to ten above the waves moving. After the rain, and disaster Kipulu also counted it was missing its radio, its old jewelry woman and a little savings. Who has further said that after the rain is good weather. Kipulu looked long, long the sky, searching in vain for a stroke of divine goodness, there's been a long rainbow sky of fire and blood. Kipulu went crying in the rain to hide his rage at his wife and children. But what is the point of crying, "he said finally, in the same way every year at the same time? He guessed the same sequence of events: before long, when the sky becomes clear and serene, the authorities of the district, the member of the neighborhood, with great fanfare, will pay for the poor heads of poor victims of the protocol and furtive tears. They will be escorted by the horde of journalists. And before the cameras focused, these authorities say platitudes and promises will re heard a thousand times, then disappear until the next season ...

Yes, I told my boss the Minister that my neighbor from below- from below, Kipulu is devastated. As a refugee claimant. As repressed. As cursed. Which has yet invented the term "sleeping under the stars? Kipulu knows no beautiful stars. Above his head, are black holes that riddle the sky as the impacts grenades.

I finally said to my boss again as Minister in fact we are all victims, we down-d'en there. We are real victims in impotence. Disaster yesterday as Kipulu and his family. Stricken tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the same: in 2015, 2025, 2045. This will be a Tuesday. Bad day ...

YOKA LYE

ANDREYOKALYE@YAHOO.FR