“Did you read this bullshit?” He added while pointing me to a newspaper, the damned edition which had surely suffered a lot on his hands when he was expressing his anger towards the editors. The scene made me remember a childhood memory; his displeasure was as high as the disappointment of my mother whenever she found out that the home duty he assigned to me in the morning before leaving the house wasn’t complete upon her arrival after her harsh job activities.
I replied to him with silence once more, and it had become very uncomfortable. The vigor of this last question was forcing me to give an answer even if it was a lame one, plus his depressed attitude after my voiceless reply got me into a strange shame. The reaction became a necessity; he was, therefore, displaying a pitiful sadness that made me feel as if I was deliberately refusing to console him. I was now willing to say something, but what could I say? I didn’t even read that article. I barely read tabloid and generally, every opposition’s media channel. In fact, for me, reading those newspapers was masochistic and useless, just a big waste of time. Like many civil servants and workers in public administration, knowing the hate that they exhibited towards the government and the establishment, I had always viewed those media as horrible vultures.
“No sir, I hadn’t read it yet,” I said with much delicacy. After my answer, his body language displayed dissatisfaction that I confusedly took as a deception towards my obvious lack of interest for the press. But in fact, he was just implicitly expressing the loneliness he felt, now that he could not count on sincere support from me. I really felt bad, his sadness became mine, my antipathy towards these people turned me into an incompetent and an unskilled advisor, and I couldn’t blame the ignorance. I was now regretting not to have read that article and to have always treated these media like a virus to avoid. Even though I disliked those tabloids, consulting them from time to time was also supposed to be a part of my professional duties, so I was reproachful. A profound sorrow touched me during the long second of silence that took place later on. Coming to see him early in the morning was finally not a good idea, I was now blaming my politeness, my intentions were to greet him and wish him a good day. But, it would have been preferable for me to stay in my office, I would have avoided this incongruous situation. The Herald’s article put him in a terrible mood; it was awful to witness!
“Those people are accusing me of any bad things, calling me names, can you imagine that in one article, they said that I was the joker of the president?” He said with a mix of irritation and discontent on his face. His detestation to that tabloid was furious; he was cursing the entire Herald organization, wishing hell for every single person working for that newspaper, from its general manager to its distributors.
“That’s terrible sir,” I reacted timorously after his complaints. My reply could have been better; it sounded like a lame effort to show my commiseration and displayed my deficient vocabulary when it comes to word of compassion; but after being soundless during his previous cries, I needed to say something to prove my concern and end the uncomfortable silence that was occurring. However, I was still hoping to console him a little, but the unhappiness on his face grew even bigger, he was now captive into darkness and sunk into obscure resentment.
“The worst is that they pretend that the charity event was nothing more than useless propaganda and that I was using these poor populations for my political ambitions. For them, I did nothing to change their situation, so what did they ever do for these Waloua people? Have they ever helped them?” He said while shaking his head in piteous distress. I was witnessing a hurting picture presenting a betrayed man, full of love for people but permanently subject to hate and jealousy. “Can’t you people see he is doing all he can for this country?” I said while crying in my heart.
He was then flaunting the distress of a child abandoned in the street by his careless parents and obliged to push passers-by to look at him pitifully while displaying his goodness as moral caution and proof the injustice he was enduring. Every human has weaknesses and limitations, among them, the ones we all shared our feelings and death, but the most powerful one will always be popular, no one would ever claim to dictate people’s sincere opinions until they reach a unanimity. Even God has haters, so who is the human being who can be loved by everybody? Mister Agbwala was a human like all of us, even though he was unique and great in our eyes, he had to accept to be criticize like everybody on this earth even if in my point of view those criticisms were abusive. As a close witness of his political venture since many years, I thought he was strong enough to face hate and jealousy, but I had before my eyes, this morning, the demonstration that nobody can be strong enough against these nuisances. I was deeply sorry for him; it was painful to stay powerless and condemned to only wish him to be continuing his mission and not abandon.
After using ten minutes to express his anger, suddenly, he began arranging his office before putting the controversial edition of the Herald that turned him moody in his cupboard. This unexpected behavior pleased me, it gave me the impression that he had turned this page and embraced the rest of the day in a better way. I was then hoping that he had definitely considered those media as enemies to stay away from and that he will never give much importance to these tabloids again. The main problem with popular people as he was, is to easily deal with persistent hatred and criticism. As a leader in a country where freedom of speech is supposed to be assured, he also had to tolerate opposition denigrations even if it can be as painful as torture.
Gracefully, my impressions were confirmed two minutes later. Matter of fact his humor switch became brutal even though I felt the premise before. He first started to hum a Papa Wemba song before deciding to play the disc of the Congolese musicians in his DVD. Just as the first song of the CD started playing, I saw him singing and dancing on his chair joyfully as if he was in concert attendance. That was stupefying! How could he so suddenly change his mood from a deep depression to an astonishing enjoyment?
His happiness was so wonderful that my entire person was rapidly contaminated. But my delight didn’t last for very long; shortly after, he shocked me again by asking me a question that made me regret my coming to greet him early in the morning.
“Paul, how far have you gone with the organization of the meeting with strikers?”
“Everything is ready, sir.” I reacted quickly.
I wasn’t expecting such a serious topic in this thoughtless atmosphere it had immersed us in for five minutes but fortunately, the promptitude of my reaction to his question cover my stun. So he could make himself comfortable, sip some Martini, listen to some good music, sing, dance, put his company in a tranquil ambiance and then bring out a grave subject, all in a short time!
Since about two weeks, I had been avoiding discussing this matter with him. In fact, the whole week, I had skillfully dodged every single occasion to be alone with him. Alas, I was once again caught up by my habits; I innocently came to his office forgetting this concern.
Mister Minister assigned me the tricky mission of rearranging a meeting with a group of strikers who were threatening to provoke riot if we didn’t treat their requests with more consideration. This was previously the main issue we were focused on before the Herald brought out their accusation about supposed corruption in our administration. After the parliament approved the memorable and controversial labor law proposed by Mister Bottom, the Minister of National Labor, every trade union of our country expressed their dissatisfaction towards what they considered as unfair, as colonialism and slavery, but most of them did not