We first crossed paths in a corridor of the United Nations office in Kinshasa, where I worked. He asked what my plans were for the weekend. He was American and wore a trendy, pale blue linen shirt, unbuttoned down to his sunburnt chest adorned with semi-precious stones hanging on suede laces.
I was 26, fresh back from an enjoyable work stint between London and Bangkok, and may have appeared like a breezy, young new colleague who could be asked out on a date. R and R, as we also called it, was a week of mandatory respite from tiresome humanitarian work, taking place every four, six or eight weeks, depending on the difficulty of the duty station.
And there were always plenty. In the taxi back from the bar, he was fuming. His flirtatious moves had unfortunately not led to anything conclusive that evening. Or a five. Or a two. My eyes had indeed been elsewhere and nowhere at the same time, uninterested in him or anyone else. I had no specific intentions other than to make acquaintances and invite him to the small yet bustling social circles I was getting to know.
Social groups quickly formed and dispersed amongst humanitarians in the DRC, whether based on sincere bonds or not. Most of us, in our twenties and thirties, had come on our own, knew no one, and needed each other. Evenings and weekends were filled with parties, dinners and getaways, where one might make friends for life or never see each other again.
So it was, and kept going, as people came and went. He and I had danced, as I did with other friends that night. In the colourful flashing lights, I became aware of the futility of my presence there. A few days earlier, I had been sent to interview inhabitants of a village demolished by a local armed group. As I asked them what their needs may be, I knew I would probably be unable to fulfil them.
