The Night I became Congolaise

Last week I pulled the first all-nighter of my college experience. My Congolese friends recently lost their father, and after a 40-day period of serious mourning, the tradition is to party all night. I had the privilege to visit this family during the mourning period, and share a meal and pray with them, so they invited me to their party. Turns out the Congo has a small and tight community in Paris, and just about every Congolese in town was at the party. And me, an American in Paris, struggling for proficiency in both French and Swahili. My entrance brought stares and my Swahili greetings gasps of amazement and laughs of disbelief. “You mean they study Swahili in New York like we study English in the Congo?” a disbelieving Mswahili demanded. “yeah, sort of” I replied in Swahili. Sure.

The night resembled every African party I’ve ever been to. Outrageously loud music, even when no one was dancing, speeches, formalities, tons of roasted meat, even Fanta soda and quinine spiked sparkling water (which can’t be good for you.) All the women in Jazz’s family bought identical African fabric for the occasion, and each designed and made her own dress. The result was one of the most competitive, creative and beautiful fashion displays I’ve ever seen.

After a multicourse African meal at 2 AM, the dancing began. Jazz’s sister’s dragged me from my seat and insisted I show them what I learned in Uganda. They claimed to be impressed. But by 4 AM I couldn’t do anymore, and I settled down in my seat, to watch the endless energy of the African women, who continued to shake their booties till the sun rose. The night was definitely unique, and I can’t lie and say I didn’t want to give up and leave around 4 or 5. But in Paris the metro closes at night, and besides we were out in some suburb, so I was stuck there till dawn. My endurance earned an emphatic, “Now, you’re Congolaise!”

In fact, I learned in my east African history class at the Sorbonne that the Congo has the same clan system as Uganda, and many of the same clans. My professor insisted that the clan system is an important means to find “family” and support anywhere you travel in the east-African region. I decided to test his theory that night. Turns out my honorary Ugandan clan, the Mamba, exists also in the Congo, and that the tradition of unconditional hospitality to fellow clan members holds true in France! Jazz’s family, Mambas, have adopted me and taken up the responsibility of making sure I eat tons of African food during my stay in Paris.