Ubuntu

by neil goldberg (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Congo Democratic Rep

I grew up in Red Hook when it was the seedier part of Brooklyn where factory workers and longshoremen struggled to raise their kin. Money was tight, so in tenth grade my buddy John and I started selling spliffs at school for a dollar each. We did that every day until we were old enough to drive. Then we dropped out of school and drove to JFK. Our plan was to travel the continents alphabetically, and that is how our real education began. If you have not visited the Congo you probably envision indigenous tribes living within rainforests where men with painted faces wear loin clothes and carry spears. You would be correct. But there is also modern Africa, a hot and dusty land where female villagers dressed in colorful skirts congregate at outdoor markets. John and I walked through the sea of smiling Congolese who casually chatted with one another while filling their wicker baskets with orange yams, purple taro and yellow plantains. This edible rainbow of produce terminates abruptly where butchers wrapped in bloody aprons proffer bushmeat. Snake, goats head and monkeys. We hold our breath, moving on to crafts and clothing. The market sells everything, even items not on display. “What you looking for?” asks a smoky voice from behind us. We turn to find a man smiling, exposing his golden grill. “Morphine, heroin?” John looks at me. Why not? “Got any weed?” The man nods, “this way.” He weaves through the crowd with ease, heading toward a less trafficked part of the market. Concerned, I look back to ensure we are not alone. When I turn back, John is gone. “Hey, what's going on? Where is…?” The man smiles wider as he pushes me into a musty tent. The transition from searing sun into utter darkness leaves me blinded. Eyes struggling to adjust. Beams of dusty light filter in from bullet sized holes in the canvas. A menacing voice bellows from across the room. “You want cannabis, yes?” I see the silhouette of a man no less than six foot five, at least three hundred pounds. Having given myself the challenge of learning metric during this trip, I try convert his weight into kilos. But I am nervous and drawing a blank on the math. “Boy! The giant is losing patience. Do you speak?” I snap out of my reverie. “I um, uh, sorry. Yes, I would, uh, like to buy some cannabis.” Silence. The only sound besides my heartbeat comes from beads of sweat that gather on my forehead, roll down my cheek and fall to the floor. Drip, drip. Finally, a decision is made. He opens a crate and pulls out a brick made of cannabis. “You like?” “Uh, I was only looking for a little…” “Too much? Too much!!” He walks towards me while pulling a machete from its holster. The sheathing sound of metal against metal echoes in my ears. This is it. As a child I was obsessed with death. I wanted to know everything. When will I die? How will I die? Now, all answers will be revealed. “Who-ha, who-ha!” The machete swings above his head as the who-ha chant grows into a frenzied crescendo of madness. Finally, the blade slices into the block of weed. The result is astounding. A perfect square, no more than a few grams. He pushes the bud toward me. “Better?” The room fills with laughter. I pull money from my pocket, but the big man waves his finger, no. He just stares at me, into me, as if deciding my fate. Then he gently places his hand on my heart and says, “Ubuntu.” The other men reply, “Ubuntu.” Oddly, inexplicably, I am overwhelmed with a sense of love. I can feel him. His warmth. He closes his eyes, and whispers this word, this prayer. “Ubuntu.” I am compelled to do the same. “Ubuntu.” We both smile. Outside, I find John waiting for me. Later, we smoke my gift with locals who explain the philosophy of Ubuntu. We are all one, and everyone is love. We sit silently, then place our hands on each other’s hearts, sharing the love of humanity. America, Africa, everyone. Ubuntu.