IV. GETTING USED TO FATHERHOOD
A father, me! It’s devastating, it’s overwhelming, it’s…heavenly. It’s nothing I had imagined it to be. I feel that child already as a second me, a perfectible me.
I had to sever my roots and come all the way here to discover paternity. Dad would judge it an act of defiance. If only he knew! Léo’s place in the center of my life has transmuted the hatred and resentment I’ve so long harbored against my father…is it pity or sorrow? How wounded he must be inside, how vexed! A child bearing his name and who is of mixed blood!
Clara, lovable Clara. Her letters are full of warmth. She’s sent me a baby book and half a dozen manuals on child care. She would have coddled Léo like a mother hen.
Mama Malkia adores the child; she’s too possessive, though. I must put my foot down or else she takes over completely. We still have to work out a modus operandi; that won’t be easy, considering how stubborn she is.
Don’t worry, my sweet Léopold, my son, we’ll manage all right, and one day you’ll raise your beautiful, curly head above everybody else’s. And I shall be so proud of you.
***
They’re getting my back up with their gossip. Léo, the illegitimate child of Mama Malkia! But this is even better: I had planned it all out, asking her to leave the Cité Indigène to stay with me so that we could have a child together. “He (i.e., me) must have been drunk one night and fallen under her spell.”
Raving madness! The most exasperating thing is that these rumors travel like wildfire and you never know who’s spreading them. One evil tongue even pretended that, with Mama Malkia’s complicity, I had stolen the child in the bush and brought it here to…satisfy my lust. He would grow up to become…my lover!
Is it so difficult to believe I’ve adopted a son? Just as any other couple would do? No, for I am a homosexual. It’s nerve-racking, and there’s no way I can strike back.
Because of these inane rumors Janine suggested I hang the adoption certificate in the boutique. I’ll pass for a fool. Darn it, let them believe what they will!
***
La Mama is giving me a bloody hard time. She’s taking too many liberties with Léo. He’s fed at any odd hour of the day. Whenever he cries she gives him juice or a Marie biscuit.
“Kitoko Léo wails, he must eat,” she claims. “He has no ‘bobo.’ Don’t you get all upset, M’sieur. He’s as healthy as a sated simba cub.”
That’s exactly what I wish to avoid: having a little Buddha for a son. I read her a few passages from Dr. Spock’s manual.
“Spik, Spok, Spook,” she retorted. “Am I his wetnurse, yes or no? Look here, M’sieur Harry, I’ve raised brothers and sisters, as well as other ndukus.”
And she challenges me: “That doctor of yours who writes so well, has he ever come to Africa? Then tell him to knock at Mama Malkia’s door. I bet you he’ll learn something. Unless he is a wizard. I’ve never heard of a man expecting a baby.”
And she slaps her thighs. What can I answer to that?
Actually, I do trust her, but it’s her insolence that irks me. She’s so cocksure of everything. She blows the child’s nose with her fingers and stuffs the food in his mouth instead of using a spoon. But now she listens to me. The problem is she won’t ever admit she’s wrong. Madam is always right!
She has this whimsy of wanting to speak to Léo in French. When I told her her French left something to be desired and that it would be to the boy’s detriment if she carried on, she lashed out, “You’re the detriment,” and started imitating my “accent américain.”
Yes, but at least I use the language correctly. I urged her to address Léo in Kiswahili. She takes me for a real “mazimu.” The child is, after all, half Congolese. He needs both cultures. I don’t want him to be uprooted. This is where I have certain apprehensions, though. Will it be possible to maintain a balance between the two?
***
Next month, he’ll be attending Montessori with exclusively European children. He must get the best possible education…without reneging on his origins. Mama Malkia’s role will be paramount. Maybe I ought to restrain myself in criticizing her handling of Léo. She probably is right about Dr. Spock. African women seem to have a more developed maternal instinct than their western counterparts. If it weren’t so, the Belgian mothers here wouldn’t entrust them with the care of their offspring. Most of the “madames” are just too lazy to change a baby’s diapers or walk him to the park. Yet they still complain about their négresses. They have it too good.
***
Léo has become more bashful since he’s entered kindergarten at Montessori. He’s quite attached to Sister Marie-Thérèse, the sister who’s in charge of his class. I’ve spoken to her myself. She assured me there was nothing to worry about. Children go through such stages.
Léo’s surrounded by little blonde heads. I wonder what goes on in his mind. I’ve only seen one other mulatto — a girl — but she’s not in the same group. Does he already notice the difference? How does he react to it? He swears only by Sister Marie-Thérèse. She gives him candy after his ten o’clock milk. My Léo, he abhors milk.
But that’s how it is, and some discipline won’t hurt him.
He has a cheerful nature, my sweet Léopold. That mischievous pout of his, I love it. He will unavoidably get sneering remarks from the more turbulent boys.
Now and then, to sound him out, I’m going to ask him candid questions. If there were any problem, soeur Marie-Thérèse would have approached me.
***
Janine lavishes her affection on Léo as though he were her own flesh. She introduces him to strangers, calling him her godson.
We had lunch last Sunday at the Devries’, and Janine prepared a Belgian dish, one I frankly can’t stand the sight of. It’s filet américain — how on earth did it get that name? Ground raw beef mixed with raw eggs, raw onions, cloves, mustard, and parsley.
Léo just licked his fingers and asked for two extra helpings.
Roger is a very quiet man. I don’t know what he really thinks of me. Whenever our eyes meet, he lowers his gaze. Awkwardly, it is he who appears to be ill at ease. Not only with me; he’s just not the sociable type. Even with Léo he acts somewhat stiffly. He never hugs the boy, just extends his hand and, sometimes, to Léo’s astonishment, calls him Léonard. The scene is actually quite funny.
Wide-eyed, unsure whether it’s a joke or a mistake, my Léo stares back at him while Janine reprimands her husband.
“No, Roger…Léopold, like our king.”
And Roger mumbles, apologizing that he has no memory for names.
I don’t believe Roger could have been a father. He treats children like grown-ups.
The only subject we discuss is his job at the Union Minière. Thank God, Janine is there to enliven the conversation.
She raised a question I had only superficially considered till now: Did I mind putting Léo in a Catholic institution when I myself had been brought up a Baptist? A case in point. Actually, she alluded to my “puritanical background” — Continentals often associate Anglo-Saxon Protestantism with Victorian Morality. The Roman Catholic Church being supreme in the Congo, there was little choice, really. They control ninety per cent of the schools and hospitals in this country.
I could have sent Léo to the lay school, but their standards aren’t as high. When the time comes, I shall tell him about my religion. He will then have the opportunity to make his own choice. Though I don’t think it’s terribly important, unless he decides to take holy orders. Frankly, I wouldn’t want him to follow that path. There are other ways one can be useful to society.
Life is an irony. If I’m here today, don’t I owe it to that dear John Maxwell whose dream was to rejoin me and to help his black brethren? Of course, I shall never force Léo into anything that might be alien to his nature.
I am a novice; I’m only just now discovering my new vocation, i.e., to give Léo all the necessary tools a human being needs to achieve happiness. An arduous task, but well worth the effort. And I intend it to be a success.
- Hidden Essentials - August 30, 2023
- A New World - August 23, 2022
- Harry Wilson’s Congo Diary - February 13, 2022
