Low batt

Phew, I’m exhausted. And I don’t know where the last two weeks went. Time for Sunday to just happen already – the elections, for those of you who are blissfully unaware. Although I guess none of us will dare to feel the same euphoria we did the day after the last round, now that we’ve all been reminded the hard way that it’s the results that count, and the losing camp’s willingness to accept defeat.

Last time I was in Kisangani, it was three weeks before the elections, and the place was literally buzzing from the campaign. The excitement was infectious as throngs of yellow-clad Kabila supporters danced their way to the airport to greet their hero, chanting and laughing all the way, only to be greeted halfway by truckloads of animated blue-clad Bemba supporters returning from the airport where they had just said good-bye to their own beloved champion. Astonishingly, particularly in the light of subsequent events, this did not lead to clashes of any sort, but rather to good-humoured jeering and laughter from both sides.

This time, the campaign is reduced to a handful of students shouting slogans from the top of a truck. The big men themselves are too scared to leave Kinshasa, and rumour has it that neither of them has any money left to do much anyway. So instead they send their emissaries – wives, parents, advisers – to do their campaigning for them. And the result is pretty uninspiring.

Yesterday, we all waited with baited breath for what was going to be the highlight of this tepid campaign – a head-to-head debate between the two remaining presidential candidates. But as most of us had predicted, the debate was cancelled, officially because of disagreement over modalities, officiously because the two candidates couldn’t agree whether to sit side by side or facing each other or some such nonsense, and of course the real reason is that neither of them – or certainly not the less charismatic Kabila – wanted this debate in the first place.

Last round, I was fully engaged. In the daytime, I allowed the campaign thrill to seep through me and went around my job in eager anticipation. In the evenings, alone in the hotel, I dug deep in the recesses of my brain where remnants of my political science lectures gather dust, and kept myself busy with high-browed thoughts about what strategies each candidate was choosing, what different outcomes might mean for the future of Congo, and more generally the pros and cons of democracy. This time, my brain is numb. The job at hand – mechanical as it is – commands all my attention and energy, and I can’t think ahead to the afternoon, let alone to the elections on Sunday. All that is left is a vague notion that in a couple of days I can finally put my head down on a pillow and sleep to my heart’s content.

Let’s hope the Congolese are more enthused.