spaceFor almost every daylight hour I spent in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, I faced a mural wall in Kamina. Yep, for ten days, that is mostly what I saw. When I was not at the orphanage, I crossed an intersection to go to my guesthouse. I made that trip multiple times during the day. And, I made the most of that experience. It was my intersection. I knew the people who sold lottery tickets and telephone credits in a little wooden booth. I talked to the lady who sold dried insects (as a protein snack). I play checkers - and was promptly massacred - by some of the guys who were always there. Everyone at the intersection knew my name and why I was in their community.
There are some people I know I need to photograph for a portrait as soon as they cross my path. Sometimes I am a little too shy to ask for the photo. But, I had to get a picture of Fils (pronounced FEECE, like fleece without the "L"). He had a vibrant smile and simply bubbled with personality. Although he appeared to only be about seven, it was clear he ran the little kiosk on the corner where phone minutes were sold. There were usually three young guys there at all times, but Fils carried the cash in his pocket and walked with a confident swagger. Somehow, mysteriously, he was the boss.
I asked Fils for his photo almost as soon as I saw him. He said, “Non”. You don't have to speak much French to know what that meant. However, I was a photographer on a mission and not to be denied. I explained that he didn’t understand the situation. This was a moment that he was supposed to say “oui”. So, we practiced. Well, actually, I practiced. He patiently listened to a crazy white man. I said “oui” very high and then very low. There were a lot of rapid fire “oui’s” as well as long drawn out “oui’s”. Then, I just repeated “oui” over and over and seriously over again. I kid you not, before the lesson was over, I must have said “oui” over fifty times.
I asked Fils for his photo almost as soon as I saw him. He said, “Non”. You don't have to speak much French to know what that meant. However, I was a photographer on a mission and not to be denied. I explained that he didn’t understand the situation. This was a moment that he was supposed to say “oui”. So, we practiced. Well, actually, I practiced. He patiently listened to a crazy white man. I said “oui” very high and then very low. There were a lot of rapid fire “oui’s” as well as long drawn out “oui’s”. Then, I just repeated “oui” over and over and seriously over again. I kid you not, before the lesson was over, I must have said “oui” over fifty times.
Yes, I got my photo, but I also gained a friend. Although Fils had nothing to do with the orphanage, eventually, he and one of his buddies came to paint on my mural. I couldn't have been any more pleased. However, I never called him Fils. For the entire time I painted in Kamina, as far as I was concerned, his name was Oui Oui.
And, his smile will haunt me forever.
In all of my journeys around the world, I've never really come face-to-face with malnutrition. I never knew that its effects would last a lifetime. I always assumed that if you finally ate well then all problems would be resolved. Fils introduced me to malnutrition and gave it a face. Fortunately, he appeared healthy and vibrant now, but he would always live with the results of malnutrition in infancy. As hard as it was for me to comprehend, Fils was twenty.
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spaceMy Intersection in Kamina. To the left, was the guesthouse and to the right, across the street from the building, was the orphanage.