If you'd read my book, you'd understand why I was upset when I heard about it. Just after I returned from Angola, I got the sad message that Papa Jérôme died unexpectedly in April. I met Jérôme Bangwene the first time I was in Congo. My father had passed away not too long before, and somehow the small Congolese photographer who had the same age as he, touched my feelings. I got to know his family and was always welcome in the little house in Kadutu, a popular quarter in Bukavu, Eastern Congo. His concern for me was moving. When I'd take the boat to Goma, he'd always arrange for one of his sons to be waiting for me on the other side of Lake Kivu. I was looking forward to seeing him again in October, when I'll be back in Congo. But now I will only meet Maman Justine, his wife, to pass her and the family my condolences. Today it is exactly four years ago that Hub., my own father, died. He was aged 62, Papa Jérôme 65. I thought it was an appropriate moment to memorize them both.
All night long the same slightly dragging rythm, all night long the same cloying lyrics, and yet
photographer Caro Bonink and I couldn't get enough of it. Kizomba music is omnipresent in Luandan night life. In Kimbundo, the national language, it means 'party' or 'dance'. Angolans love to dance, preferably in pairs. The style that originated in the eighties in Angola, a local version of the Antillean zouk, excellently serves this purpose. By now kizomba has not only conquered lusophone countries, also in The Netherlands the music can be heard at salsa parties. The extatic head whirling that passes for kizomba here however has nothing to do whatsoever with the way the Angolans dance kizomba: modest and close. But not too close, as an Angolan girlfriend warned me before I was taken to the dance floor: 'If a man pulls you so close that the only thing you can do is move your hips, he is teaching you tarraxinha. Then you must like him a lot.'
Kizomba for beginners on YouTube, lesson 1 en lesson 2
For a tidy sum I could have stayed. Everything is for sale in Angola, including fake residence permits. That was at least what one of Alberto's cousins was telling me when I was staying with his family
in the musseque. A thousand US Dollars and a declaration that my parents had returned for Portugal at independence should be sufficient. All I had to do was make a reasonable case for the fact that I am a Portuguese. Easy, since I spoke the language, right? I've been back home only a couple of days and am already missing Luanda. But nevertheless I politely declined the offer of staying in the Southern African country. Many Angolans feel that there are too many foreigners in their country as it is.
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If you'd read my book, you'd understand why I was upset when I heard about it. Just after I returned from Angola, I got the sad message that Papa Jérôme died unexpectedly in April. I met Jérôme Bangwene the first time I was in Congo. My father had passed away not too long before, and somehow the small Congolese photographer who had the same age as he, touched my feelings. I got to know his family and was always welcome in the little house in Kadutu, a popular quarter in Bukavu, Eastern Congo. His concern for me was moving. When I'd take the boat to Goma, he'd always arrange for one of his sons to be waiting for me on the other side of Lake Kivu. I was looking forward to seeing him again in October, when I'll be back in Congo. But now I will only meet Maman Justine, his wife, to pass her and the family my condolences. Today it is exactly four years ago that Hub., my own father, died. He was aged 62, Papa Jérôme 65. I thought it was an appropriate moment to memorize them both.
All night long the same slightly dragging rythm, all night long the same cloying lyrics, and yet photographer Caro Bonink and I couldn't get enough of it. Kizomba music is omnipresent in Luandan night life. In Kimbundo, the national language, it means 'party' or 'dance'. Angolans love to dance, preferably in pairs. The style that originated in the eighties in Angola, a local version of the Antillean zouk, excellently serves this purpose. By now kizomba has not only conquered lusophone countries, also in The Netherlands the music can be heard at salsa parties. The extatic head whirling that passes for kizomba here however has nothing to do whatsoever with the way the Angolans dance kizomba: modest and close. But not too close, as an Angolan girlfriend warned me before I was taken to the dance floor: 'If a man pulls you so close that the only thing you can do is move your hips, he is teaching you tarraxinha. Then you must like him a lot.'
For a tidy sum I could have stayed. Everything is for sale in Angola, including fake residence permits. That was at least what one of Alberto's cousins was telling me when I was staying with his family in the musseque. A thousand US Dollars and a declaration that my parents had returned for Portugal at independence should be sufficient. All I had to do was make a reasonable case for the fact that I am a Portuguese. Easy, since I spoke the language, right? I've been back home only a couple of days and am already missing Luanda. But nevertheless I politely declined the offer of staying in the Southern African country. Many Angolans feel that there are too many foreigners in their country as it is.
