Kinshasa looks like a beautiful woman, elegant and sophisticated, stretched lazily on the banks of the great river from which sly winks his tiny twin, small Brazzaville.
is a fact that every big city on a river is always being compared to a woman lying to ogle idly, as if women did the river not more than that, we forget the centuries of laundry washed and water carried on the head. Maybe because the city is a woman, whose name and perhaps even in fact, so complex and incomprehensible, at least for men, which has always received the name of their fears. I'd like to be able
then lay on the easy cliche, because deep down how many cities do not tell us anything, we spend or pass in front of us as viewers and in after years ".. it ..!" I remember the thing but who knows where this took place, a city in the background of our world but not of his city that does not exist then, and who knows if there was the sea after that time I was reading the newspaper or was in a bar Milan, and even if we remember the place is not the architecture that matters, what we had struck in the head that day.
Kinshasa lies on the river, so. Mother of millions of children, assumed the role of capital starting from his village to be only a function of position, so that was good for the Belgian and that was enough. Mother
chosen by invading a father who had tried others, but not involuntary concubine stepmother. Still bears the scars of the wedding over, and this is why we look with pity, as it does just a child with eyes blacks that makes the mother when the father comes home drunk. He's on the river but not wet most, if not by accident. (And here the parallels with women, at least some, are wasted). High walls separating it from its river, quell'arteria which they were the birth and existence, and now you do not even look. Kinshasa look beyond the sea, the land of quell'amante who beat her, yes, perhaps the humble and laughed with friends, but at least they were making social life, for a while have been part of high society. And no matter if it had cut its roots, though now in a country that does not recognize it anymore and can no longer recognize, exiled in a corner of the room where the children make a mess but it's still coming muffled. She does not just have some old story, where some evening wear miniskirts in memory of old times and go out dancing, but meanwhile has remained at home with a brood of hungry and alone and tired. A kind of ex-singer Eighties pop, but without lifting to support the operation of nostalgia.
I was not born here, and do not share the joy after all that Kinois able to maintain: only possible if you forget of civic, social status, environment, health and peace. Possible only if one is born Kinois, selfish, generous people, unable to think as a society, as communities of purpose, but also capable of great leaps individual, isolated acts of humanity. And to think that a certain parallelism with the Italians in sight. One day I heard
define a city Kinshasa monster like King Kin, the monster from the human side, but scary-looking, capable at the same time killing a passerby and dearly love a blonde. Torn by two souls, we know what happened: I hope that the commonality of temperament does not mean a common destiny. Personally I hate the hatred of Kinshasa
tender that I, unable to forgive the unhappy people, reserved for a parent who has wasted the best of his youth and now yearns without tears, hiding her past dreams with a sense of the ridiculous.
you will find every now and then, if you want, you will always love, but can not viverti next.
Sorry.
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