It was through a phone call from his old friend Mpoyo that Papa Kalenga heard the news: their former boss, “Roketi”, the German giant, had passed away. At first, Papa Kalenga refused to believe it. Surely, this was just a rumour or a bad joke from Mpoyo. But after asking his daughter Rima to check the information online, Papa Kalenga had to face the facts. Lutz Kayser, his former mentor, was dead. He’d taken his last breath on an island in the Pacific Ocean so far from the Democratic Republic of Congo that Papa Kalenga could barely picture it.
A pang of sadness washed over him, as if he’d just lost a part of his own dreams.
“Did he ever come back to the Congo?” Rima asked, trying to put together the pieces of a long-lost puzzle. It was a question she’d asked her father a thousand times, but he’d always evaded the answer.
“No, never. He’d promised he would, but . . .”
Papa Kalenga took a handkerchief and began to clean his glasses.
“He died last Sunday, eh? Right after the new moon.” He smiled, a wide smile missing two teeth, which made him look like a mischievous child.
“That’s just like him.”
Rima nodded at the coincidence. She let a few seconds of respectful silence pass, then glanced at her watch and put her wallet and car keys in her purse.
“Are you going to call Uncle Kabamba and Auntie Sarah, or do you want me to take care of it?”
Papa Kalenga shook his head.
“No. I’ll drop by their house later. It’ll do me good to walk a bit and see some people.”
“Alright. Call me if there’s anything.”
Papa Kalenga said a quiet “okay” and watched his daughter leave. He fully intended to go out to visit his in-laws, but a slight ache in his chest—the same one he’d been feeling ever since he heard the news—prompted him to stay home. He had something to do first, something he hadn’t done in years. He took off his shoes and headed to his bedroom. There, he opened the old blue trunk that had been gathering dust behind his bed and sighed.
Inside the trunk, in a jumble, were old pay stubs, expired ID cards, and photos. Lots of photos. They dated back to the 1970s, when the Congo was still called Zaire. There was one of him and Mpoyo standing in a makeshift laboratory, another showing a group of five white men posing inside a bush restaurant, and one of him alone, wearing a yellow jumpsuit too big for him.
As he continued rummaging, Papa Kalenga also pulled out a few old magazines. One of them caught his eye: Penthouse, March 1978. The headline on the cover read: “Germans Use Zaire for Missile Tests.” When Papa Kalenga opened it, a photo fell out. His heart beat a little faster as he recognised a snapshot of himself and Lutz Kayser smiling at the camera. Behind them was a wall with a large sign in black and yellow letters: “OTRAG.” Papa Kalenga almost closed the trunk right then and there. Why dredge up all those long-buried memories? But it was too late. He felt irresistibly drawn to the memorabilia. His teenage pencil drawings of spaceships and rockets. His collection of newspaper clippings about the Apollo 11 crew’s visit to Congo in 1969. And finally, as Papa Kalenga delved deeper into the trunk, he unearthed exactly what he’d come looking for: a leather-bound notebook, so well hidden that for a few minutes, he’d feared he’d lost it. But no, it was still there, intact. So, Papa Kalenga sat down on the edge of his bed, pushed up his glasses, and, with the excitement of a child rediscovering old toys, began to read.
February 3, 1977
I got the job!!!!
Unbelievable but true!
Where to begin? It’s been so long since I last wrote. I’m sorry, dear diary, life has been busy.
Well, guess what? A few weeks ago, a group of Bazungu set up camp in Luvua, near the hill. Seven men, all Germans. They want to launch rockets into space. But first, they need to conduct a series of tests, and they’ve chosen Zaire for that. Our honourable president gifted them—or rather sold them—100,000 square kilometres in Shaba Province so they could do so. 100,000 square kilometres, no less. Almost the size of East Germany!
My friend Mpoyo says it’s a real shame, and that our president shouldn’t sell the land of our ancestors to foreigners, but I’m more moderate in my views. President Mobutu is putting us on the world map. Zaire is going to be the first African country to have a program of this magnitude. So, it’s worth it, isn’t it? And man, those Bazungu haven’t wasted any time. They’ve built an entire airport from scratch in Luvua! Now, tons of goods pass through there every week: cement, electronics, cables, even food. Mpoyo says that their arrival will disrupt and destroy our traditions, and that Zairians must fight back. Again, I disagree. We must embrace modernity! Our currency is strong. One Zairian franc is worth two dollars. This is our time.
And the arrival of the Bazungu doesn’t disrupt our customs. Quite the contrary. They’re bringing lots of jobs to the city. Of course, for now, they only need unskilled labour: workers, assistants, cleaners . . . But I’m convinced that very soon, they’ll also need Zairian engineers.
That’s why I rushed over to the camp when I heard they were hiring. When the Mzungu in charge of recruitment at OTRAG (that’s Orbital Transport and Rockets Inc.) asked me why I wanted to work for them, I told him that my dream was to become an astronaut, the first Zairian man in space. He laughed and asked if I’d mind starting out as a kitchen helper. I’m not afraid of hard work, so I replied, “No, sir, I don’t mind.” The man had me sign a piece of paper, and voilà, I start tomorrow! I’m so thrilled! Long live our president. Long live Zaire!
February 7, 1977
I met the boss! After just three days on the job, I met Mr Lutz Kayser in person. Oh, I’m the luckiest Zairian alive!
Usually, Mr Kayser only comes to Luvua every two weeks, but this week he changed his schedule to make sure everything was going as planned. I was in the kitchen when he arrived, so I had the privilege of bringing him his coffee and eggs, “Kaffee und Eier”.
I already know how to say a few words in German, like “Guten Tag”, “ein bißchen”, and “Deck den Tisch”.
I’ve also learned a few swear words. But I’m not going to write them down.
The Bazungu are so weird! They swear a lot and smoke a lot. They wear very short shorts and complain about the heat all day long. But when they get down to work, oh my God. That’s a whole different story. They get very focused. They say that OTRAG is the future, and that soon, people will be able to send rockets into space at a very low cost. They are convinced that “Shaba North” (that’s the project’s code name) will revolutionise telecommunications. I want to believe them, but I don’t know. Sometimes they look at charts, panic, and say we’re behind schedule. Other times, they tell jokes and want to have fun all day. They’ve even taught the local chimpanzees how to smoke. How crazy is that? Maybe that’s why Mr Kayser came back early this week. He wants to make sure there’s basic discipline at all times.
After breakfast, he was looking for a young man named Serge, but it turned out the youth had been fired last week for showing up late. As I was clearing the table, Mr Kayser asked for my name. “Kalenga,” I replied. “Can you read and write?” “Yes, sir.” “Very well, then. You’re my new assistant.” I said, “Excuse me, sir?” He said, “Boy, you heard me.” Then he said something in German to the cook that I didn’t understand. The cook’s face twisted with frustration, but he couldn’t go against the boss’s wishes. That’s how I ended up assisting Mr Kayser all day. My job mainly consisted of bringing him water and sunscreen every five minutes. At the end of the day, the cook came over to ask me if I knew anyone who could replace me in the kitchen. I gave him Mpoyo’s name. Am I not a good friend? I stopped by his place on my way home to tell him the news. He was super excited, even though he kept insisting that this job didn’t mean he approved of what the Bazungu were doing on our land. Nonsense! He’s going to get paid every week. Let’s see if he complains about that! As for me, I give all praise to our leader, the honourable Mobutu Sese Seko Nkuku Ngbendu wa za Banga. Long live the President, long live Zaire!
May 18, 1977
We did it! Today, at exactly 12:02 p.m., as everyone held their breath, our first OTRAG modular rocket soared into the sky.
Oh, what a sight! The whole town had gathered for the occasion. The women wore their finest wrappers, the men, their finest suits. Traditional chiefs had been invited too. They came in full regalia, and their musicians played the most captivating drumbeats. Even Mama Zawadi, the city’s master healer, made the effort to come. Since the day fell on a new moon, she said she had to “bless the earth” and “pay homage to Mwezi”; otherwise, the launch wouldn’t go well. I think the Germans invited her more out of politeness than anything else. They don’t really believe in that sort of thing.
Except maybe the boss, Mr Kayser. From coming to Africa so often, he’s becoming more African than we are. He’s learning Swahili, and rumour has it that he sought a consultation with Mama Zawadi in secret before the launch to stack the odds in our favour. I didn’t dare ask him if it was true, but one thing is certain: the master healer showed up. She came with her daughter Jana, who works in the OTRAG vegetable garden. She was hired a few weeks ago. She helps the cook grow lettuce, tomatoes, and eggplants. Mpoyo has a crush on her. He wants me to play matchmaker, but no way. Mama Zawadi is pretty strict and doesn’t want her daughter hanging out with the neighbourhood boys. What if she decides to put a curse on us for daring to talk to Jana? Tsha! I’d rather not get involved. I’ve got other fish to fry.
Especially after today’s successful launch. I’m still so excited that I don’t want to go to bed. And I’m sure I’m not the only one. All the OTRAG employees were over the moon today. There was even talk of inviting President Mobutu to our next test launch so he can see for himself just how successful the Shaba North project is. Wouldn’t that be amazing?
Oh, and Mr Kayser was on cloud nine, too. He even treated me to a glass of champagne. It was the first time in my life I’d ever had any. Afterwards, I don’t know if it was the alcohol or the excitement of the day, but he told me that if everything kept going well, he might send me to Germany to study engineering. He told me I had to think big, always bigger, and that I shouldn’t be afraid of my ambitions. Today is a day to remember. May 18, 1977: one small step for man, one giant leap for Kalenga.
Papa Kalenga smiled. He got up from his bed and settled into a more comfortable armchair near his desk. Then, as he flipped through the pages, he skipped straight to the most painful passages. The ones he had tried so hard to forget all those years.
June 5, 1978
The test launch failed. I can’t believe I’m writing these words, but here we are. At 12:35 p.m. today, our rocket crashed.
And yet, the day had started so well.
Around 9 a.m., as planned, our dear president and supreme leader, Maréchal Mobutu Sese Seko, arrived with his family aboard a military plane. Between his entourage, bodyguards, and journalists, a good hundred people flooded into our small town. Fortunately, everyone in Luvua was ready to rise to the challenge. We’d been preparing for weeks. The president and his family were treated to a sumptuous brunch, followed by a special tour of the OTRAG site. About thirty people now work here full-time. Our dear president, dressed in his full military uniform, was introduced to our team and shook everyone’s hand. Mine were sweaty and trembling when my turn came. I hardly dared to look in his direction.
After brunch, we all headed to the launch site. There were fewer local guests than at the first test launch. No traditional chiefs, no musicians. Neither Jana nor her mother attended. It wasn’t a full moon, so Mr Kayser hadn’t seen fit to call on the services of the local diviners.
Is that why the launch failed? I don’t know. But the fact is that our rocket didn’t gain enough altitude; its engine stalled, then caught fire. The crash came shortly after.
Mr Kayser looked like he was about to throw up. He stammered as he tried to explain to our distinguished guests that rocket launches were not an exact science and that 30% of attempts failed. President Mobutu said nothing, but there was a strange gleam in his eyes. He decided to cut his visit short. The festivities OTRAG had planned for after the launch were, of course, all cancelled.
Everyone rushed back to camp. This time, President Mobutu didn’t shake our hands. There were no more speeches, no more goodbyes. Mr Kayser tried to insist that the president stay in Luvua a little longer, but to no avail. As he passed by me, the Maréchal gave me a cold glance and asked, “Citoyen, what is your name?” I stood at attention. “Kalenga,” I replied. “Good,” he said. I saw him point at me and some of my colleagues to his soldiers. His chief of security nodded, then the president and his entourage left. Their military plane disappeared over the horizon.
There’s still so much to write about today, but I’m exhausted. I need to sleep.
June 8, 1978
I haven’t eaten or slept in three days. I might be coming down with malaria, or maybe it’s just mental exhaustion. In any case, I haven’t gone back to work since the failed test launch. Yesterday, Jana brought me some herbs her mother recommended. I drank the decoction, and I’m feeling a little better. I have enough strength to write, so I’ll try to summarise what’s happened over the last two days. I got most of my information from Jana and Mpoyo. (We’re now inseparable, “the triplets”, as the people at OTRAG like to call us. Even Mama Zawadi approves. She knows we make sure no one bothers Jana at the camp. It’s all platonic, though. Mpoyo tried to make a move a few months ago, but Jana told him she was focused on her work and not interested in dating. Not one to be easily discouraged, Mpoyo said he’d be patient and ask her again next year.) So today, they both came to visit me after work. Jana only stayed for about half an hour, then her brother Kabamba came to pick her up.
As soon as we were alone, Mpoyo took a cigarette out of his pocket and began smoking. The Shaba North project is in jeopardy, he explained. President Mobutu is unhappy about the failed test launch, of course, but that’s not all. Apparently, France and the United States, Zaire’s main allies, don’t want German technology to advance in areas where their own programs are still lagging behind. They also fear that OTRAG’s rocket technology, although initially designed for telecommunications, could be used to launch military missiles. And that these military missiles could be sold to potential enemies. In this context, some newspapers claim that our dear “allies” will do everything in their power to shut us down.
That can’t be true. I hope it’s just a rumour. We’ll see.
April 20, 1979
OTRAG was given three months to leave Luvua. The order came directly from President Mobutu. Politics must take precedence over science, I suppose.
Everyone is in shock. Our cook, the engineers, the researchers. No one can believe it.
Mr Kayser had to rush back to Germany to address concerned investors and his board of directors.
I’m still trying to process the news. This all sounds like a hoax.
None of our German colleagues wants to leave Zaire. Their whole lives are in Luvua. There’s talk of going rafting on the Congo River to lift everyone’s spirits. One last team activity before we have to pack it all up. I don’t know if I’m up for it.
Anyway. I need to think about what I’m going to say to Mr Kayser when he returns. I still want to study in Germany. I’m motivated. This is just a setback. Better days will come.
July 8, 1979
Almighty Lord. What have we done? How did we end up here?
I don’t know how to put this into words. I’m still in shock. They’re gone. Seven men. Swept away by the current. Lord, have mercy.
I was supposed to go too, but I woke up with a fever. Malaria again. Mpoyo brought me some medicine, and we spent the day together. He kept teasing me about how weak I was, just like when we were kids. “An astronaut? Where? You don’t have what it takes to go to the moon. Just stick to your drawings!”
A few hours later, Jana arrived at my house, in tears. As soon as she saw me, despite my condition, she threw herself into my arms and held me tightly. “Oh my God, I thought you were gone.”
It took her a few minutes to calm down and explain to us that an incident had occurred involving the team. Since my name was on the excursion list, rescuers had searched for my body for hours before learning that I had cancelled at the last minute. That’s why Jana had rushed over to my place to check if I was alive. I couldn’t stomach the news. Neither could Mpoyo, but he seemed more angry than shocked. His nostrils flared just like when we were ten years old, and I’d capture all his seeds while playing Songo. Except this time, I hadn’t meant to win. Mpoyo stubbed out his cigarette and said, “I’m going to go get more information,” before adding bitterly, “You two lovebirds can stay here.” I tried to sit up to tell him not to go, but everything started spinning around me, and suddenly my legs buckled.
My vision blurred. I started sweating. I was there, but not really there. I started seeing things. I saw our precious OTRAG rocket stall and catch fire all over again. I saw President Mobutu pointing his finger at the team and at me. This time, the smirk on his face was wider and meaner. “Young man, what’s your name?”
The Maréchal sent his guards after me. Panicked, I started running and running. I was out of breath, but I knew I had to run for my life. When I reached the summit of Mount Luvua, I made a split-second decision: I had no choice but to jump. So, I launched myself, like a rocket, right then and there. Seven, six, five, four. Go!
I was wearing my yellow jumpsuit. The path was clear. I picked up speed, and in less than four minutes, I did it. I reached space! My lifelong dream! Oh, what a wonderful feeling! Floating freely through the universe. And the moon . . . she was within my reach. Magnificent Mwezi!
But suddenly, a bullet struck me. I began to fall, fall, and fall. President Mobutu’s men were still after me, accusing me of betraying the nation, of bringing about the downfall of Greater Zaire. My end was near.
Then, out of the blue, Neil Armstrong’s voice began calling my name. “Kalenga! Kalenga!” What was he doing here? What did he want from me? Was I now part of the Apollo 11 crew? His voice gradually changed into that of a woman, a familiar voice, and I slowly came to.
I was no longer in space, but in my bedroom. Mpoyo was gone, but Jana was still by my side, wiping my forehead and holding my hand. I looked at her and, for the first time, I clung to her, too.
Papa Kalenga stopped reading. There were no more notes after that. Those were the last words he’d written down before abruptly stopping his diary. He slipped his hands under the back cover and pulled out a photo. It was an old portrait of him, Jana, and Mpoyo, back when they were still called “the triplets”. Shortly after that, he and Jana fell in love, and he and Mpoyo stopped talking to each other. But that had only lasted a few months. Mpoyo had attended their traditional wedding, and by the time Rima was born, they had all reconciled. Friendship had prevailed over jealousy.
The old man put everything back in the trunk: his diary, the newspaper clippings, and the photos—everything except the small photo he couldn’t help but stare at. Life had seemed so much simpler back then. He sighed. Jana had died a few years after their honeymoon. Mama Zawadi followed her shortly afterwards, overcome with grief at the loss of her daughter. Kabamba and his wife Sarah stepped in to help Papa Kalenga raise Rima. The years passed, and he now lived alone in the house with Rima and her son, Emmanuel.
Papa Kalenga was sitting quietly in the living room, still looking at the old portrait, when Rima and Emmanuel came home at the end of the day.
The little boy grabbed the photo, excited. “Is that Kaku Jana? She looks so beautiful! When was that?” Papa Kalenga gently took the photo from his hands. “It was long before you were born. Long before your mother was born, too.”
The boy peered over his grandfather’s hands.
“Was that when you were all working together?”
“Yes.”
Emmanuel’s eyes widened.
“So, it’s true what Mom said? You built rockets together? Rockets that could go into space?” The boy had vaguely heard about the glorious career his grandfather had once had. It was old family lore.
Papa Kalenga smiled. “No, we didn’t build anything. We just helped out. Sort of.”
Now it was Rima’s turn to take the photo and examine it closely. “Come on, Baba, you did more than just help out. You were there from the beginning.” She handed the portrait back to her father. “I wonder what Mom would have thought about Mr Kayser’s death. Did she like him?” Papa Kalenga nodded. “Yes. She often said he was a bit eccentric, but fair to us workers.”
He looked for an envelope to slip the portrait into.
“I should not have opened that trunk. Now we’re all sad.”
“Really?” Rima said, shaking her head. “But don’t you always say that Congolese people need to learn from their past? How can we do that if, half the time, we don’t even know what happened? You, Mom, Uncle Mpoyo, you all worked at OTRAG, and I barely know anything about it. Your grandson knows nothing about it! That’s what’s truly sad.”
Papa Kalenga let out a long sigh.
“You’re just as stubborn as your mother.”
He disappeared into his room for a few minutes before returning to the living room with an old, dust-covered typewriter.
Rima frowned. “What are you doing with this old thing? That’s not what I meant!”
Papa Kalenga paid no attention to her. He opened a few drawers and pulled out stacks of blank A4 sheets. Then he sat down at the living room table with the seriousness of a student about to take his national exams. Rima tried to interrupt him, but her father motioned for her to be quiet. “Shh, I need to concentrate.”
And so, for the next hour, Papa Kalenga typed away. Slowly at first, using only two fingers, then with greater confidence. He did the same the next day, and the day after that. His goal was to present his perspective on the Shaba North project, and to try to explain what the Zairians had accomplished in the fields of rocketry and telecommunications, and how their work had contributed to research. He also wrote that he never saw Mr Kayser again, nor had he managed to go to Germany to study. He wrote that he never praised President Mobutu after the deaths of his former colleagues. Three decades of dictatorship had proven him right in his choice. Now, he called himself Congolese, not Zairian.
After three days, Papa Kalenga finally stopped typing. He was done. All his memories had been transformed into ink on paper. All his joys and sorrows. His wedding ceremony, the rocket launches, the many funerals. Rima’s birth, his long-standing friendship with Mpoyo, the glorious days spent at OTRAG. And the moon, of course. All the prayers he had offered to the moon. He had always revered Mama Mwezi.
Papa Kalenga gathered the pages into a worn binder. His manuscript was almost ready for Rima and Emmanuel. But one essential element was missing: the title. Papa Kalenga concentrated for a few minutes, then smiled as he realised he had found the perfect one. He returned to the typewriter and typed it onto the first page. His heart filled with warmth as he read the title aloud: The First Congolese Man in Space.
Cover photo: Europeana