Don't argue with 'General' Jerome

By Tim Whewell In Aru, Democratic Republic of Congo

Commander Jerome Kakwavu People's Armed Forces of Congo

It was hard to avoid glancing at the general's crotch, because stuck through the middle of his low-slung military belt was a shiny silver pistol.

Wasn't it a bit uncomfortable down there? And could that be why he rocked back and forth on his chair during our interview, just like I don't let my children do at dinner?

Why on earth couldn't Jerome Kakwavu wear his firearm on his hip like other self-respecting warlords?

But much as I wanted to know, that was just one of many things I never asked the general.

In fact he wasn't really a general. But then no-one was going to argue.

Seven years of war in central Africa came to an end this summer with the installation of a new power-sharing government in the Democratic Republic of Congo.

But even now, many Congolese do not believe the war is really over.

Militia rules

General Jerome was a former traffic cop who'd risen a few ranks in the military and then rewarded himself with four gold stars on each of his scarlet epaulettes.

He acquired a private army and a lucrative kingdom in one of the remotest parts of Africa, where Congo meets Uganda and Sudan.

He controlled a large open-cast gold mine, forests of valuable timber and customs posts which according to UN investigators net him thousands of dollars a week.

You wouldn't know it from taking a guided tour of Aru, the grid of red dirt roads, banana trees and thatched huts that serves as the general's capital.

It's as quiet as the grave - perhaps because, according to many accounts I'd heard, the corpses of his victims are dispersed around the town's chief attractions - under the football pitch, in the back garden of his official residence, and so on - dispatched by that shiny weapon he keeps down his front.

But that was another subject I didn't raise with the general.

We arrived six hours late in a tiny old Soviet aircraft that last saw service in Siberia, and found the general lethargically sucking on a Fanta in one of Aru's three dingy cafes.

He was a lean restless young man with frighteningly loose limbs, striped in bright colours like a snake in a child's picture-book.

At the top was his red beret - the shade of very fresh blood - then an imperious black moustache, the flashing white teeth, the red epaulettes, the green fatigues, that strategically-placed silver weapon, and so down to the patent black boots.

He met my gaze. But you couldn't tell from his eyes what he thought he was looking at.

There was no firm evidence he recognised a fellow human being.

And so I didn't just pull my journalistic punches. I held them back for grim life.

Vous voyez! Vingt-quatre vingt-quatre! Twenty four out of twenty four! Even women feel safe at night! General Jerome

Where exactly did he get his arms and his money from?

What was the illegal business network he ran with officers from neighbouring Uganda?

Why had his men mutinied against him?

And just how bloodily had he crushed the revolt?

None of those questions I'd come so far to put were pressed very hard.

Protection

And so it was off for the four-by-four tour of Aru After Dark.

I didn't ask to see the football pitch or his back garden.

Instead, we sent dozens of female cyclists careering into ditches as Jerome proclaimed: "Vous voyez! Vingt-quatre vingt-quatre! Twenty four out of twenty four! Even women feel safe at night!"

Under the general, Aru has already achieved that non-stop round the clock status that Ken Livingstone still dreams of as mayor of London.

The general toyed with another Fanta as we gulped down a few lagers at the Aru dancing club.

Then - noblesse oblige - he delivered us to our gite.

It wasn't the kind you may have rented in the Dordogne. There was no light in the loo or water in the basin.

Even now many Congolese do not believe the war is over

A well-built, impenetrable clod of a youth in green fatigues lumbered repeatedly around my room, rummaging under the bed for boots and other military paraphernalia.

But before we retired for the night there was a most unexpected revelation.

A very pretty, slightly shy young woman appeared from the courtyard and smiled at us.

Charming companion

"I'm Eunice," she said in perfect English, "the general's wife."

So we sat and chatted for half an hour as the TV screen alternated forlornly between blank and buzzing fuzz.

She'd been educated in Kenya. She wanted to be a paediatrician. Her dream was to visit London.

I hadn't felt able to ask her any of the questions that now bothered me - why on earth had she married the general? And which wife was she?

For us impunity does not exist General Jerome

But somehow, her charm and sheer normality had emboldened me - that and the prospect of leaving early next morning.

And so, when the general came to pick us up after breakfast, I had to find out what he did with that pistol.

"Do you have capital punishment?" I ventured insanely.

He pretended not to understand. "We are a well-organised movement," he growled. "For us impunity does not exist."

And yet, hypnotised by the snake's gaze, I couldn't move away.

"Death?" I whispered...Surely he wouldn't gun me down in front of Eunice.

But the general wasn't answering. "You're already late," he said. And I realised with relief that he was right.

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From Our Own Correspondent was broadcast on Saturday, 15 November, 2003, at 1130 GMT on BBC Radio 4. Please check the programme schedules for World Service transmission times.

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