Rosa Rio
Copyright© 2025 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 11
Pullman Lubumbashi Grand Karavia.
A typical summer afternoon in Lubumbashi, Democratic Republic of the Congo, is a collage of heat, colour, and rhythm — the sort of afternoon that clings to your skin and lodges itself in your memory. From the moment we left the airport and slid into the backseat of a modest sedan, the city unfolded before us, raw and unpretentious, alive with its own pulse.
Lubumbashi, once called Élisabethville in colonial days, is no small town. It’s the second-largest city in the Congo, tucked against the Zambian border, and you feel its weight as soon as you’re in it — the copper capital, the gateway to the Katanga region, a place that seems to balance between industrious grit and a strangely effortless charm.
The first stretch of road carried us past neighbourhoods of low-rise cement buildings, their paint sun-bleached but still proud in hues of turquoise, ochre, and red. Shopfronts spilled out onto the sidewalks with their goods — bolts of patterned fabric fluttering in the breeze, crates of Coca-Cola stacked high, handwritten signs in French promising phone credit and money transfers. Vendors called out as we drove by, women balancing trays of grilled corn, roasted peanuts, and bottled water on their heads with a grace that seemed impossible.
Billboards towered over us, slogans in French shouting about Airtel and Vodacom, while glossy posters showed smiling families holding bottles of Fanta or Primus beer. The city vibrated with energy, not chaotic but layered, like a busy song where every instrument had its place.
Our driver, a middle-aged man with kind eyes, navigated the road with one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing now and then as he spoke. His French was smooth, peppered with Swahili, and though my own French was clumsy, I caught the sense of pride in his voice as he pointed out landmarks — a church here, a football stadium there, the university where, he told us, “les jeunes” filled the classrooms with hope for better days. I nodded, half understanding, but fully aware that he wanted us to see Lubumbashi not just as a stopover, but as a city with a soul.
The road itself was a mixture of freshly paved stretches and rough patches where the car bounced lightly, the suspension groaning in complaint. Motorbikes zipped between lanes with reckless confidence, some carrying two or even three passengers, women sitting side-saddle with baskets in their laps. Pedestrians threaded through the roadside stalls with ease, children chasing each other through the dust, their laughter rising above the steady hum of traffic.
From the open window drifted the unmistakable soundtrack of Lubumbashi. Our taxi radio spilled Congolese rumba, silky guitars and rolling bass-lines, while passing cars blasted gospel choruses, their harmonies ringing with devotion. The sounds collided in the air but never clashed, like the city itself — layered, vibrant, somehow cohesive.
Nisreen sat beside me, silent but observant. She leaned toward the window now and then, her eyes catching on a mural painted in bold colours, or on the market stalls with pyramids of mangoes and avocados. Her expression didn’t betray much — cool, composed — but I sensed she was filing everything away. Unlike me, she didn’t seem wide-eyed at all; if anything, she carried herself as though she’d seen cities like this before.
As we drew closer to our destination, the scenery shifted. The bustle of the city softened, and suddenly the roads grew quieter, lined with greenery. Then, at last, the Pullman Grand Karavia came into view — perched near the calm expanse of Lake Kipopo, its grounds lush with manicured gardens. The entrance was guarded but welcoming, a polished gateway to another world entirely.
Stepping out of the taxi, I felt an almost jarring contrast: from the dust and heat of the streets to this oasis of glass, stone, and clipped hedges. Uniformed staff stood ready at the doors, their smiles polite but distant, as though they’d rehearsed this welcome for a thousand travellers before us.
I remembered the words of the brochure as we crossed into the lobby:
“Effortlessly stylish and undeniably modern, the Pullman Lubumbashi Grand Karavia invites travellers to indulge in a one-of-a-kind escape in the very heart of Africa’s copper belt. Nestled on the serene slopes of Lake Lubumbashi, the hotel is embraced by lush gardens and the prestigious Lubumbashi Golf Club. Every detail has been designed to provide comfort, elegance, and world-class service, ensuring a stay as memorable as it is relaxing.”
That’s what the travel brochure said, but as I stepped through the glass doors into the foyer, I could not for a minute realise that such grandeur was available in the Congo. Andy must be paying a fortune for us to stay here.
Nisreen, however, was unfazed. She glanced around with little more than a flicker of acknowledgement, and in that moment, I suspected she had been in places like this before. For her, it was nothing new. For me, it was stepping into another world.
After check-in, Nisreen let out a breath I hadn’t realised she’d been holding. Her shoulders sagged just a little as she announced, “After check-in, I am going to take a long, luxurious bath and dress a little more comfortable.” She flashed me a weak smile, the kind that carried more fatigue than joy. “Four hours fighting turbulence over the Congo jungle has left me a little tired.”
“Do so,” I replied, trying to keep my voice casual even though I felt every bump of that cursed flight still rattling around my bones. “I think I’m going to do the same.”
“Yeah,” she giggled — though even her laugh carried a weary edge. “Three weeks of only showers. I think I’m going to soak in that bath till I grow fins...”
I chuckled, glad she could still joke after the ordeal. “My own mermaid! How cute.” I smiled at her, but Nisreen didn’t return it this time. She just gave me that steady look of hers, a look that could pierce through any layer of irony or bravado I tried to hide behind.
“Just remember, mermaids require a lot of water...” she said at last, her tone playful again, though her eyes betrayed exhaustion. With a little flourish, she flashed her key-card at me and followed the pageboy. The poor kid trundled along with her few pieces of luggage, which looked as sorry and battered as we both felt. I couldn’t help but notice how little she carried for someone who had been travelling this long. It made me wonder, again, what she might have left behind — or what she refused to carry with her anymore.
“And I think I better look around for some clothing shops!” she shot over her shoulder as she disappeared down the hall.
I sighed, shaking my head. “Wee-men! No matter where in the world they are—shopping is priority one.” I muttered the line half to myself, but loud enough to be overheard.
“I heard you!” Nisreen called, her voice echoing just as the elevator doors slid shut.
For a moment, I stood there in the lobby, feeling the emptiness creep in. The marble floor gleamed under the chandelier light, polished to a mirror sheen that seemed almost out of place after the sweat and grime of the jungle. Bellhops and receptionists moved with quiet efficiency, the hum of air conditioning masking the chaos we’d left behind just hours earlier. My body ached for the comfort of that bath too, but part of me lingered, watching the last trace of Nisreen vanish behind those elevator doors.
There was something about her resilience — how she could mask exhaustion with humour, fear with a quip — that both charmed me and unsettled me. I wondered if she noticed me studying her too closely, wondering about the things she didn’t say.
Nisreen was gone now, swallowed by the elevator, and I realised how quickly her energy filled a space — and how quickly it vanished once she stepped away. I caught myself staring at the spot where she’d stood, a half-smile tugging at my mouth. A mermaid, she’d said. Maybe she’d need the whole ocean to wash away the Congo from her skin. Maybe I did too.
But it was still early. The city outside was alive, I could sense it even from here — sunlight filtering through the tall glass panes, heat radiating from the streets, the muffled sound of traffic and distant voices slipping into the cool hush of the hotel. We had the afternoon ahead of us, and I knew we wouldn’t stay in our separate rooms for long.
A sundowner first, I decided. Something quiet, something that would let us breathe and pretend for a while that the turbulence and the jungle belonged to another life.
Then supper, perhaps, if conversation carried us that far. I’d let her have her bath and her shopping hunt. I’d take my own moment of peace. And then, when the sun dropped low over the rooftops, we’d meet again.
Kampala, Uganda.
Jassim Al-Kuwari paced the length of the carpeted suite, his soft leather slippers making no sound, though his agitation filled the room like thunder. The curtains were drawn against the harsh Ugandan afternoon, but a hard bar of sunlight still broke through a seam, cutting across the Persian rug like a blade. The air-conditioning hummed against the sticky Kampala heat, stirring the faint scent of polish and stale cigar smoke, yet the coolness did little to soothe him. He was restless, impatient, his mind circling the same thought over and over: “Goma. I must get to Goma.”
Every hour they lingered here was a blade twisting in his chest. Nisreen was still in that cursed place, surrounded by chaos, corruption, and the constant, ungovernable violence of the Congo. In Jassim’s mind, the country was less a land than a fever — a place where law dissolved, where a daughter of Al-Kuwari should never have set foot. She was meant for security, for dignity, for a household rooted in respect and piety. He clenched his fists behind his back as he walked, his jaw set tight, the muscles in his face as rigid as stone.
He had told himself — repeatedly — that allowing her this journey would temper her. Let her see hardship, let her feel the edge of deprivation, and she would return chastened. She would then, finally, accept her place. Marriage to Faisal, a good man from a good family. Stability. Continuity. A name his forefathers would approve of. Yet instead of returning humbled, Nisreen had grown defiant, eyes lit with fire, mouth full of opinions that clashed against tradition. The very idea that she might remain in Africa, away from his reach, was an affront to everything he had sacrificed for her.
His lips moved silently in remembrance: Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim. In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. He prayed for patience, but patience was running thin. The hum of the air-conditioner, the slow ticking of the gilt clock on the mantel, the distant drone of traffic outside — all pressed down upon him like an unbearable chorus.
Then a knock broke through his thoughts. Sharp. Deliberate.
“Come!” His voice was harsher than he intended, slicing through the muffled air.
The door opened, and his chief assistant entered, head slightly bowed, followed by two juniors. The three men carried themselves differently, stiff with solemnity, their faces too heavy for routine matters. Their eyes were careful, their steps measured. The eldest, who had served Jassim loyally for decades, paused just inside the threshold as though the very air within the suite weighed more than he could bear.
“Ya Sheikh,” he began softly, “I bring terrible news. I advise you first sit down.”
Jassim waved the suggestion aside, irritation flaring again. “Nothing can be more terrible than that we loiter around here while I need to get to Goma and my daughter.” His tone cracked like a whip, though deep down his pulse quickened, each beat pressing harder into his ribs.
The assistant’s eyes flickered. He drew a breath, steadying himself as one might before delivering a sentence. “Ya Sheikh ... it is about your daughter. I am afraid there was ... an incident.”
The words clung to the air, unnatural and thick. Jassim felt a prickle along the nape of his neck. His throat tightened. He forced himself to ask, though his voice dropped low, almost childlike. “What incident?”
“Ya Sheikh ... the rebels attacked the UN compound at Goma airport with mortars.”
Jassim’s brows knit. For a moment, strangely, relief washed through him like a cool tide. “So ... we will be delayed a little longer?”
The assistant lowered his eyes, the silence before he spoke louder than any shout. “No, Ya Sheikh Al-Kuwari. We can proceed to Goma. But ... there is other, more devastating news.” He faltered, then pressed on, voice breaking. “There was a direct hit on your daughter’s quarters. They found her body. I am truly sorry, Ya Sheikh.”
The world shifted. The cool air turned heavy, suffocating. Jassim’s mouth opened, but no sound escaped. The men blurred before his eyes as though he were peering at them from beneath dark water.
“We, I tried to phone her several times, but her phone just goes to the network message that say she is not available,” the assistant continued.
And then, without warning, Nisreen’s voice rose inside his skull, clear as if she stood before him:
“You thought you sent me here to the Congo to be dropped into despair and hardship so that I could come crawling back to the gold cage you try to smother me in. Well, I have news for you, dear Daddy. I am not coming back to Doha. Never ever again!”
The words seared him. He could see her — chin raised, eyes burning with that defiance he could never tame.
“I am not coming back to Doha. Never ever again!”
The echo grew louder, bouncing in his mind until it drowned out all else. Never ever again. Never ever again.
A strange thought pierced his grief: had she known? Was it prophecy, or curse?
“Ya Sheikh, I will arrange for the casket to be transported to Doha,
And then, as if the weight of her defiance crushed him bodily, the suite collapsed around Jassim Al-Kuwari. His legs failed. He did not know or feel it when his body struck the thick carpet, the prayer on his lips unfinished.
Lubumbashi, Democratic Republic of the Congo.
On my way to my room, I almost collided with Andy in the corridor. He was moving fast, eyes darting around like a man half-chased by his own thoughts. His shirt stuck to him, a faint sheen of sweat across his forehead though the hotel air-conditioning kept the hall cool.
“What’s up, Andy?” I asked, stopping him.
He looked at me, breath a little ragged. “Where’s Miss Al-Kuwari?”
“She checked in and went up to her room,” I said. “Why?”
“We have a problem.” His chest rose and fell too quickly. “A big problem.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What can be such a big problem that you can’t handle?”
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