Well, well, well. If it isn’t the grim reaper’s latest party trick: Ebola has gatecrashed the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and the government is responding in the only way a panicked bureaucracy knows how. By banning gatherings. Yes, dear reader, because nothing says 'public health triumph' like forbidding people from meeting to discuss why they’re all dying. The streets of Kinshasa will now echo with the sound of one hand clapping, as thousands of potential virus incubators are sent home to infect their immediate families instead. Brilliant. Pure genius. I’d applaud, but I’m afraid I might start a gathering.
Meanwhile, the UK aid teams are on standby. Standby. That glorious realm where British officials polish their pith helmets and wait for the perfect moment to do absolutely nothing. I can imagine the scene: a Whitehall conference room, a pot of lukewarm tea, and a man with a clipboard declaring, 'The situation is being monitored closely.' Monitored. Like a kettle watching itself boil. The only thing standing between Kinshasa and a full-blown epidemic is a bunch of NHS doctors who’ve been told to pack their bags but not to board the plane yet. Because that would be hasty. We mustn’t rush into saving lives. There’s paperwork.
But let’s not forget the real victim here: the gin supply. International aid flights are currently grounded, which means my personal stock of duty-free Tanqueray might be delayed. I’m not saying Ebola is trivial, but have you tried finding a decent London dry gin in a city under quarantine? It’s a humanitarian crisis of its own. I can already picture the headlines: 'Ebola containment hampers bartender’s ability to serve G&Ts.' The horror. The sheer, unadulterated horror.
Of course, the ban on gatherings is the real masterpiece. In a city of 15 million people, where handshakes are a national sport and funerals are the main form of entertainment, banning crowds is like banning water in a flood. The government might as well have declared a ban on breathing. But they had to do something. You see, the World Health Organization is watching, and the WHO loves a good ban. It’s the international language of 'we’re doing something, even if it’s stupid.' So now, instead of sharing germs in church, they’ll share them at home. Because home gatherings aren’t gatherings, apparently. They’re ‘family meetings.’ The virus is not fooled. The virus doesn’t read government decrees.
And what of the UK aid teams? They’re on standby. That means they’re sitting in a hangar in Brize Norton, playing cards, and wondering if they’ll ever get to wear their hazmat suits in anger. I can almost hear them: 'Remember when we stopped Ebola in Sierra Leone? That was a good outbreak. Proper outbreak. This one’s just a lot of fuss.' But they’ll go eventually. Once the situation has deteriorated enough that intervention becomes a PR necessity. Then they’ll parachute in with their mobile laboratories and their British reserve, and they’ll fix it. Because that’s what we do. We fix things after they’ve broken.
In the meantime, Kinshasa is a city of ghosts. Empty streets, shuttered bars, and a population watching the WHO website for updates. The only gathering that’s permitted is the gathering of clouds on the horizon, and the only outbreak spreading faster than Ebola is the outbreak of fear. But fear is a silent killer, isn’t it? It doesn’t require body fluids. It just requires a headline. And we’ve got plenty of those.
So here’s to the DRC. May your gin be clean, your hand sanitizer plentiful, and your gatherings… well, maybe just rename them ‘necessary social interactions.’ The virus doesn’t care about words. But then again, neither does the government. Carry on.
