In a move that has sent shivers down the spines of handshake enthusiasts and germophobes alike, the Democratic Republic of Congo has slapped a ban on all mass gatherings in its sprawling capital, Kinshasa. The reason? Ebola. That’s right, dear reader, the same Ebola that has been lurking in the shadows of this vast nation for months has finally decided to upgrade from a rural retreat to a metropolitan premiere.
Now, let us not mince words or, indeed, gloves. The city of 12 million souls, a place where the concept of personal space was likely invented as a joke by some Belgian colonialist, is now officially a no-hug zone. This is the banana republic equivalent of cancelling a Beyoncé concert because someone sneezed in the front row. It is a desperate, last-ditch attempt to prevent the disease from going viral in a city that is already a petri dish of touts, taxis, and tantalising street food.
I imagine the government’s logic went something like this: “Right, chaps, we’ve got a bit of a bug going round. Best tell everyone to stay at home and not do that thing they love most: standing in sweaty crowds watching politicians waffle on about infrastructure.” But of course, this being the Congo, no detail is too small for a decree. The ban covers “cultural, political, religious, and sports gatherings” – essentially anything that might involve two or more Congolese sharing the same air. Even funerals, those great social events of the African calendar, have been given the heave-ho. Because nothing says “respect for the dead” like burying your uncle in secret like a contraband ham.
Now, let’s talk about the elephant in the room: the sheer absurdity of trying to enforce such a ban in a city like Kinshasa. Kinshasa is not a place where people sit quietly and obey. It is a city of chaos, of street vendors selling everything from goat meat to bootleg DVDs, of traffic jams that make the M25 look like a Sunday drive. To ban gatherings in Kinshasa is like trying to ban humidity in a rainforest. It’s simply not going to happen. People will still gather, they will still shake hands, they will still pass the communal bowl of fufu. And why? Because that’s what people do. They’re social animals. And frankly, after years of war, corruption, and general misery, a little Ebola is not going to stop them from dancing on a Saturday night.
The health officials, I’m sure, mean well. They’ve got their white suits, their thermometers, their buckets of chlorine. But they are fighting a losing battle against human nature. Ebola is a terrible disease, no doubt. It kills people in horrific ways. But it is also a disease that can be contained with sensible measures: washing hands, avoiding contact with bodily fluids, not licking bats. But in a city where running water is a luxury and a clean pair of gloves is a status symbol, these measures are about as useful as a chocolate teapot.
So what will happen next? Probably a lot of posturing by the government, a lot of brave faces by the international community, and a lot of people getting sick anyway. Because that is the tragedy of places like the Congo. The world sees a crisis, but it doesn’t see the daily crisis of just trying to survive. Ebola is just another obstacle in a long line of obstacles. And while we in the West fret about getting our avocado toast on time, the people of Kinshasa are being told not to hug their dying grandmothers.
I raise a glass of dubious Congo beer to them. May they find a way to live, and may the bureaucrats who have invented this ban be forced to spend a week in the city without their air conditioned SUVs. That would be a true experiment in public health. But until then, we watch, we wait, and we hope. And we pray that the next headline isn’t: “Ebola goes global, thanks to one very determined bat and a handshake in a street market.”
