Here we say “present” with a slight questioning inflection in order to make the interlocutor repeat a piece of information that has been misunderstood.
Here, one introduces oneself publicly by saying “I answer in the name of”.
Here one pronounces “I am the father of my fear, a way without ussi and inteurruptère creupiscil-eure”.
Here the singers are able to swing a recipe or an electoral list.
I have just read: “I come from a country where stories have no happy ending.”
Here we often say: “The Congolese love to party”. More rarely: “We don’t love ourselves”.
At the Goma “Little Barrier” border, the smooth Rwandan asphalt leads seamlessly into a bumpy rocky ground after the checkpoint.
Here one “asks for an audience”.
Here the retail sachets of rice, sugar, flour, cassava and milk rolls are tied so tightly that they cannot be torn open.
Here people click their heels to greet a superior.
Here one says “My manager”.
Received the following text message: “I don’t know if I’ll be lucky enough to be a Cinderella”.
It is said here that in July 1994 so many human bodies were thrown into the lake that the fish had finally doubled in size.
They say, “This used to be the Switzerland of Africa.
Here they say, “I’m being tested” to mean that they have just lost a loved one.
Here we prefer the more-than-perfect to the past tense.
Here the women are silent.
Here the Congolese franc banknotes are exploited to the full. A tenth of a millimetre note to your dol-lar and no shopkeeper will cash it in.
A variation of the famous “Hungry Belly Has No Ears”: “When you are hungry, you put yourself and no one else in the middle”.
Here we remember without comment.
Don’t be offended if you are told in the most natural way “You have aged a lot” or “You really look tired. »
Here, many mails begin with: “We have the great honor to come to your high authority to request the above-mentioned subject matter.”
Here we say “ninety” and “seventy” without blinking.
Here one can hear: “I am fine, except for the unemployment which makes me unstable”.
Here we pinch the pages of books to turn them.
Here, we hold our forearm in our hand to hold out or receive an object that is being handed to us.
Here, in the rain, you wash your muddy shoes at night with the same naturalness as when you put them on to go out in the morning.
Here you are told: Don’t pay me now or I will eat the money.
Here, the orange and blue protective tarpaulins torn by the bad weather give a ghostly festive look to the buildings under construction.
Here, all the humanitarian vehicles display the same pictogram on the bodywork, representing a Kal-ashnikov crossed out with a red line.
There is no such thing as a trade union minimum or the least that can be done here.
Here, we take the fold of hell.
Here people think that white people are blushing with fatigue.
Here you can easily give a Christmas concert on January 16th.

Nicolas Fargues