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Background and growing up

Growing up as a Congolese in South Africa meant being surrounded by food and music, which shaped me in ways I only fully appreciated as I got older. At home, meals weren’t always about devouring food; they were a celebration of culture. Fumbwa, a dark leafy green cooked with peanut butter or palm oil, and pondu, made with cassava leaves. Washed and pounded, slowly cooked with palm oil, spices added with small amounts of dried smoked river fish known as ‘ngolo’ in Lingala, giving it a savory depth. Kwanga, fermented cassava wrapped in leaves, is the kind of starchy treat that could fill up for hours, often paired with pondu or fumbwa with fried fish carefully prepared until crispy.

These dishes are not just delicious; they are the secret behind the strength and resilience of Congolese people. I remember a story about a Congolese auntie years ago, who lived her life working, only to discover during a random check-up at a local clinic that her blood pressure was in the ‘180/120 mmHg’ range. If you know anything about blood pressure, ‘180/120 mmHg’ is basically screaming “You’re in BIG trouble!” – stroke, heart attack, organ damage… like the WHOLE package. The doctor and nurse were overly stunned by how she was striving despite such a diagnosis, and credited it to the wholesome, nutrient-packed food I grew up eating. That kind of health and energy became a part of my life long before I even took note of it.

And there comes the music, oh, Congolese music. Music, for me, has always been more than just background noise; it’s basically a Congolese requirement. Growing up, if you couldn’t move your waist properly while dancing, people would surely, jokingly or even seriously, question your nationality. And let me tell you this, Congolese music is not just about beats; it’s a whole instrument masterpiece. The guitar’s riffs, intricate drums, and the punchy bass line make it impossible not to move. It’s no wonder Congo is called the ‘HEART OF AFRICAN RUMBA’, influencing music across Africa, the Caribbean, and even Latin America. Thankfully, even though I don’t dance as I used to as a kid, at least… I still got my rhythm. Give me a beat and, honestly, I could break a leg with passion, but only if there’s a little incentive, like money. Otherwise… you’ll have to enjoy the rhythm in your head.

BUT Congolese childhood isn’t just the rhythm and dancing. It’s also full of stories, the kind your parents tell so casually at supper time, not knowing they will traumatize you forever. One story in particular completely changed the way I see certain food.

For example: caterpillars. Yes, caterpillars. The same little creatures that most people know associate with leaves, gardens, and eventually butterflies, I know what you’re already thinking: why on earth would a human being decide to eat that? Honestly, I ask myself the same question. How my ancestors reached that conclusion is a mystery only our ancestors can answer. In Congo, caterpillars are actually considered normal food. They’re usually dried first, then cooked in a rich sauce, often with peanut butter, tomatoes, onions, garlic, spices, and some chili. When done properly, the sauce becomes thick and incredibly flavourful. As a kid, I loved it. To me, it was just another delicious meal on the table. I didn’t analyse or question. I simply ate it happily.

Until one faithful day. While we were eating, my father casually decided it was a perfect moment to share his childhood story. He told us that when he was young, his uncle used to say that if you ate caterpillars, they could come back to life inside your body, moving around, crawling through your stomach, and possibly even finding their way out through your nose or ears. Now imagine hearing that story while you are literally chewing the thing. To this day, I’m not sure whether my father meant it as a joke or was simply trying to entertain himself at the dinner table. But whatever it was, it worked, and it worked perfectly. My relationship with caterpillars ended on the spot, no discussion, no second chances.

The same dish I once loved suddenly looked extremely suspicious. Even today, if I see it on a plate, my appetite quietly disappears.

Experiences of belonging vs exclusion

I guess the first time I truly realised people saw me as a foreigner didn’t hit me in one dramatic moment, it was more like a slow, funny-weird accumulation of everyday things: the way I looked, the way I sounded, and even the name I carry. Let’s start with hair. In Congolese culture, hair isn’t just hair; it’s personality on display. While most kids around me stuck to simple black or brown braids, my mom treated my head like her very own art project. Purple extensions today, burgundy tomorrow, navy blue curls in the next three months, I basically had every had almost every shade woven you could think of. Even now, I think blonde is calling my name! Congolese people have perfected the art of expressive hair, colours, extensions, weaves, wigs, and hairstyles; you could spot us a mile away.

Then there’s my accent. I’ve heard myself speak or recorded my voice so many times. Honestly, I don’t hear any Congolese rhythm in there. But apparently, others do. People would speak to me casually, and the moment I opened my mouth, they’d stop and ask, “So where are you actually from?” It’s wild because to me it just sounds like English… with personality. I still don’t know how they hear Congolese in it, but maybe that’s just one of life’s mysteries.

And then there’s the Kapela thing, my surname.  Now this always throws people off the loop. A lot of my teachers, specifically black South Africans, assumed I was a South African at first because the spelling looked familiar to them, until they heard my accent or realised I didn’t speak any local languages, and then all of a sudden, “Hai wena! So you’re from Congo?” they’d say, genuinely surprised. But here is the funny part: all my life living in this country, I have never once encountered or heard of a South African with a surname like mine. Not once. Not at schools, not in the neighbourhood, not at competitions of any kind, not even in newspapers. Yet somehow, South Africans are roaming around with the exact surname they have. It’s shocking and honestly… another layer of mystery I can’t wait to explore. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll finally crack the mystery of ‘Kapela’ and discover some family secrets worthy of a Netflix documentary.

Enough about mysterious surnames, now for the part where being ‘just another foreigner’ gets a little too real. Lately, South Africa has seen a huge wave of anti-immigrant activism that doesn’t feel distant if you live here. It feels like a shadow following you around. Groups like ‘March & March’ and ‘Operation Dudula’ have organised protests and demonstrations in cities such as Durban, Johannesburg, and parts of the Eastern Cape, one of the provinces in South Africa, calling for strong enforcement against illegal immigration. These movements often target foreigners at clinics, shops, and public spaces, angrily demanding foreign nationals’ identity documents and challenging their rights to access services, even without any legal authority to do so.

At first, the whole focus was on illegal immigration, people viewed as outside legal channels. But in practice, everything changed. In media and social media platforms, whenever there’s news of crime, social and economic frustrations, you’ll see comments and posts that start by blaming ‘foreigners’, whether the facts are confirmed or not. Scroll through X or TikTok, and you’ll find a lot of people quick to assume the worst, specifically on black foreign nationals, regardless of citizenship or legal status. And people don’t just shout at marches. They use languages that targets others, like the word “kwere-kwere.” For those who may not know, the term is used in South Africa mainly against black migrants. The word is often used to label someone as not South African, usually based on their accent, language, or where they came from, making someone feel like they don’t belong. The exact origin is debated; some believe it comes from locals mimicking the sound of unfamiliar African languages, while others think it may be linked to names like the KORE-KORE people of Zimbabwe or even influenced by colonial languages such as French. Whatever the exact origin may be, hearing such words thrown publicly, in chants and comment sections across social media, still hits hard, even when it isn’t directed at me personally. I want to state something very clear: I’m not defending crime, being pro-immigration, or any illegal behaviour. If someone breaks the law, they MUST face the law – no question. But when frustration becomes blanket blame, when all foreigners are lumped together and assumed guilty no matter what, it makes anyone in that position uneasy. Even though I live here legally, there is still this tension in the air, like; the You are here, but are you still welcome here?

Honestly… I don’t have any neat conclusion as where expecting. Maybe that’s the point: life between two worlds does not always come with an excellent ending. The only thing I can is: Living between two worlds has taught me that belonging isn’t about where you are from on paper, but where you feel seen, heard, and alive.