Don King Congo

On boxing promoters in the Congo, Goma April 8^th 2011

Fight promoter may not be the top of any list of the most reputable vocations. There is a sleazy underside to the world of boxing in whatever country it takes place and the businessmen who get down into the gutter to make the sport happen, to underwrite the fights, line up the boxers, and command the crowds and anticipation to make them worthy of watching are not the same people of which you would expect purity. And if you found out they had nasty back grounds or did disreputable things behind closed doors you could not say you were surprised.

Few probably ever expect or wish to be behind those closed doors and that is exactly the thought crossing my mind as I am led into a private meeting room at the Goma casino in eastern Congo—a war zone where business has sharp edges. I have been summoned to meet the fight promoter backing the upcoming combat of the ex-child soldier boxer, Kibomango—another unlikely acquaintance—and the challenger, Manda Yannick. While asked to wait I notice that the furniture and décor—bad taste on a grand scale; huge, scuffed leather chesterfields and smoked glass chandeliers—is exactly the heavy dark décor I’d expect to see from the New Jersey mafia.

The promoter arrives, introduces himself and thanks me for coming. He has good self-possession but hard eyes, and is young, probably late 20s or early 30s. Although well presented there is a mild undertone of menace. Otherwise I don’t know much about him but have heard that he is a comptoir, a mineral trader. Mining is the main source of wealth in this province, a zone of conflict, where money is generally not clean. To do business profitably here you must know a lot of people and keep a lot of people happy—most of them army commanders and government officials. That, together with being promoter of  this fight, would indicate that he is probably an effective deal maker.

I’ve been summoned to this meeting, apparently, to discuss terms for the upcoming fight this weekend. I’m not sure what my actual role is in this—I’ve tried to consider myself as someone with a loose association to Kibomango’s camp, but realise that most everyone else in town considers me to be his main backer and a powerful foreign boxing promoter in my own right. This meeting would indicate that the morphing into that role is now complete.

Given that, I decide I might as well embrace it—playing some version of Saul Bellow’s Henderson the Rain King to the promoter’s Don King of eastern Congo. We get down to business immediately and I make it clear that I am here representing my client, Kibomango. First off—there will be no repeat of the comic-farcical event several days earlier at the Stade des Volcans, the supposed first of two fights, where the opponent, Manda, did not show up and at the last second there was an attempt to substitute the son of the late boxer, Saidi—who died during the course of a fight against Kibomango—in some kind of staged revenge combat.

The promoter denies responsibility for this incident, saying he was not involved in organising that fight, which he explains was held by the local police detachment. Yes, in Congo the police can sponsor public sporting events. Bad organisation, more than malicious intent, he claims, was responsible. But, he assures me, there will definitely be a fight on Sunday and that his side will deliver the opposing boxer, Manda. He has skin in the game himself—selling the tickets and putting up the $1000 prize, a King’s ransom in this country.

My other conditions are that he accommodate the camera crew I am bringing to film the event. He accedes to this and to my request to interview the opposing boxer, Manda. But, he has conditions. They are not unreasonable—to provide the questions in advance and provide a copy of the footage after—although I suspect that as a businessmen he’s used to asking for something in return for something granted.

Just then his phone rings and as he snatches it from his jeans he looks at the call display which he shows to me before answering—it’s Manda calling. I don’t know why it’s necessary for me to know this but then realise that it’s meant to underline his neutrality between the two camps as promoter.

After ringing off, he tells me that it’s time to join Kibomango, who is elsewhere in the hotel, at this moment, in repose. The controlled atmosphere of these meetings with the various parties in different holding areas completes the picture of a far more professional and controlled organisation governing this fight. It will be a big event—all the VIPs in the province will attend.

I’m eventually led to a private table under a pahota in a corner of the hotel garden. Kibomango is there, together with his coach, his trainer, a senior official of the provincial boxing federation and the casino owner. The atmosphere is serious and precise. I decide it would be a good idea to say little and just listen.

I’ve come to appreciate the manner in how meetings are held in Africa. The proceedings are invariably respectful and even Oriental in their deliberateness. Speakers are never interrupted and, here at least, there are long pauses between comment.

The promoter has a request. Tomorrow is the day before the fight and there will be a programme to generate public interest, the main event being a parade—an open motorcade carrying each of the boxers through the streets of the town. I am to ride together in Kibomango’s vehicle. This is an honour of course, but is also a declaration to the public regarding my role and affiliation and about as high profile as you can get in this city and this province. The morphing into the role of Congolese boxing impresario is now complete.