Life’s a riot

Goma April 10^th 2011

Truth is a slippery commodity—we can know it only to the extent revealed and on this day when there is a near riot in the town of Goma, eastern Congo, based on half truth and rumour the full extent of one’s research abilities will be needed to uncover what is actually going on.

It is late morning on the day of the much anticipated prize fight between Congo’s two top boxers when it is suddenly announced to be cancelled. For boxing fans who have been waiting for this day for months—and which has been built up with as much show biz razzmatazz as this ragged town can muster—the effect is electric. People who have been brought to the point of anticipation and excitement over any sporting event will react with anger and frustration when it is snatched from them without explanation. This is typically how public disturbances begin.

In the absence of clear information rumours circulate to destructive effect. One is that the local champion Kibomango has been disqualified by the national boxing federation, something which produces outrage among his supporters. Another is that the challenger, Manda, has fearfully backed out. On hearing this Manda takes to the streets in full boxing gear, shouting that he is ready to fight regardless—a disturbance ensues in which he is set upon by a hostile crowd before being rescued by Kibomango’s manager and taken to a safe house. From this incident the story circulates that he has been abducted. Both camps of supporters remain in a high state of agitation all day. The city is on the verge of a riot. Although truth cannot always be known the misapprehensions that spring from its absence will create their own reality.

Farce, tragedy, bad joke—you can apply all to what is happening.

My film crew and I who have been planning to film the fight decide to make a project out of the unexpected. The actual reason for the cancelation is still unknown; we set out to find the truth. The Mayor’s office, the first stop, can only tell us that they refused to issue a permit due to a lack of clarity and proper paper work from the boxing federation and other parties, although even this doesn’t seem to tell the whole story. Following the video verité approach to story telling we attempt to locate and interview Kibomango, who is holed up in Kiba-bie, my beloved slum that I’ve come to know so well.

Petna, the director, and his film crew have their vehicle stopped by an angry crowd and tell me that they witnessed street fights trying to get into Kiba-bie and had to turn back. This is from a man who has lived through the past 15 years of Congo’s wars and whose judgement on what is or is not safe is an unshakeable truth. But Kiba-bie is friendly territory to me—I tell him to wait at the Goma casino hotel and that I will deliver Kibomango.

Walking in on foot I am greeted warmly, everyone knows me here. I couldn’t be safer. I know exactly where to find Kibomango—his unofficial headquarters is a small bar with low wooden sides and chicken wire windows located down a muddy track. When I arrive there is a large and boisterous crowd. Many are visibly drunk. The atmosphere is agitated but not aggressive. But I am greeted as a friend and ally—the crowd launches into the Club des Amitiés team songs that involve a chorused chant and reply that I know by heart: Gonzo! Esprit! Gonzo! Esprit!

Inside Kibomango is sitting alone at a table still wearing his fight gear and surrounded by supporters. As is his wont this man of measured temperament is silent and largely unreactive. But I know that he is quietly seething at the day’s injustices, that once again powerful, unseen forces have conspired to obstruct his destiny as a boxer. That is the exact sentiment of his supporters here and in the whole Kiba-bie district. There are crowds backed up to the door and waiting outside as well. I realise what the occasion demands—I will have to give a speech and say what I can to cool the situation.

First off I have to commiserate with Kibomango and his supporters. He has endured a thousand disappointments and frustrations waiting for the opportunity to defend his title, including this, the second fight cancelation in a week. Next I must explain that there have been many rumours today and that it is difficult to know the truth. But that I will do my best to find out, if he and his manager will come with me. His supporters, however, must remain here—Manda may also be at this meeting and I can’t have a rumble between them.

Arriving at the hotel the fight promoter and other officials are there with my film crew.  As we sit down, I realise there is a need to take charge and set tone and agenda. I lead off telling Kibomango and his manager that we are getting closer to the truth, and that the promoter will now illuminate much, that there are reasons for this fiasco but that the fight will happen eventually, if not today. But first it is important that he take responsibility for calming his supporters, that while he is calm, they are not. As a professional boxer being even indirectly responsible for disorder in this town is something that would go very badly for him. As for Manda, he is a guest in Goma and must be accorded respect. The allegation that he was afraid to fight must be withdrawn.

Kibomango listens to this silently and with head bowed before nodding in assent. He will ensure that his supporters are calm and appreciates this opportunity for a meeting in a constructive atmosphere.

Next the promoter will speak his peace and explain what has actually happened. But before he can begin there is the sound of shouts on the street before an angry mob bursts into the hotel courtyard a few yards from our table. It is Manda’s supporters—they have seen Kibomango being brought across town and have gathered in response to the earlier rumour that Manda had been abducted. It is a tense moment. To his credit Kibomango does nothing to react to this threatening situation and sits quietly. The promoter peels off and confronts the crowd, eventually parleying them to some kind of peace.

When he returns he has a tired, harassed look. His attempt to stage a prestigious sporting event and turn a dollar has ended in disaster. I have to say that I feel for him at this moment—although days before I had seen a hard and ambitious mineral trader turned promoter, now I see a humbled and stressed-out young man, his dreams in ashes.

His explanation of what has gone wrong would shame Franz Kafka and Max Weber for bureaucratic complication—an “entente” with one level of the provincial sporting authority without the accord of another, a sporting event licence granted to an army Colonel who may or may not have had his own papers in order. Suffice that the detail is more complex than interesting. But the heart of the matter does point to some lack of cooperation from somewhere inside the boxing federation. What has actually happened and who is responsible—the truth in other words—may never be known.

But for the moment, and fortunately, the phrase “all’s well that ends well” finds easy translation in Swahili as the note on which this mediation is brought to a close. Tomorrow I will be whisked away by UN convoy to Rushuru, a not fully stabilised rural district that I now think of as comparatively peaceful. But things are not quiet over; before drifting to sleep there is a phone call. It is the boxer Manda and he’d like to see me.