Goma, Nord Kivu January 25th
Rounding a corner in the Cirque Sportif informal settlement in Goma there is a rumble up ahead, with some kind of fight going on. A crowd has formed a circle, just like a schoolyard fight back home, shouting encouragement to the combatants who are pummeling each other with blows I can hear from a distance. When we get closer I see that they are both wearing boxing gloves and there is a referee. This is one of Goma’s outdoor boxing rings, which takes place in a paved clearing between two building and across from a school. They are highly organised: there are weight categories, divisions ranked by age and skill and a cadre of coaches, officials and participants. Congolese like boxing and they are very good at it.
As we move in closer to watch the next round Dominique, who is my guide and colleague as we tramp through the informal settlements and markets of Goma on the business of the Kivu Reintegration Centre, is watching intently as the boxers close and then begin sparing.
“Ahh! I like it too much, the boxing! I am not good at it, I am not sporting, but I like it!”
I mention that I’ve boxed, that I’m also not good at it, but like it all the same.
“Then you must join in here! You would be welcome”.
The prospect of an outdoor match or even training under these circumstances is not something I would relish or willingly enter into. The sight of a middle aged muzungu of mediocre ability, boxing outdoors is something sure to attract a crowd. I would rather not be a spectacle, and explain this, declining the offer.
“Ok, but you can get yourself a private teacher! A trainer, I know just the one”.
This is a more interesting proposition. I need to find some outlet in Goma and as there is no public gym to attend, the idea of a personal trainer has some attraction. We immediately set off, heading in the direction of one of the informal markets across town. My teacher to be, Dominique explains, is Kibomango, Goma’s top boxer, and possibly even all of Congo. He keeps his own gym, trains a few promising fighters, and is preparing for his next big match. To pay the bills, he works as an auto mechanic and we are heading to his place of work. Reaching an open, dusty field where large trucks are being worked on we continue deeper into the market’s automotive district, and then come to the informal, open air mechanics section where cars and motor cycles are being worked on. There are no work shops really, vehicles just come and a mechanic sitting on the ground next to his tools, will agree to work on your vehicle. This is about mid-tier in the Goma automotive world. At the top are the internationally licensed dealers and associated mechanics—whose clients tend to be agency vehicles, followed by smaller garages, and then the market mechanics like these ones. The next step down are those doing basic car and motorcycle repairs on the side of the road and then, finally, the tire menders; mostly kids on street corners.
We approach an old looking car and after Dominique calls out, Kibomango himself emerges from underneath and walks toward us. He is a short, powerfully built man with python biceps, a thin waist and bulging acid wash jeans. His nose is battered and mangled with the scars of fight wounds that have never been stitched-up and as he takes off his mirror sunglasses I see that he is missing an eye. His movements are quick, almost lizard-like in their swiftness, and he exudes controlled power; the other mechanics and street boys who gather around us for this conversation are at a respectful distance.
We shake hands and I explain my business, saying that if he is willing to be my teacher, I would be honoured to be his student, that I will be his most basic student, with no prospect of ever becoming a fighter, but am willing to learn from him and master the basics, to get into better condition and that I have five weeks available to do this. He gives me a hard look, says it takes at least 3 months to properly prepare a fighter, but that if all I want is training then he can do it. He then agrees terms: It will be $10/hour, every day for at least one hour. Come back tomorrow to this place at 5 o’clock in the afternoon, he says, and we will commence. I now have a trainer.
Returning back through the market Dominique tells me that Kibomango is famous as a fighter; in the last year he had a big championship fight right here in Goma where he killed his opponent in the ring. The opponent was an all Congo—and all Africa—champion but because of the death, the fight does not count and Kibomango must wait for the next to claim his title. The match will take place on June 30th, Congo’s day of independence and he will face a challenger from Lubumbashi, Congo’s second city. It will be the real rumble in the jungle. He is training intensely for this fight, and has mostly agreed to take me on as a student as it will allow him to earn some money and have more time in the ring away from his auto-mechanic job. He is also doing it as a favour to Dominique, his friend.
I am wondering what I have got myself in for at this point in having a teacher of this caliber—Congo’s equivalent of Mike Tyson—for what is now appearing to be an impulsive venture and a risky dare. It is far, far away from the Cambridge University boxing team of my youth, though even that was no achievement; just about anyone could join the team; we trained and sparred, learned the basics. No one got cut; if you wanted to be there you were allowed to be there, being bellowed at by our coach, a tough old German who had boxed for the Berlin Police Federation and whose only piece of advice I can clearly recall was to tell us in heavily accented English:
“You must tell yourself! I vil’ not be a loser!”
I am sure Kibomango would agree.