DRC: Fight Club

Goma, Nord-Kivu February 20^th 2011

Congolese videos have an endearing home made quality to them, all jerky hand held shots and awkward camera angles. But this one is something entirely different—whether inadvertent or not, it feels like film noir. I am watching a fight video given to me by my Congolese boxing instructor, Kibomango, of his recent professional bouts, all of them taking place here in the war zone of eastern Congo. The footage is grainy and unclear and, strangely enough, black and white, adding to its vintage quality. Someone has dubbed a dark spooky sound track to it that is a combination of techno and industrial music, almost like the opening scenes to an urban horror movie with a Cronenbergish quality. It is fitting enough; like the suspended disbelief in any horror or suspense film the viewer knows its going to end badly. And in this case I know how the story concludes—one of the boxers is going to end up dying in the ring, at the hands of Kibomango. I feel like I’m watching a snuff film.

The fights all take place out doors in an open air boxing ring in broad daylight although they appear to be half dark, as though filtered, producing an atmospheric quality like Alan Parker’s 1987 film noir classic Angel Heart. The video cam picks up crowd and back ground noise, but it’s muffled and indistinct which only helps focus the viewer on the action.

When Kibomango approaches the ring it is with the panache of a champion—with his easy but powerful gait and surrounded by an entourage and shaded from the sun by a large purple bolt of cloth held overhead like an Eastern potentate or a gladiator entering the Coliseum. He is a natural for this trade—every movement is with assurance and grace. But beyond that there is humility and obvious respect for the business at hand from this ex-child soldier with an abiding ambition to win. There is confidence but no braggadocio or arrogance; he bows to his opponent and the first fight starts, with Kibomango showing slow and steady concentration, his fists raised and following the target like a missile tracking system.

The first opponent is a larger man with a stocky build and obvious power. Before the round is half over Kibomango has broken through the defences and has him against the ropes, pummelling with hooks and upper cuts, the  most powerful blows you can deliver from up close. As the fight progresses to the latter rounds the two fighters are tiring, holding each other in the bear hugs that seem almost affectionate among boxers, even compassionate. But the knock-out is inevitable and comes in the 6^th. The next fight follows the same script, and the third also. Even when exhausted and with the two sides slowing, Kibomango always shows style and strength, now and then kicking up his heels in what can only be pure exuberance.

By the latter fights the film quality has deteriorated, or at least become darker. At this point the fighters are dark shapes circling each other but the whites of their eyes are bright and visible which gives it the appearance of a zombie movie.

It is in a late stage of the last fight that the opponent goes down after blows that have obviously caused massive brain  haemorrhage. The doomed boxer, “Saidi”—up to then Congo’s national champion—is seen sitting down in the ring staring ahead and not responding to the “One Finger, Two Fingers” held up by his manager before slowly slumping backwards and laying flat out.

I’ve made it a point not to ask my teacher about this, and when he does mention it, it is to refer to “the accident”. It is part of the boxer’s code, this danger, and everyone who steps into the ring knows the risks and accepts them.

For Kibomango the other loss is of the main prize itself—because of the death the fight is forfeit. He will have to wait for the next fight to claim his title—March 8^th in Goma. I’m supposed to have departed the Congo for elsewhere by then. But there’s no question that I will be here.