Three and half years living and working in the Republic of Congo, specifically in the cute port city of Pointe Noire; I knew my way very much around.
I knew like the back of my palm, the way to my office (La Ville), to the market and mosque (Grande Marche) and a number of neighbourhoods.
My neighbourhood is La Base Aeroport – yeah, not exactly upscale but minutes from the Aghostino Neto International Airport. For all those forty-two months and counting, I’d blended in well enough to call myself a Congolese – I still remain Ghanaian of course. I’d been forced to visit the Ghana Consulate in the capital Brazzaville because I wound up with an expired passport – story for another day.
On this fateful day, I had left my home – No. 91 Avenue Ngouanouni, and headed to the local market OCH (try mention that in French Oo Ce Ash) to buy eggs and rice. Four men accosted me, one flashed a police card and asked for my papers.
The whole demand sounded as jolting and it was revolting. But in about 15 minutes later, I resigned to the reality that I had been arrested by immigration on suspicion of being an illegal migrant.
Here is the point about religious profiling: Was it a coincidence that the dozen or so detainees I shared the cell with were West Africans and Muslims? Maybe, maybe not. On the day I was spotting this long robe and pulling on the tasbih – Islamic rosary.
Me to the officers: “I am a registered foreigner, I have my resident card but it’s at home. Let’s go to my place – barely five minutes’ drive, I’d pay for the transport if need be.” One assures me, they’d let me do that after the operation. I’m bundled into a taxi with central lock and all glasses rolled up.
It actually felt like a kidnap. An angry me keeps taking potshots at the taxi driver and officials as and when. They didn’t accept to take me to my place, rather myself and four others are taken to an immigration holding center about 10 minutes from my place of arrest.
There we join about seven others – Senegalese, Guinean, Ivorians and Malian. Upon arrest, I sent an email to Human Resource manager and my editor-in-chief. Alleging I’d been kidnapped by immigration.
So whiles most of the guys made multiple phone calls for rescue, I sat in the crammed cell whatsapping and waiting for the HR manager who was on his way.
I sensed that none of the guys there had valid documents. I enjoyed hearing their stories and threats to ensure Congolese in their respective countries are harassed same.
I was angry because I had the documents they needed but they were being unnecessarily difficult. So HR manager and a colleague arrive. He presents photocopy of all my past and present resident cards.
The officer says he’d accept only an original. My manager opts to stay so I go get the card, he says I committed an ‘individual offence’ and he was not going to hold another person for it, so I must remain in custody.
Eventually, I had to give my keys to my colleague to go fetch the card from my home. Then she returns. At the time about seven detainees had been bailed by negotiating their exit or having others come in to settle the officials – every release was accompanied by payment of cash.
I proudly flash my card and get hit by the other demand. That I was not out of the woods yet, I had committed an offense of not carrying the card in the first place – the fine was 12,000 XAF. I’d vowed not to pay a dime.
I’d resigned to staying with them for as long as they wanted to have me. I actually had 30,000 XAF on me but I’d rather our bureau chief comes with lawyers to speak sense into the officials. I’d told him earlier that the case was basic and needed only that I produce my card.
So my colleague went on and on with the official who it turned out was getting tired of our ‘do as you please’ stance. I was left with four other guys in the cell. With my card and storybook, I went right back to sit in the cell - it was getting dark and I was loving the madness at this stage.
Out of nowhere, my colleague comes and says, all is clear and I am free. She assures me she did not pay a dime but that showing her press card to the official seemed to have made the trick. It all sounded crazy to me.
Last I'd heard someone talk of immigration was Africans arrested in Libya and Spanish Cueta on a deadly voyage to Europe. Before then, my uncle who lived in Italy for decades told us of the importance of carrying one's papers on the streets.
He stressed how not doing so meant deportation within hours- this was in the 90s. But for crying out loud, I'm an African in another African country. Yeah right, I now remember having to pay $100 and 150 cedis to get a Congolese visa from Togo.
And about how Congolese immigration could bar you from leaving the country if your visa had expired. Times when you love and loathe this place called Africa. Now I carry my resident card like cash. I go everywhere with it, even 100m from home, when I need baguette. This is my new reality.
Safar 10, 1441 = October 9, 2019 (Wednesday)
Days to returning ahead of Year 4 in Congo Republic.
My neighbourhood is La Base Aeroport – yeah, not exactly upscale but minutes from the Aghostino Neto International Airport. For all those forty-two months and counting, I’d blended in well enough to call myself a Congolese – I still remain Ghanaian of course. I’d been forced to visit the Ghana Consulate in the capital Brazzaville because I wound up with an expired passport – story for another day.
On this fateful day, I had left my home – No. 91 Avenue Ngouanouni, and headed to the local market OCH (try mention that in French Oo Ce Ash) to buy eggs and rice. Four men accosted me, one flashed a police card and asked for my papers.
The whole demand sounded as jolting and it was revolting. But in about 15 minutes later, I resigned to the reality that I had been arrested by immigration on suspicion of being an illegal migrant.
Here is the point about religious profiling: Was it a coincidence that the dozen or so detainees I shared the cell with were West Africans and Muslims? Maybe, maybe not. On the day I was spotting this long robe and pulling on the tasbih – Islamic rosary.
Me to the officers: “I am a registered foreigner, I have my resident card but it’s at home. Let’s go to my place – barely five minutes’ drive, I’d pay for the transport if need be.” One assures me, they’d let me do that after the operation. I’m bundled into a taxi with central lock and all glasses rolled up.
It actually felt like a kidnap. An angry me keeps taking potshots at the taxi driver and officials as and when. They didn’t accept to take me to my place, rather myself and four others are taken to an immigration holding center about 10 minutes from my place of arrest.
There we join about seven others – Senegalese, Guinean, Ivorians and Malian. Upon arrest, I sent an email to Human Resource manager and my editor-in-chief. Alleging I’d been kidnapped by immigration.
So whiles most of the guys made multiple phone calls for rescue, I sat in the crammed cell whatsapping and waiting for the HR manager who was on his way.
I sensed that none of the guys there had valid documents. I enjoyed hearing their stories and threats to ensure Congolese in their respective countries are harassed same.
I was angry because I had the documents they needed but they were being unnecessarily difficult. So HR manager and a colleague arrive. He presents photocopy of all my past and present resident cards.
The officer says he’d accept only an original. My manager opts to stay so I go get the card, he says I committed an ‘individual offence’ and he was not going to hold another person for it, so I must remain in custody.
Eventually, I had to give my keys to my colleague to go fetch the card from my home. Then she returns. At the time about seven detainees had been bailed by negotiating their exit or having others come in to settle the officials – every release was accompanied by payment of cash.
I proudly flash my card and get hit by the other demand. That I was not out of the woods yet, I had committed an offense of not carrying the card in the first place – the fine was 12,000 XAF. I’d vowed not to pay a dime.
I’d resigned to staying with them for as long as they wanted to have me. I actually had 30,000 XAF on me but I’d rather our bureau chief comes with lawyers to speak sense into the officials. I’d told him earlier that the case was basic and needed only that I produce my card.
So my colleague went on and on with the official who it turned out was getting tired of our ‘do as you please’ stance. I was left with four other guys in the cell. With my card and storybook, I went right back to sit in the cell - it was getting dark and I was loving the madness at this stage.
Out of nowhere, my colleague comes and says, all is clear and I am free. She assures me she did not pay a dime but that showing her press card to the official seemed to have made the trick. It all sounded crazy to me.
Last I'd heard someone talk of immigration was Africans arrested in Libya and Spanish Cueta on a deadly voyage to Europe. Before then, my uncle who lived in Italy for decades told us of the importance of carrying one's papers on the streets.
He stressed how not doing so meant deportation within hours- this was in the 90s. But for crying out loud, I'm an African in another African country. Yeah right, I now remember having to pay $100 and 150 cedis to get a Congolese visa from Togo.
And about how Congolese immigration could bar you from leaving the country if your visa had expired. Times when you love and loathe this place called Africa. Now I carry my resident card like cash. I go everywhere with it, even 100m from home, when I need baguette. This is my new reality.
Safar 10, 1441 = October 9, 2019 (Wednesday)
Days to returning ahead of Year 4 in Congo Republic.
Sorry for this
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