Tears for my beard and Congo’s 'barber' police force

In Pointe Noire, I have been witness to amazing excesses exhibited by Congolese police especially. I maintain, as a four-year resident of Pointe Noire, that there are more than necessary members of the security forces (Force de l’ordre) as they are called.

One incident stands out, a Saturday evening I had closed and just in front of our office I heard shattering of glass and cans.

One of the mostly West African guys who sells tea on two-wheeled carts along the Charles de Gaulle avenue stretch had his entire “store” turned on its head and he had been bundled into a police van hands tied at the elbows behind them, butts down along with several others.

Hot water holders, Nescafé cans, sugar containers and other additives spilled all over the front of an adjacent hotel. As I moved along the stretch in a taxi, I spotted about three other smashed tea carts and spilled contents on specific parts of the road.

I cringed, these guys won’t resist arrest by even one police man so why does about three baton and gun bearing officers unleash this much aggression over one harmless Malian, Senegalese, Guinean guy selling tea?

I can’t use beer but I can with juice. It turned out that fate had just been saying to me, “Hold my juice Alfa.” When it happened to me, I was miles away from Pointe Noire, in faraway Ouesso (way so) capital of Sangha Department (region).

I had made a two-day road trip up north and was on my sixth and final day. I had just finished praying a local mosque and gone to buy food. My final meal before setting off to Brazzaville – the capital. I had already bought my 20,000 XAF bus ticket.

February 24, 2020; the exact 4th anniversary of when I first began working in Congo as a digital journalist. I had begun making an order of gizzard and chicken when I heard someone call. I turned to be accosted by four uniformed men who asked me to step forward.

This was in the center of Ouesso town (centre ville) directly opposite the Bank of Central African States, BEAC,offices. 

I expressed shock facially. I was sure I will get out unscathed, they’d usually demand a resident card which I had even plus my passport, complimentary card, press card in fact even bank card – all these in a waist pouch gifted me by Ugandan colleague Daniel Mumbere.

Whiles police officer 1 (I prefer renegade 1) demanded what was in the pouch which I was opening to reveal the contents, renegade 2 from the side held my beard asking “what is this” he began to mow it with a scissors. The beard I had threatened World War Three over oooo

I abandoned fending off renegade 1 to hold my head back and the hands of renegade 2, firmly insisting that he couldn’t do such. Renegade 1 (reeking with alcohol) fired a number of threats but now had access to the pouch contents because I moved my hands to secure my beard.

Now, they were angry – all four renegades. Two bundled me off, I’d so far lost one sandal and part of my beard. They shoved me to their pickup already with one victim in the bucket – hands tied at elbow seated on butts.

The booze-man renegade I heard promising they’d go lock me up since I’m stubborn. It was like how dare me resist an unexplained arrest? I’d deal with public reaction later……

Apparently one renegade had picked the lost sandal and renegade one was sure they had no basis to hold a properly registered person. My beard was still a perturbation it turned out. At the truck was renegade 5 who made disparaging remark about my beard, won’t listen to any explanation whatsoever. His posture was obey before complain.

Now, they held both hands behind me and renegade 2’s scissors did its work unhindered. Yes, they did. But with the threat of arrest evaporated, the sandal carrier returned it, renegade 1 handed me all my documents and asked me to disappear from their sight. A spirit in me said “not so fast.”

Scandalously beardless, I swear legit feeling naked facially, I took back the pouch emptied its content and began taking stock in front of them. One assured they hadn’t taken anything from it. I was concerned about my resident card and $100 bill in my old passport. T’was intact.

A rush of emotions went through my whole body, my heart raced, I tried to return to the bus terminal but I opted to return to the food seller – I wasn’t hungry, damn I was angry. I had started a transaction and wanted to in fairness tell her at least that I was not interested again.

As I walked back, now I could gauge public reaction better with my ears at first. People drinking beer only looked on, women and girls selling a cassava based staple (manioc) laughed for all it was worth, some running commentary on my reaction.

At a point I heard them laughing at my decision to leave after the ordeal, when I was returning the commentary about me coming back was on. Now they looked at my next move to proceed perhaps.

The food seller asked what all that was about, I said I truly did not know and it didn’t make sense more because I’m not a Congolese. About the food, she appealed that she had already started packaging my food which I now said I couldn’t buy.

I thought it wise to pay for it and took the food. The commentary started again when I walked off laughing and shaking my head. I had a message for the mockers…. may tackle that later.

But within a space of thirty minutes, the episode had swung between poisonous pain journeyed through crucial targeted curses, a funny episode and eventually unconditional forgiveness. To not bore you, I’d share how I coped and craved my oppressors’ good in another blog.

Good news, the beard is on its trajectory to returning to normal.

Rajab 7, 1441 = March 2, 2020