In Bambo, near Rutshuru in northern Kivu, eastern D. R. Congo, the government spread the message in October 1964. The message to the peasants was that they should kill all enemies of Mobutu, those rebels who were associated with the Mulelistes (followers of Mulele, among whom was a certain gold smuggler known as Laurent-Désiré Kabila, now deceased!). The ignorant local leaders were told that these rebels were Tutsi, and so they in turn called on all peasants to arm themselves with whatever crude weapons they could lay their hands on so as to attack every Tutsi, indigenous or refugees from Rwanda. The peasants, however, knew these people as neighbours with whom they got along well, shared everything, harmless people who were friends and relatives. At first, therefore, they could not comprehend who was supposed to attack whom. However, after many bicycle visits by the local leaders, the peasants were shown, and it was emphatically inculcated into their minds, who the enemy was: a Tutsi. It was thus that we were hounded out of Congo. For when the peasants accepted to eliminate us, the gusto with which they went to work would leave a wounded buffalo green with envy!
Of course we had not waited for these peasants to be convinced, once bitten (in Rwanda) twice shy. Shy because those of us who were refugees knew that it was better for death to find you on your feet rather than on your seat. If you have observed how people died in the Rwanda genocide of 1994, then you know what I mean. So, that very Sunday of October 1964, we showed the Congomen our clean (?) pairs of heels – or so we convinced ourselves. We had gone hiding in the nearby bushes, with cooking utensils and all, intending to walk the odd sixty-kilometre distance to Rutshuru, walking at night and hiding in the bushes during the day. It would take us a number of nights to walk to Rutshuru, and the extra thirty or so kilometres into Uganda. It was therefore necessary to stock up on food, and identify those who would carry it. It was also necessary to identify the people who were too weak or too old to walk. These would have to be left behind, hoping that somehow they would survive and we would re-unite later when this was over. All these preparations need time, especially as we worked only at night, so by Tuesday we had not yet set off. And set off, could we? A pipe dream, if ever there was one!
Before dawn on Wednesday morning following that Sunday, the incensed peasants were upon us in our hiding, armed to their dirty teeth, looking like the fiercest legion of the Roman Emperor Nero! A horde of fierce peasants descended upon us spoiling for war, baying for blood: men, women and children. How they had discovered our hiding, don’t ask me, what I know is that at the sight of these fellows, we were all convinced that it was the end for us. They were armed with spears, bows and arrows, machetes, axes, bludgeons and all the crude tools of death you can think of. However, the wonders of God – or Nature? – are many and varied. And one wonder came in the form of a brother we used to call Rupamba owing to the thick skin, and size, of his heels. His heel was like part of a foam mattress, but since foam was unknown in that part of Congo during those early years, we could only name our big-heeled brother after cotton! Come to think of it, you would think by now the heels would have been eaten by many years of walking bare-foot, but actually they have now put on weight and can compete with the biggest of the tractor-tyres around – talk about walking around in comfort!
So, that big-heeled young man knew all the tricks of self-preservation, which came to our rescue also. He had sneaked away with a saucepan (of all weapons!) and was hiding behind a bush. Then we heard “Bang! Bang!” and all of us took off faster than a cannonball out of a cannon. We caught on to what had happened sooner than our aggressors, however, and retraced our steps quietly and went back. The young fellow had picked a stone and banged it on the saucepan, then picked a few pebbles and showered them among the marauders. Characters who have never sighted a gun need no more to be convinced that they are in the line of fire! They scattered and kept a very long distance like we were the plague, which gave us time to go to the market centre to hand ourselves in. We were received by the chief and his frightened, local policemen who believed that their ndembos (whips) were nothing against our guns. The reception centre was a school, where we were all put in classrooms, awaiting a platoon of soldiers from Lumangabo Military Camp. Only these could dare herd us to another trading centre, which was over thirty kilometres away, where we would meet others for the same fate: all of us being gunned down, or gassed like Jews.
Congomen, as they were known then, are, interestingly enough, like hyenas. No one should get me wrong though: I am talking strictly in the context of what happened at that time as we were in the confines of the classrooms, being watched by peasants and their children like we were prey. When night fell, a man would sneak into the classroom and try to snatch the prized spectacles from whoever had them. (Prized, why? That is another story!) Get the culprit and hit him hard until he screams and no one will bother anybody in a long time. Which reminds me of a story from this Théobald gentleman. In Mutorere Secondary School, Bufumbira, Southern Uganda, there used to be a young teacher who could get ulcers simply because he had seen a Tutsi, such was his hatred of these species! His name happened to be Philemon Mateke, until recently a minister in the Uganda cabinet thanks to, in the words of President Museveni, “being close to interahamwe”, those infamous killers of up to a million Rwandans in the 1994 genocide.
This Mateke (or iteke?) used to enjoy teaching his History lessons very much but, unfortunately, one of the Tutsi students in his class had two things that irritated him extremely: a long nose and a big Adam’s apple (ingoto)! He could hold forth about the empires of North Africa, West or South. These were powerful empires of great warriors in Africa, and every student enjoyed listening to the adventures and escapades that the emperors and their fighters went through to protect their citizenry. They did many good things but they also did evil things. And when it came to bad things, that is where the student, late Nzirimu (God protect his soul), came in, for that was the butt of Mateke’s ridicule for four agonizing years. “When we talk about torturing man,” Mateke shouted, forming at the mouth, “we don’t need to go far for a live example. You only need to look at Nzirimu. Look at his nose and Adam’s apple. They grew long due to the blood his ancestors sucked from innocent people, piercing their feet with spears. He believes he is an aristocrat!” When late Nzsirimu got fed up one time, Mateke didn’t know what hit him! The details of exactly what happened can only be for next time … if we do not digress too much!
