After Moïse’s death, Congolese are scared and avoid the streets in Rio

February 4, 2022

Robert

“How do you know we live here?” asks Cyrille Mamanu, 25, with wide eyes. His serious expression still doesn’t show the fixed braces on his teeth, exposed in a smile as the conversation goes on and he lets his guard down.

“Do you know why we are asking this? Because a lot of people are arriving wanting to know where we live so they can do evil too”, he explains to reporters. Until last week, he wasn’t used to having this kind of visitor.

A train line on one side and a potholed road on the other separate the asphalt of Barros Filho, a neighborhood in the north of Rio de Janeiro, from the set of 63 five-story “buildings” where Cyrille and part of the Congolese community gathered around, mostly fleeing violence in the country.

There are about 4,500 in the city alone, estimates Fernando Mupapa, 53, president of the Community of the Democratic Republic of Congo in Brazil (CRDCB). Most are grouped in this and other neighborhoods in the region, such as Brás de Pina, Madureira and Complexo da Maré.

Since Moïse Mugenyi Kabagambe was clubbed to death in a kiosk in Barra da Tijuca, on the 24th, the climate has changed. “I’m even scared to go out on the street. We were walking in the neighborhood just now,” says Chadrack Nkusu, 26, who lived with the young man.

Many in these areas knew and participated in the protests over the young man’s death, when the family says they were intimidated by two military police officers. Moses, as he is also known, was always going to and from his mother’s house, friends or family. It doesn’t matter who, in fact, is blood relatives.

“The other’s mother is a mother to me too. The same respect I have for my father, I have for the other’s father”, says in an Angolan accent the hairdresser Sophia, who did not say her surname. “Here, when you say ‘ma’am’ everyone is like ‘and I’m old?’, but for us it’s a sign of respect.”

The African culture of brotherhood, the French language and need end up uniting not only the Congolese but other nationalities of the continent. Without having a formal contract, they opt for the favelas for the lowest rent and the absence of water and energy costs.

This is how Mimosa Katanga Maria, 36, from Angola arrived nine months ago, who wanted to see her name published in Portuguese. She came alone and survived with the help of colleagues, after a friend of her son’s “was killed by bandits” and the family came under threat.

“In the beginning it was difficult because I didn’t have any money, now it’s starting to sell”, she says with a heavy pronunciation, sitting on the living room tile while she crushes the manioc flour with a pestle. Her head is wrapped in a scarf and her body is covered in a blue patterned dress.

After nine more hours of preparation, the dough will turn into chikuanga (read “quicuanga”), a kind of bread served with meat and fish. The pot will yield 25 units, each sold for R$5 on order, which is R$125 without subtracting expenses.

The rent in the “predinhos” of Barros Filhos is around R$ 400, depending on the property. “We practically work to pay the lease”, says Cyrille, taking advantage of the interview time to wrap the “dread” of the next client with a crochet hook.

The young man says he took a technical course as an electrician in Congo, but here he works mainly as a hairdresser, like many Africans. He had to learn new cuts when he arrived, like the famous “undercover”, short with a smooth gradient to the nape of the neck.

Africano is vain, he says, wearing a Dolce & Gabbana drawstring, red “Coke” flip-flops, jeans and a white shirt emblazoned with Moïse’s face. This one, on the other hand, “if he had been caught by the fashion squad, he was screwed”, jokes with teary eyes.

Chadrack managed to train in pedagogy as a French teacher in communities, but he also never got a steady job. In the apartment where the two lived with Moïse, there is no fridge, and food has to be eaten straight away or refrigerated at the neighbors.

In general, Africans and Brazilians live together peacefully, they say — in Barros Filho there are even Asians, which is rare in Rio’s favelas. The rivalry only appears on the soccer field, when Congolese wear blue, red and yellow. “We play when we can, because generally it’s a rush [trabalha muito]”, says the flamengoist Cyrille.

The evangelical church, with units spread over several streets in this region, is another point in common between the two peoples. The Bethesda International Assembly of God, in Brás de Pina, is one of those that brings together the community with services in Lingala and French.

But even with the integration, Brazilians still know little about African culture, evaluates the Angolan Sophia: “When you arrive here and Brazilians start asking you questions, I’m like: Wow, but at school you didn’t learn? pass to you in history class?”, he asks.

Many do not know, for example, that the same gentile (Congolese) is used to refer to citizens of the Democratic Republic of Congo and the Republic of Congo, different countries, although bordering. The migration from Congo to Brazil occurs in a much smaller volume than that of the DRC.

The official number of Congolese in the country is lower than estimated by the community. There were 2,015 residence registrations granted since 2010, in addition to 1,400 that are still awaiting recognition as refugees, according to a survey carried out by the International Migration Observatory (OBMigra) for the Leaf.

Hairdresser Ângela Kalukmba, 53, has the date of arrival on the tip of her tongue: October 14, 1993. “How can I forget? I’m a refugee, you can’t. In other people’s countries you have to know everything: the date you arrived , why you arrived, why you left there”, he says.

Another immigrant, who did not want to be identified, asks about where to get donations for the community and tells how things work in the housing project, where shootings are not so frequent, but they do exist. You just can’t meddle in their stuff, she says, referring to the dealers.

In Rio de Janeiro, the risks are invisible, he senses a Congolese woman on a street a few kilometers away. She whispers that as she talks, she doesn’t know who is watching. After Moïse’s death, she took an Uber back and forth out of fear.

“African people don’t stay on the street alone, they stay in a group”, explains Cyrille. If they had been together that night, the friend would have returned with the money from the styrofoam he wanted to buy so he wouldn’t have to work for others anymore. “But he came back in a coffin,” he laments.