I remember vividly the days when Constant Mutamba carried himself as a staunch defender of the state, a man unafraid to brandish the threat of death penalties against those he accused of endangering national unity. His words often echoed the unforgiving tone of a justice system that has long been viewed less as a guardian of fairness and more as a weapon of political convenience. Equally haunting were the accounts from prisons such as Angenga, places that became synonymous with suffering, abuse, and the silencing of dissenting voices.
Today, Mutamba himself is in the spotlight, standing before a justice system he once wielded with apparent confidence. The irony is difficult to ignore: a man who helped normalize selective punishment is now at the mercy of the very machinery he once championed. One cannot help but wonder if he now prays for the kind of fairness he never extended to others.
The Democratic Republic of Congo has long struggled with the concept of justice as an impartial institution. Successive governments, from Mobutu to Kabila and now Tshisekedi, have repeatedly blurred the lines between law and politics. Courts have been used to silence critics, to discredit political rivals, and to reinforce power rather than to uphold truth.
This is not a uniquely Congolese phenomenon, but in the DRC the stakes are particularly high. With a country as large, as ethnically diverse, and as politically fragile as Congo, justice should serve as a unifying principle. Instead, it has too often deepened divisions, widening the gap between those who enjoy immunity under power and those condemned for simply falling out of favor.
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Mutamba’ s current predicament shines a light on this cyclical reality: those who once judged harshly may themselves one day become the judged.
Perhaps even more troubling is the way identity has been manipulated as part of this machinery of exclusion. In today’s Congo, simply speaking Kinyarwanda can be enough to invite suspicion, harassment, or accusations of foreign allegiance.
This attitude ignores the basic truth of Congo’s history and geography. The DRC is home to more than 200 ethnic groups, with overlapping languages and cultures across its porous borders. Kinyarwanda, spoken by communities such as the Banyamulenge, is as Congolese as Lingala or Swahili. Yet it has been stigmatized, weaponized as a marker of alleged disloyalty or “foreignness.”
The contradiction is glaring. Former President Joseph Kabila, who ruled the country for 18 years, was neither Munya Rwanda nor a Congolese Tutsi or Hutu, yet his legitimacy was rarely questioned on linguistic grounds. This shows that the politics of exclusion are less about identity itself and more about how leaders manipulate it for expediency.
In Congolese political vocabulary, the label “Rwandan” has become shorthand for “outsider,” often a code word for “Tutsi.” It is a dangerous simplification, one that erases history and undermines the very unity the state claims to defend.
By branding citizens as foreigners within their own homeland, Congolese politics has entrenched a culture of suspicion that fuels cycles of violence. From the wars of the late 1990s to today’s instability in the east, identity politics has repeatedly been exploited to mobilize anger, distract from governance failures, and justify repression.
The case of Mutamba is a mirror held up to this reality. His own political career thrived, at least in part, on this toxic narrative. But as history often shows, the tools of repression rarely remain in one person’s hands forever. They shift, they turn, and eventually they come back to strike those who once wielded them.
If Mutamba’ s downfall carries any lesson, it is that no one is immune from the judgment of history. Today he sits before judges, tomorrow it may be others. President Félix Tshisekedi, who came to power promising reform and democracy, will not escape this inevitability. He too will one day face scrutiny, not just from the courts, but from the people and from history itself.
The question is whether leaders will learn from these cycles or continue repeating them. Will Congolese justice remain a political tool, or can it be reimagined as a true foundation for national reconciliation? Will language and ethnicity continue to be criminalized, or will diversity finally be embraced as the country’s greatest strength?
History teaches us that power is fleeting. Regimes rise and fall, but the judgment of history endures. Those who once imposed sentences upon others must eventually confront their own.
Constant Mutamba’ s case is more than a personal downfall, it is a reflection of Congo’s deeper struggles with justice, identity, and power. If anything, it should serve as a reminder that true stability cannot be built on exclusion and repression. It can only come from fairness, inclusivity, and a justice system that belongs not to rulers, but to the people.
In the end, the DRC’s future depends on whether it chooses to break this cycle, or remain trapped within it.
