Jail Day 02: “You Must Never Be a Candy Ass.” -M. Gustave

General Djadjidja lwenyi Katangas Jeep pulled into view, his goony squad of faux fashionistas got out and entered the building I was in.

I was pushed into the busted up Cherokee

Celeste and Michelle too.

I decided right there, riding bitch between two Zoolanders, I was on hunger and water strike.

Once we arrived at the second military instillation, called T2 intelligence service, 14 région military, an office of the OPJ, (Officer police judiciary).

I was passed around from office to office, like a bag of coke on Wall Street.

Eventually landing in what would be my jail for the next three days.

Major yav, was in charge of writing my report. Despite his inability to understand a single fucking thing I was saying, specifically “Call my consulate!”

After completing his report, I was instructed to sign it.

I can’t sign that, I can’t read it” I said, surprised by his daft expectation.

So he began reading it to me in French while trying to translate it in mongoloid English.

I can’t” I interrupted.

They brought Celeste into the office, had him read the report to me.

I made a few clarifications then reluctantly signed it.

Things I was not comfortable doing: 01

We need the password to your phone!” Another chief demanded.

Look,” I began. “I use my phone for banking and don’t feel comfortable unlocking it and giving it to you

“I need to see your photos” he said.

The very same photos I’ve been touting would prove I was not an assassin there to kill the president. Unless of course, I was to accidentally hear “Relax, by Frankie goes to Hollywood”.


I unlocked my phone.

Things I was not comfortable doing: 02

Now, I don’t know if It’s because I look like Jesus or because i’m white or if it’s Congolese culture to poke and squeeze and tap people, but it grinds me up inside when it’s done with a demeaning intention.

Being aggressively handled due to the interpretation that passivity is weakness is not something I will ever tolerate.

That’s a cheque you can cash bud.

(Ok, read that sentence again, this time as a condescending hillbilly.)

So the officer that started pushing me from side to side, moving my arms above my head then finally putting his nasty fingers in my mouth, got me real mad.

I stood up getting in his fat face.

The people in the office were yelling for me to sit down.

I looked down on him, my forehead smashed against his. I was yelling into his empty brain “You touch me, I touch you

I wanted to get physical badly.

Not the Netflix and chill kind.

My soul was erupting, I needed to punish someone.


I wanted it to be him.


Very, very unlike me.

In retrospect, I’m surprised at how Bonobo like, my behaviour was.

Like every single tough guy I’ve ever stood up to, the man with salty fingers cowered from me like a premature baby.

There were kids in the room being charged with smoking Bangui, they began chanting “you touch me, You touch me” and laughing.

This anthem eased the tension.

It’s like Monsieur Gustave (in Wes Andersons, Grand Budapest Hotel) says:

“What happened, my dear Zero, is I beat the living shit out of a sniveling little runt called Pinky Bandinski, who had the gall to question my virility. Because, if there’s one thing we’ve learned from penny dreadfuls, it’s that when you find yourself in a place like this, you must never be a candy ass; you’ve got to prove yourself from day one. You’ve got to win their respect…”

“Call my embassy” I demanded!

“I will!he lied.





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