The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti Read online

  THE FOLLOWING YEAR ALL of my hard work paid off and I was promoted to the A team. Sometimes practices were early in the morning, before school, so I would rise before the sun to take the bus or walk to the practice facility. By the time classes started, I was exhausted. But I was willing to make any and all sacrifices in pursuit of my goal.

  By the start of the season I worked my way into the starting lineup. A few older and more experienced players, who were naturally protective of their turf, responded angrily to my ascension. A couple even quit the team in protest. I did not care. I knew I had earned my playing time.

  Unfortunately, there were some things I simply did not understand. For example, I ran afoul of the club administration, and some of my teammates, because of my unwillingness to participate in certain pregame rituals. You see, superstition plays a big role in the Congo, and that extends to sports. There are ties to the occult and to ancient ways of life that carry over to this day, and so it is not unusual for players to be asked to engage in certain rituals in the spirit of fostering good luck. On our team, the players were expected to rub totems before every game. To deny this ritual was to provoke the gods and risk a poor performance. As a Christian, I thought this was silly, if not downright blasphemous.

  “I cannot do this,” I explained to everyone as they gathered in a tight circle before my very first game with the team and implored me to join them. They were dancing and chanting, trying to pump themselves up before the game. I suppose, to them, it seemed innocent enough. But to me it was sacrilege. I had grown up as a Christian. My mother invoked the name of God and instructed me to turn to him for courage and guidance when we were trekking through the jungle, so close to death every day. And when my mother went away on long business trips, my uncles and grandmother made sure that I went to church service regularly—and by regularly, I mean several times a week.

  “There will be times,” my mother always said, “when there will be obstacles placed in front of you. Do not submit. Have faith in God. He will show you the way.”

  When I refused to join the pregame ceremony, some of my teammates were perplexed; others were angry.

  “This is what we do before the game,” one of them said. “If you don’t do it, then you don’t play.”

  “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “My mother would not be happy.”

  “Who cares what your mother thinks?” the other player scoffed.

  This made me angry. And it gave me strength. “I do.”

  For quite some time they continued to yell at me and taunt me and call me a “little baby.” I did not care. I might have been the youngest player on the team, but I was not going to be bullied into taking part in what I perceived to be a pagan ritual. So I stood my ground, off to the side, as the players shouted at me and called me names. Eventually, one by one, they grew weary of the abuse and peeled off into a different part of the dressing room. They completed their pregame ritual without my involvement, and then we got on with the more important business of playing basketball.

  It is a truism of sports that winning will cure most problems, and certainly this seemed to be the case on opening night. Any animosity my teammates might have felt toward me melted away once the game began. I started, played about twenty-five minutes, and finished with thirteen points and fourteen rebounds. I also blocked six shots. We won the game and everyone was happy. I was foolish enough to think that was the end of any controversy surrounding my abstaining from the pregame ritual.

  A few days later I learned that my refusal to take part in the ritual was deemed insubordination by the club president, and resulted in my being suspended for a couple of games. My coach, however, fought on my behalf; in the end, I was allowed to play without taking part in any of the rituals. This was probably because the team fared poorly in my absence. Winning trumps everything, doesn’t it?

  Once I became accepted as part of the team, and continued to play well, I had a lot of fun playing for Molokai’s A team. I was still not the most skilled or offensive-minded player, but I competed with great intensity, especially on the defensive end of the floor. The fans who came to our games liked my energy; they also liked my “look.” You see, I was one of the few players in the league who wore his hair in an afro. As a result, the fans and some of my teammates began calling me “ShakaFro.” (I must say, I enjoyed the fact that my nicknames kept getting better and better!)

  Still, there were obstacles to my fitting in with the A team. Most of the players had fathers who were active in their lives, and came from families that had more money. They would wear nice clothes and nice shoes before the game, and I didn’t. Some of them would even question what I was wearing (usually just sandals and my typical old school clothes), and sometimes make fun of me. Luckily, I wasn’t alone. I had a dear friend named Shako, which means twin in some of the African languages (he had a twin sister), but his nickname was Ebende, which means medal, because he was a gifted jumper and a very strong, athletic young man. We supported each other in every way. Like me, Ebende was poor, and sometimes we would fight back against our teammates if they tried to make fun of us. We didn’t have much, but we had our eyes on the prize: America. We would say to each other after a long walk home from practice, “Let’s not get discouraged. This hard work will pay off someday.”

  Molokai did very well that year, qualifying for the playoffs and getting all the way to the semifinals of the season-ending Kinshasa Cup. It was a best-of-three series. Our opponent was a team called Kauka, whose best player was a young man named Momo Ntumba. In fact, Ntumba, a very muscular and physical player, was perhaps the best young player in all of the Congo. But you know what? I was not intimidated. In the first game, the stadium was filled with people who wanted to watch my matchup against Momo. The young, promising Blondy against the best player in the Congo: Momo Ntumba. I wanted to show him that a skinny kid with less experience could shut him down. Against Ntumba, I played the best defense of my life, and Molokai won the game. You cannot imagine my elation! It was quickly diminished over the course of the next two games, however, as Ntumba showed why he had such a great reputation. He kicked my butt on both ends of the floor. Not only did I have trouble getting off a shot, but I felt helpless to stop Ntumba around the basket. He was so strong and polished. I remember getting pulled from the game and sitting on the bench next to my coach, hurt and humiliated. That night I learned a valuable lesson: never let it go to your head when things are going well. Stay focused and keep working hard. But I had no experience in such matters at the time.

  Kauka won the next two games and eliminated us from the playoffs. I took this personally because Ntumba was clearly the reason Kauka won, and I was the person responsible for defending him. But the truth is, he was simply better than me in that series. He was bigger, stronger, and more skilled. He was also a couple of years older, which obviously helped. There was no shame in being outplayed by Ntumba. He eventually left the Congo to play for a junior college in the U.S. Then he transferred to the University of Southern Indiana, a Division II program, before eventually embarking on a professional career in Australia. By any reasonable measure, Ntumba was a success. I wanted to be just like him, but that would require a great deal more work.

  Actually, I wanted even more. My ambition was to receive a scholarship to play Division I college basketball in the United States. Not since Dikembe Mutombo, some two decades earlier, had anyone from my country achieved this goal. I dreamed of playing in the NBA, as well, but I also wanted an education. I wanted to play college ball in America.

  “I am going to be the next Dikembe Mutombo,” I would tell my friends.

  “You are a crazy boy,” they would say.

  “Just watch. You’ll see.”

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  I can honestly say that I never got into any trouble as an adolescent—not because I was a perfect young man, but simply because I didn’t have the time. Every day was filled, from sunup to sundown, with the routine of basketball, school,
and church. I was always busy, especially when Molokai’s owner decided to move the team’s practice headquarters to a different location even further from my house, in early 2008, in the hopes of attracting some new players. It worked; there were some roster changes and we got a few players who helped us improve. But we also lost some players who did not want to travel to the new practice court. The move also angered many of our fans in Matonge who considered Molokai to be a team that was intended for the young men of that region. Some were bitter when the team was uprooted, and they withdrew their support.

  For me, personally, the move was challenging because it extended my travel time for practice, with even fewer opportunities to take public transportation (which I often could not afford anyway). By the time I got home in the evening I was so exhausted and hungry that I could barely stand up. Someday, I thought, the suffering will all be worth it.

  One day after practice, I was approached by a man named Dr. Lissa, a trainer for a local soccer club who also spent time with Molokai.

  “Your name is Blondy,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How old are you, son?”

  “I just turned seventeen, sir.”

  He nodded. “I’ve been watching you the last few months. You’re young and you’re not very strong, but you have good size and a lot of energy.” He paused. “And I notice that you smile a lot when you come off the court.” This was true. Off the court, I was happy. I smiled and laughed a lot. I told jokes. But on the basketball court? That was a different story. I played ferociously; all of the anger that I kept inside me—the anger over being poor, and what I went through in the jungle, and the uncertainty about my future—came out on the court. Every time I stepped between the lines, it was like I was fighting for my survival. That’s how I saw the game of basketball.

  I shrugged (I think I smiled, too). “I love to play.”

  “That is apparent. Don’t change. Love of the game is important, especially as you get older and it becomes a job.”

  I nodded.

  Again, there was a pause, as if the man was sizing me up.

  “I want to help you, Blondy,” he said. “I have an acquaintance in America who is looking for college players. I’m thinking of recommending you.”

  It seemed too good to be true, and indeed many of my friends told me that it probably was too good to be true. There was no shortage of people in the Congo who would pose as intermediaries capable of brokering deals for promising and often gullible young athletes who dreamed of traveling to Europe or the United States. More often than not, they failed to produce results, or perhaps did not even try. Sometimes they would collect a fee up front and disappear. I did not know whether Dr. Lissa was a friend or a fraud, but I soon found out that I was not the first person he had solicited—several other boys on the club had previously rejected his offer. I was merely next in line.

  “Don’t trust him,” some of my teammates said. “He’s using you.”

  This could have been true. I had no way of knowing; however, I was willing to take a chance. Again, part of this stemmed from my faith in God, and a steadfast belief that he would not lead me down a dangerous path. But it also speaks to the fact that I was so hungry to leave the Congo and get to America, so desperate that I was willing to overlook the possibility of being exploited or swindled.

  I asked Dr. Lissa what he needed. Usually, he explained, American coaches wanted to see video of a player in action. I had nothing like that.

  “Bring me your academic transcript,” Lissa said. “And a picture of yourself. Something that shows your size. And remember to smile. Maybe that will be enough.”

  He gave me his address and told me to come by the following week. (He did not ask for any money, which we all viewed as a positive sign.) The next week, transcript in hand, I made the fifteen-mile walk to Dr. Lissa’s office. I didn’t mind. We met for maybe thirty minutes, during which time I presented him with the information he needed. We also talked more about my dreams and aspirations; I could tell Dr. Lissa was trying to figure out whether I was truly committed to this journey, and I made sure that I did not disappoint. In the end, Dr. Lissa said he would do everything in his power to facilitate my journey to the United States.

  “I believe I can help you, Blondy,” he said. “Please try to be patient. This won’t happen overnight.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” I said, nodding and smiling. “I understand. Thank you, Dr. Lissa.”

  We shook hands and I left. Once outside, I began walking. Then I broke into a slow jog, and finally into a full sprint. I ran with a smile on my face, so happy that I could hardly even hear my own labored breathing.

  It’s happening, I thought to myself. I am going to America.

  AS I WAITED TO hear from Dr. Lissa regarding my American prospects, I tried to put the dream aside and focus on the things I could control: basketball, training, and school. Molokai had a very good season in the top division. We won the championship, beating a team called Terreur in the finals. By this time, I had started to grow into my body and become one of the best post players in the Congo. I had eleven points and fourteen rebounds in the championship game, and was named All-Congo. During the game, I remember hearing fans in the crowd singing my name, and cheering for me on every play. It was thrilling to know that I was close to becoming the type of player I had always wanted to be.

  If there was any sadness to the victory, it was only that my family was not there to share it. Not for lack of wanting, but simply because the tournament was too far away and they lacked the resources and time to make the trip. I was not angry or disappointed, as they had made many sacrifices on my behalf over the years. I only wished that I could have thanked them as the championship medal was draped around my neck.

  On my first day back at Foyer Social after winning the championship with Molokai, everyone was proud of me. Even the older players who once refused to allow me to participate in pickup games applauded and congratulated me. I felt proud, but I didn’t let it go to my head. I had one goal: to get to America. And that dream was still far off.

  The spring brought more basketball and more opportunities. And the occasional brush with danger. I was invited to play with ONATRA in the Africa Cup, and despite an infection on the sole of my foot, I did pretty well. I was a starter in most of the games and did not back down against many of the best players on the continent. I knew I still had to improve considerably if I wanted to play college basketball in the U.S., but my confidence had grown along with my stature.

  I rarely missed a day of training. I would run and lift weights in the morning, and play pickup ball at Foyer Social in the afternoon and evening. Sometimes the games stretched out until the sun had faded. As always, we knew this was dangerous, but as adolescents will sometimes do, we pushed the boundaries of safety and common sense. On the basketball court and at school, I felt protected; it was easy in these spaces to forget that the Congo remained a fierce and deadly place.

  One night, I walked home from Foyer Social with three or four of my friends. In the gray of approaching night, we laughed and talked about the games we had just played, and how we had ruled the court again, and our plans for doing it all over again the next day.

  It must have been close to 9:30 when the soldiers stepped out in front of us at a roadside checkpoint. There were at least ten of them, heavily armed, and unsettled merely by the sight of us. I was immediately gripped by a sensation of helplessness, a fear that ran deep in my bones and stretched back to my childhood, provoked by many encounters with soldiers and guerrillas and rebel forces, and of knowing what they were capable of doing; how the slightest misstep could be interpreted as disrespectful and inspire a firestorm of bullets or the unsheathing of machetes. In the worst of it, entire families were massacred and villages razed in the name of genocide. But even now, in less horrific times, bloodshed was common, and death a daily threat. Military rule was the norm, and the soldiers charged with maintaining order w
ere often undisciplined, lightly trained, agitated by drug use, and emboldened by the notion that they were the law of the land. Essentially, they had been a given a license to kill, and it was not unusual for them to exercise this right.

  One of the soldiers stepped ahead of the others and raised his rifle.

  “Where are you going?” he asked in a tone more accusatory than curious.

  I would like to say that I spoke first, that I took charge of the situation. But this would not be true. I was frozen with fear, my heart beating as furiously as it had when I was a little boy, hiding in the reeds by the Congo River, praying I would not be discovered.

  “We were just playing basketball,” one of my friends said. “We are going home now.”

  The lead soldier shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  The others moved forward and raised their rifles, as well. I looked at my friends. Their faces betrayed a fear as crippling as my own. Was this the end? Were the soldiers going to kill us simply for being out after darkness had fallen? Was life so inconsequential in the Congo that we would forfeit our existence for such a trivial offense? It seemed so. I reached for the hand of one of my friends. We stood there, motionless, waiting to be cut down. Remember, in the Congo we didn’t have the same sort of laws that exist in the U.S. If the soldiers had killed us, there would have been no investigation. In the Congo, if you get shot or killed by the police or the military, that’s it. Life continues, with no repercussions. The reason why police and soldiers behave this way is because the government pays them so little, and provides precious little oversight. So when they come across a civilian, robbery is often part of the interaction. And if you try to resist, you lose your life, as well as your money. We knew all of this as we cowered before the soldiers.