When a Minister of Justice resigns, one might expect an air of solemn reflection, a moment of self-examination, and perhaps even an unpretentious acceptance of political or moral accountability. But Constant Mutamba, the now-former Congolese Minister of Justice, has instead offered us a proper lesson in political illusionism, finger-pointing acrobatics, and a hallucination of victimhood draped in the Congolese flag. If satire ever begged for a real-life script, this resignation letter—dated 17 June 2025—deserves its own Pulitzer Prize. It is amazing that a man who once studied law—presumably somewhere between lectures, campus theatrics, and biting into cheese sambusas at the cafeteria—could write a resignation letter that reads more like the confessions of a delusional warlock than a legal mind. One imagines Mutamba, draped in the robes of justice, holding the scales in one hand and a conspiracy handbook in the other, writing not with ink but with fog. He stabs at the reader’s comprehension with declarations so tangled that even Kafka would blush. It’s not legalese. It’s not even bureaucratese. It’s a hybrid genre best described as ‘fantasized martyrdom under duress’. Any competent legal scholar might wonder whether he wrote the letter under the influence of a narcotic or Ouija board. It’s a text not meant to clarify, but to confuse; not to inform, but to hypnotize. His goal, perhaps, was not resignation but incantation—casting a smokescreen thick enough to make the people forget what the Parliament, the judiciary, and investigative journalists have actually accused him of. You don’t need to be a constitutional expert to see through it, but maybe a cryptographer to decode what he hoped to achieve. Mutamba opens his letter to President Tshisekedi with the triumphant trumpet of “bold reforms”—a familiar tune played by every self-styled messiah in the swamps of Congolese politics. In line with your instructions and those of the Prime Minister, I initiated bold reforms in the justice sector, which both your office and our people have described as ‘sick,’ he writes. Bravo! Except that this diagnosis, though not untrue, has become the Congolese equivalent of thoughts and prayers. And like all such overused phrases, it serves mostly to pad the résumé while deflecting from performance. Mutamba takes pains to paint himself as a sacrificial reformist, a fearless legal surgeon performing emergency justice surgeries on a terminally ill patient, even as conservative antibodies tried to kill him. He boasts of protecting widows and orphans, safeguarding public enterprises from mafia predators, shielding investors, and sterilizing the business climate of its legal pathogens. So virtuous, so noble—almost angelic, you might say. The only thing missing is a choir of celestial beings singing behind the Palace of Justice. But as with all good stories in Congolese politics, the truth lies not in what is said but in what is masterfully omitted. Not a single paragraph mentions the alleged US$20 million that disappeared under his watch, money earmarked for prison construction—but not in any war-torn region or an M23-controlled area. No, the funds were meant for a modern correctional facility in Kisangani, deep in the country’s heartland, far from Goma or Bukavu. Unless the AFC/M23 insurgents have suddenly teleported across provinces, it’s puzzling how he links them to his downfall. Unless, of course, he acquired properties belonging to their members or allies in Kinshasa and now suspects they know. This may explain why he talks about vengeances with the paranoia of a Shakespearean villain awaiting ghosts. Not a peep about his proposal to reintroduce the death penalty for economic crimes—a draconian policy that many suspect was less about justice and more about vendettas. Not even a footnote to explain how his department, under his watchful eye, continued to weaponize justice against political opponents. That, too, is a form of bold reform, no? But then comes the plot twist worthy of a Hollywood crime thriller. Unfortunately, at a time when I was, like your loyal soldier, pursuing high-ranking officials of the AFC/M23, I have been struck with a stab in the back through a political plot clearly conceived in Kigali and executed by some of our fellow citizens, he wails. Aha! The masterstroke. Why deal with annoying details like embezzlement when you can simply summon the Great Enemy of the State: Rwanda. To those unfamiliar with the Congolese political playbook, here is the golden rule: when cornered, always pivot to Rwanda. Car broken down? Rwanda. Fuel prices rising? Rwanda. Parliament refusing to pass your shady bill? Rwanda. It is the North Star by which Kinshasa orients its political compass. Another chapter? Mutamba's letter is no resignation; it is an exorcism ritual. He absolves himself by casting out the demon of blame and naming it Rwanda. He claims his woes are not self-inflicted but rather the outcome of an elaborate Kigali-engineered conspiracy. Even the Rwandan Foreign Minister’s tweet is classified as definitive proof of a cross-border Machiavellian chess game. We are in Dan Brown territory now, except with fewer facts and more fiction. And let’s not forget the cherry on this melodramatic sundae: multiple assassination attempts, poisonings, and mafia networks infiltrating institutions. No dates, no suspects, no medical reports, no arrests—just vague insinuations and a plea for national sympathy. The phrase “mafia-style networks” appears often in Mutamba’s liturgy of blame, but never with even a whisper of specificity. A network, by definition, is a structured system, a web of interlinked actors, interests, and operations. You do not dismantle a mafia by naming it in passing and then tossing the grenade toward Rwanda. Even Mario Puzo, in fictionalizing the Cosa Nostra, knew to give us Don Corleone, capos, street-level enforcers, consigliere, and rituals of initiation. Puzo wove a world so vivid that readers could smell the tension simmering between Sicilian omertà and New York's steel ambition. Mutamba, however, gives us shadows and ghosts. No names. No departments. No whistleblowers. Just vague references to threats by faceless enemies. One would think the nation’s top legal officer might have pursued evidence, brought prosecutions, and rallied the courts. Instead, we get the rhetorical equivalent of a ghostly house. According to Mutamba, these networks have now successfully “humiliated” him. Who exactly are they? Agents of Kigali? Political rivals in Kinshasa? Or is it just the manifestation of his own political paranoia? No matter. When in doubt, construct a fog of enemies. It has worked for many before him. And yet, the irony is almost too rich. Here is a man who held the country’s justice portfolio, claiming that a foreign enemy has infiltrated every branch of government—the Presidency, the Supreme Court, Parliament, and the Prime Minister’s Office. He suggests that Kigali, not Kinshasa, pulls the strings of Congolese sovereignty. Is he suggesting that President Felix Tshisekedi is a puppet? That Prime Minister Judith Suminwa takes orders from across the Rwandan border? If this were even partially true, then his resignation should not have been addressed to the DRC’s President but to Rwanda’s Ministry of Governance. Yet this is the sort of rhetorical sleight-of-hand Mutamba hopes will allow him to exit stage left not as an accused criminal but as a patriotic martyr. Let us remember: it was the Congolese Supreme Court’s Prosecutor who requested Parliament to lift Mutamba’s immunity. That same Parliament—not known for speed or spine—appears willing to consider it. According to Mutamba’s logic, these actions are not the consequence of legal processes or political accountability, but of espionage and foreign puppeteering. Hold on a bit: Are we now to believe that the Congolese judiciary, legislature, and executive are all compromised by Kigali? That the nation’s justice system is run via Bluetooth from the hills of Rwanda? That the $20 million accusation, conveniently ignored in his resignation, was digitally wired from Kigali to tarnish his good name? Let us entertain the absurdity, if only for pastime. If Kigali truly controls Kinshasa as Mutamba implies, then surely it also decided which socks he wore to Cabinet meetings, which cellphone brand he used to send his resignation letter, and what meal he had before allegedly being poisoned. In which case, Mutamba might have to petition Rwanda’s authorities for medical compensation, not Congo’s. If the plot is that thick, then perhaps the Holy Spirit should launch an investigation. The absurdity mounts further. He pledges never to abandon the fight against invaders. But which invaders? Those who allegedly infiltrated his own government or those who live in the neighboring state he now blames for everything? His language is so theatrical that it leaves little room for coherent policy. Patriotism becomes not a duty to the nation but a costume to wear when the curtains rise. One might recall that Mutamba has a history of aligning himself with Rwandan genocidaires' narratives. A longtime supporter of anti-Rwandan rhetoric, his political philosophy seems crafted from the playbook of denialism, deflection, and distortion. The “resignation” letter serves as the logical conclusion of this ideology: a shifting of blame outward while erecting a moral pedestal inward. And while we’re on haunting ideas, let us address Mutamba’s ghoulish flirtation with the death penalty for embezzlers of public funds. It sounded like righteous thunder: hang the corrupt! But this is Congo—a nation where corruption isn’t an exception but the political bloodstream. In such an environment, this proposal was either a death wish or a cynical decoy. Did he genuinely believe he could survive such a law when his own president, his colleagues in cabinet, and many of those seated in Parliament could all, with minimal effort, qualify for the gallows? Or was the move designed to paint himself as a messianic moralist, a man too righteous to be corrupt—therefore above suspicion? More dangerously, such a proposal may have triggered self-preservation instincts among the truly powerful—those who have stolen much, often with impunity. In a land where every minister has their own skeleton cemetery, a man who dares call for the noose may be treated not as a reformer but as a liability. And what does a mafia do with a liability? They eliminate it—not with law but with politics, scandal, and smear. So perhaps the poisonings and plots were not figments, but real—only not from Rwanda. Could it be that the danger lay closer to his own political village? That the true enemy wore suits stitched in Kinshasa and not military fatigues from across the border? Might those who feared the rope have whispered to the courts, nudged Parliament, and conspired with media outlets to push Mutamba off the chessboard? These are domestic enemies—real and tangible. But it’s much easier, and far more politically safe, to conjure a foreign adversary than to name the vipers in one’s own den. And therein lies the final, bitter irony. By blaming Rwanda, Mutamba not only attempts to dodge the bullet of accountability, but also ensures he remains within the patriotic narrative of DRC nationalism—a tale where every scandal is a foreign sabotage, and every failure, a victim of external aggression. In this narrative, there are no embezzlers, only martyrs; no internal rot, only external termites. Why Rwanda, though? Why always Rwanda? Because Rwanda is the perfect villain in DRC’s political theatre. It’s proximate, it’s historical, it’s emotionally charged. Rwanda is not merely a country; it has been weaponized into a metaphor—of invasion, betrayal, and dominance. It has become the ultimate “get-out-of-jail-free” card. When a Congolese leader is caught red-handed, the immediate reflex is to shout, “Look! Over there! Kigali!” The crowd, long conditioned to this chant, forgets to look at the empty treasury, the broken prisons, or the ghost schools and hospitals. It is like a magician who, having run out of tricks, suddenly yells “fire” and escapes the stage under cover of panic. Rwanda is the fire alarm. The perfect distraction. The convenient scapegoat. And so, as the curtain falls on Mutamba’s brief and bewildering tenure, let us ask ourselves: is this resignation a cleansing moment or another layer of obfuscation? Are we watching the fall of a reformer or the staging of a performance meant to protect deeper, more entrenched interests? One thing is certain: Constant Mutamba’s legacy will not be justice reform. It will be the latest chapter in Congo’s long chronicle of blame, denial, and political theatre. When justice wears a clown’s wig Now that the Minister has vacated his office and entered the pantheon of self-professed martyrs, we await the sequel. Will he write a memoir titled I Was Poisoned by the Judiciary? Will he start a political party: “Congolese Patriots Against Kigali Infiltration” (CPAKI)? Will he flee the country and declare himself President-in-Exile on a YouTube livestream, complete with national anthems and graphics borrowed from PowerPoint 2003? And let us not forget his attempt to invoke the specter of the AFC/M23 leadership as a boogeyman behind his political fall. For a man who insists he was at the helm of Congolese justice, he must know how absurd it is to claim that a rebel group based thousands of kilometers away—whose members have no authority within the state’s legal system—somehow conspired to engineer his downfall in the heart of Kinshasa. What stake does the AFC/M23 have in a prison construction project in Kisangani? Unless, of course, as speculated, Mutamba helped seize properties in Kinshasa or elsewhere linked to figures accused of collaboration, and now fears retaliation or exposure. His narrative turns circular: he accuses others of vendettas while alleging he is targeted for having been too righteous, too unbending, too patriotic. But real vendettas are rarely cross-border affairs; they are homegrown, festered by betrayal, envy, and unresolved debts. In a government overflowing with silent rivalries, Mutamba may have simply rattled the wrong elite cage. Stay tuned. For as long as the Congolese political machine rewards victimhood more than responsibility, there will always be another Mutamba ready to bleed for the cameras and cry wolf across the border. This is not justice. It is theatre. And sadly, the Congolese people are still forced to buy tickets. And so, with one letter—half resignation, half hallucination—Mutamba shows us what passes for a political manifesto in the upper echelons of Congolese power. That this man once held the sacred portfolio of justice should worry every honest citizen. But it likely won’t. Because what he wrote was not accidental. It was calibrated—down to the last hysterical comma—for an audience trained to reward false impression so long as it comes dressed in nationalist garb and points a trembling finger toward Kigali. To survive in Kinshasa, one must speak in tongues, accuse the wind, and write manifestos dripping with paranoia so pungent it knocks the facts unconscious. His letter, then, was not a confession but a song of survival—like a greatest hits album for the corrupt: Side A is victimhood; Side B is Rwanda. Think about it. In one letter, he accused everyone—from Parliament to the Prime Minister’s office, from the Supreme Court to unnamed ‘infiltrated institutions’—of being pawns in a foreign plot. Yet no one clutches their pearls. Why? Because Rwanda is mentioned, and in Congolese political liturgy, that absolves all sins. It’s the genius of the ridiculous: a man stands in a burning building, douses himself in gasoline, throws the match, then screams, “Look! Rwanda lit it!” And the crowd, well-trained, turns its back on the flames and begins to chant. That, dear reader, is how justice is smothered—not in silence, but under a standing ovation. Because let’s face it—when the Minister of Justice pens a letter that reads like a cocktail of courtroom drama, witchcraft trial, and dystopian prophecy, we’re no longer talking about dysfunction. We are watching the judiciary cosplay. The letter wasn’t written to the President; it was addressed to posterity—to warn future charlatans how to weep in public without ever confessing. And why wouldn’t Mutamba write like this? He knows his audience. A political class that rewards verbosity over truth, melodrama over accountability, and slogans over substance. Mutamba is no fool. He knows that truth is an inconvenience, and performance is policy. They don’t read law books; they read incantations. They don’t build institutions; they build narratives. The longer, the louder, the more ludicrous—the more authentic it feels. This is why one man, accused of theft, can instead put the entire state on trial—from the Parliament to the President—then walk offstage to applause, simply because he whispered the sacred word: Rwanda. It's the political equivalent of farting in church or mosque and blaming Satan for the bad smell. So here we are. A man once entrusted to uphold justice turns his resignation into an exorcism, invites the ghosts of Kigali to take the blame, and exits not with shame—but with theatrical flair. One must admire the craftsmanship. It's not governance. It's sorcery in a suit. But the greatest tragedy? He might just return to power. Because in a system where delusion is currency, Mutamba didn’t resign. He invested.
