By Emmanuel Sixtus
When the Bible said to honour your father and mother so your days will be long, it also said parents should not push their children to the wall. In Congo, children were pushed to the wall; they reacted, but what followed was annihilation.
Africa What have we done to ourselves? African children deserve better than the neocolonial leadership that decimates the continent and does the will of the defunct colonialists.
The youths have been subjugated; corruption took away everything and left them with nothing but dreams of stability and good leadership. For how long will they dream and desire to be better? Circumstances forced them to change, which sometimes leads to cruel fate.
Deep within the soul of Africa. The Democratic Republic of the Congo, a country brimming with potential, has become the stage for a tragedy so profound it leaves an entire nation breathless with sorrow.
This is not just the story of a failed coup or a government’s brutal response. This is the story of stolen futures, broken dreams, and a youth betrayed by the very system meant to protect and nurture them.
Once, these young men were like any other. They were sons whose laughter lit up their homes, brothers whose strength anchored their families, and dreamers who dared to imagine a better world. They were not perfect; they were flawed, ambitious, and perhaps naïve. But they were alive—with all the promise that youth carries. And now, they are gone.
The streets of Kinshasa bear silent witness to the events that unfolded. In the heart of a bustling city, their voices rose against the status quo, not with diplomacy but with desperation. Whether misguided or bold, their intent was not borne of malice but of frustration, a reaction to years of broken promises and an unyielding government that sees dissent as treason. They were young men who dared to ask for something more—a dangerous act in a country where hope is often met with violence.
The government acted swiftly and mercilessly. These young men were captured, stripped not just of their weapons but of their dignity. What followed was not justice but a grim performance masquerading as law. Their trial, swift and unyielding, played out as if their fates were already decided. And perhaps they were.
One by one, they were condemned to death.
Can you imagine the silence that must have followed that verdict? The muffled cries of mothers, the anguished gasps of fathers? These were not strangers to anyone—they were neighbours, classmates, and friends. And as the gavel came down, a part of the Congo’s future was obliterated.
But the real horror was yet to come. Under the cover of dawn, when the city was still and the world lay in slumber, the condemned were led to their deaths. No final embrace from their families. No time to whisper prayers for forgiveness or hope. Just the cold metal of a rifle barrel and the deafening crack of gunfire shattering the stillness of the morning.
The executioners called it justice. The government called it necessary. But what justice is there in killing the youth of a nation? What necessity can justify tearing apart families and robbing a people of its brightest stars?
Mothers in villages and cities across the Congo wailed in grief, their cries piercing the silence of the land. Fathers, too proud to weep in public, retreated to the shadows to grieve the loss of their sons. Younger siblings waited at doors that would never open again, clutching the memories of brothers who once promised them a better future.
And what of the dreams these young men carried? Dreams of change, of freedom, of a Congo where opportunity wasn’t just a distant hope but a live reality? Those dreams now lie buried with them, six feet under the soil of a nation that has long forsaken its youth.
What kind of country executes its future? The answer is one that has lost its way. These young men were not just individuals; they were symbols of something greater. They represented a generation longing for something better—a generation suffocating under the weight of corruption, poverty, and broken systems. And instead of listening to them, instead of offering guidance, mentorship, or understanding, the government chose to silence them. Permanently.
The Congo’s message is clear: dissent will not be tolerated. But what kind of peace can grow from fear? What kind of stability can be built on graves? A nation that murders its youth is a nation at war with itself.
There is no solace in this tragedy, only questions that linger in the hearts of those left behind. What could these young men have become? Doctors? Teachers? Leaders? Fathers? What dreams could they have fulfilled if only someone had believed in them? We will never know. Their potential, like their lives, has been extinguished.
The Congo weeps today, not just for its lost sons but for itself. For what kind of future can there be for a country that sees its youth as enemies instead of allies? The world may forget their names, their faces, their voices, but we must not. We owe it to them to remember. To cry. To mourn. And to demand better for those who come after them.
In the silence that follows tragedy, the Congo stands broken and grieving. But perhaps, amid the ashes of this sorrow, a spark of hope remains—that one day, the youth of this nation will rise again, not with weapons but with voices too strong to be silenced. That one day, the Congo will see its children not as threats but as the only path forward.
Until then, we mourn. We remember. And we cry. Because they deserved so much more.
