On Sunday, July 27, in Oicha, some youths shot a chimpanzee just a few miles from Beni. According to local authorities, the animal had escaped from Virunga National Park, one of Central Africa’s last biodiversity refuges. Panic-stricken or out of ignorance, the residents killed it. These are the official statements.
But this surface story hides a much more troubling reality. According to sources close to KilaloPress, poaching in this region has been worryingly on the rise for several months. The black market is very much alive, and today a chimpanzee’s head can sell for up to $250. Meanwhile, those responsible for monitoring, preventing, and punishing these acts remain silent, almost indifferent.
That a chimpanzee — a species classified as critically endangered — could leave its habitat without any surveillance system reacting, travel kilometers, and end up shot in a populated area should be enough to trigger an alarm at all levels. Yet, there has been no formal response, no public investigation, no tangible sign of institutional awakening.
What if, deep down, this animal never left the park on its own? What if it was actually a survivor of trafficking? A captured individual, destined for illegal export or bushmeat consumption, who managed to escape the clandestine circuit only to fall into another trap — that of popular fear? This disturbing hypothesis is not far-fetched. It deserves to be explored — if an investigation were to take place.
This is no longer an isolated event. It is a sign of collapse. Animal populations are fleeing a forest where human threats multiply: poaching, illegal deforestation, bushmeat trafficking, military pressure. These are not speculations but realities denounced by field NGOs for years, largely ignored by the structures supposed to regulate and protect.
Yet, Congolese law is clear. Law No. 11/009 of July 9, 2011, on environmental protection, as well as Law No. 82-002 of May 28, 1982, regulating hunting, strictly govern these practices. They prohibit hunting endangered species, sanction poaching, and define the responsibilities of all actors in the conservation chain, from rangers to administrative authorities. So why are these laws not enforced? What use are they if those tasked with enforcement remain silent while protected primates are slaughtered in broad daylight?
Our sources speak of local complicity, well-organized networks, tacit protection. The underground economy of wildlife trafficking thrives where authorities turn a blind eye. And the animals fall. Chimpanzees, gorillas, okapis — all victims of a silent war that history books may never document, but whose every corpse is evidence.
The call to citizens made this week by municipal authorities carries a bitter tone. It rests on the idea that salvation will come from below — that the population, often poorly informed and powerless, must make up for the silence of those who have the means, the laws, and the legitimacy to act.
What happened in Oicha is not an unfortunate accident; it is the consequence of a system gasping for breath. There is no coincidence in animal exodus. There are reasons, well known to those who prefer not to name them. As long as there is no transparency, no accountability, no real political will to defend biodiversity, the Congolese forest will continue to empty — one chimpanzee’s cry at a time. And what will remain then? Carcasses without justice. Laws without enforcement. And official silence worth probably less than a chimpanzee’s head on the black market.
By Franck Zongwe Lukama