Lumumba: On the Assassination of "The Greatest Black Man" and Congolese Protest Music

On The Greatest Black Man:

Malcolm X referred to Patrice Émery Lumumba as “the greatest Black man who ever walked across the Africa continent. He didn’t fear anybody. He had those people so scared, they had to kill him.”

This is a succinct observation of one of Africa’s stolen sons.

On January 17, 1961, the deposed Congolese Prime Minister Patrice Émery Lumumba was assassinated in the town of Élisabethville. His death was, of course, political - a plan backed by the United States and the Congo’s former colonizer, Belgium. At the time of his death, the country was newly independent, Lumumba gave his impromptu “Speech at the Ceremony of the Proclamation of the Congo’s Independence'“ some six months before on June 30, 1960.

: “I salute you in the name of the Congolese government. . . We are deeply proud of our struggle, because it was just and noble and indispensable in putting an end to the humiliating bondage forced upon us.” Lumumba called for complete Congolese independence and reminded the Belgians of the social and economic inequity brought by their imperialist presence.

The Belgian influence on Congolese elections created a divide between Lumumba’s proposed government and the Belgian backed government of President Joseph Kasa - Vubu. Lumumba’s appointment as Prime Minister was the result a political compromise between Kasa - Vubu’s party Alliance des Bakongo (ABAKO) and the Mouvement National Congolais (MNC), the party of Lumumba.

As the country’s Prime Minister, Lumumba yearned to create a centralized country, one Congo with eliminated ethnic divisions; this from the spring of African nationalism that was sweeping the continent. Lumumba knew how deeply the effects of colonization ( tension amongst ethnic groups, power hungry politicians, and foreign interference) was going to affect progress.

The destabilization of young African governments is not new. It is the ripple effect of neo - colonization. The issue of Lumumba’s assassination is highlighted most prominently after the transference of power between Belgium and the Congolese.

After Independence, the ‘Congo Crisis’ began, with opposing Congolese and Belgian forces fighting for control of various regions; particularly the region of Katanga, which seceded under the leadership of Moïse Tshombe and Belgian nationalists. As he worked to maintain control in the country, Lumumba called on the communist Soviet Union to assist in restoring order. This political move angered both the Americans and Belgians. Shortly after, on September 5, 1960, President Kasa - Vubu removed Lumumba and six candidate members from their positions.

Lumumba was granted constitutional emergency powers, while meetings took place to remediate the relationship between the President and the Prime Minister. During this time, the country’s Chief - of Staff, Joseph Désiré Mobutu staged a “peaceful revolution” and formed his own government, which was later recognized by the UN. Lumumba rejected this new government and continued working as acting Prime Minister - it is here that Mobutu formed an allegiance with Kasa - Vubu.

On November 27, Lumumba and his family left Kinshasa to flew persecution from Mobutu and Kasa - Vubu allegiance. His wife and children were intercepted and Lumumba returned to the city in order to guard their safety. He was captured and detained by Mobutu loyalists. Lumumba was moved from the capital to Thysville, where he was held prisoner from December 3, 1960 until the morning of January 17, 1961.

Along with Josep Okito and Maurice Mpolo, Patrice Lumumba was assassinated by firing squad under the instruction of Mobutu (later Mobutu Sese Seko) and the firearms of Belgian agents. Their bodies were dismembered and thrown into acid. Belgium announced in 2020 that it will return Lumumba’s tooth to Lumumba’s daughter and the Congo.

Franklin Boukaka and Congolese Protest Music:

Franklin Boukaka was a Congolese musician born in the city of Brazzaville. His 1972 single “Le Bucheron” is a beautiful jazz lamentation about the social and economic state of the country.

The chorus is a dreamy wail that asks “Aye Africa lipanda? Aye Africa liberté?” (Oh Africa, where is your independence? Where is your freedom?"), a heavy question in a post Lumumba Congo that had at this point encountered various Presidents who were later assassinated and the oncoming dictatorship of Mobutu Sese Seko. To ask of independence and freedom was a political statement, which is something Boukaka did not shy away from.

On February 22, 1972 Boukaka attempted to enact a coup against President Marien Ngouabi - and was later executed under suspicious and unconfirmed circumstances. After his death, his songs were banned from Brazzaville’s radio stations - underscoring the impact of his political messaging on wax.

On the Decolonization of Black Womanhood

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Last fall, I taught a unit on narrative social critiques. My goal was to have students understand the writer’s duty of observation and of retelling individual and collective stories. One submission from a quiet, moon faced Black girl leaves me breathless a year later. Her essay spoke of sexual assault and the delicate and precarious nature of the relationship between Black men, women, and the police, she wrote, “Black women have been conditioned to be their brother’s keeper and it has kept them in a perpetual state of victimhood.” 

Whew! 

This observation of the Black woman’s “perpetual victimhood” shows how quickly young Black girls learn the role they must play in the ancient dynamics of love and regard between Black men and Black women; the thin line between protector and victim; support and self - neglect.  I think often of how many men I’ve protected while neglecting myself. We are currently living in a dystopian tribal war - the lived future of imperialism and enslavement. As we decolonize ourselves, the manner in which we regard self and one another can and must change.

I perhaps have not completed enough reading to be considered a womanist; but I believe deeply in the importance and survival of Black girls and women. I sometimes fall into the arms of misandry; a hint of disappointment tinged with a very deep love for Black men. I love them. And I have also been hurt by them in transformational ways. After my father passed away, I began consistently seeing my therapist to understand and reconcile my relationship with Black men. My father, though he tried, was the standard emotionally detached African father; never too hands on, often distant. He did not provide a good prototype of what a loving relationship between man and woman should be. Through reconciling how my father / masculine wounds have perpetuated themselves in my relationships, I have resolved to change the manner in which I regard myself as a woman. What does it mean to be a Black woman who loves and wants a life with a Black man? How can I survive this life without betraying myself in the myriad of ways I’ve done so before? I am not the only Black woman doing this introspection. 

This introspection makes me think of Fela Kuti’s 1972 single “Lady” - a beautifully horned filled arrangement and misogynistically laced lyrics that observe the colonized African woman’s perception of self, “If you call am woman, African woman no gree. She go say I be lady o” (Kuti, 1972).  Fela’s critique of this new age of Black feminism - the fight for a sovereign space highlights the important question of, what does the decolonization of Black womanhood look like? 

The decolonization of Black womanhood looks like the rejection of the kinds of relationships with men our foremothers endured. Which is to say a rejection of relationships that leave us wanting and quiet; with the inability to embrace and realize our destinies. It looks like embracing a life centered around ourselves. There is a rise in Black feminine selfishness - of rejecting the victimhood my student wrote of. Are we victims for loving Black men? Are we traitors for loving ourselves more? 

I think of my romantic and platonic relationships, the ways in which I have seen Black men in my life love me because of the things I do for them, the ways in which I quiet myself so that they can emote. They do not love me for who I am, but for what I do. I think of how often that has not been reciprocated and the ways in which I have had to retract my energy so that I can give the same nurturing spirit to myself. And I think, in these conversational gender wars, in the anti - Black feminist rhetoric, this is where the discord lies; the absence of Black feminine nurture feels like treason; feels like betrayal. Fela all but scoffs at the woman who takes the largest piece of meat for herself, who waits for men to open the door for her, to treat her like a lady. The fine dichotomous line of equality and reverence.  

I am interested in this forward movement of Black womanhood, but do not mean this introspection as a rally cry of anti - Black man. I do believe that we need complete unity as a people to reach our goals; however the bounds of colonialism have left us a fragmented people. There is deep internal work that needs to be completed before holistic and pure and mutually beneficial relationships become the foundation of who we know we are. 

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Teaching in the Time of Corona

It has been almost two weeks since educators across America were told we would have to take our classes online. Standardized tests have been cancelled and questions of equity arise as - for my student population - there is uncertainty in how many students actually have internet access and stable enough home environments to complete their work.

As an English teacher and artist - who often feels confined by what I am mandated to teach - a virtual classroom comes as a bit of a relief; I am able to introduce my students to literature and writing in a way that was previously frowned upon. I am able to create lessons that introduce the intellect of Black literature, and art, and history in a way the school system does not allow.

I am interested to see what the educational sector looks like after things “return to normal.” I do not believe things will ever return to how they were and we will all be charged with adapting to these new times. Virtual classrooms are an opportunity for this generation to guide their learning and expose them to working technology in a capacity outside of Twitter and TikTok. It is also an opportunity for those who want to learn and practice writing to be involved in their own education.

This pandemic forces us to look deeper into issues urban educators have known for years - the vast inequity and problematic foundation of how we educated poor, Black, and Brown students.

These are strange times indeed! Are you a parent with a high school aged student and don’t know where to turn for the English classes? Check out my self paced virtual classes.

love and death : rebirth in grief

Today makes the second year anniversary of my father losing his battle to prostate cancer. In the two years he has been gone, I have been in a theoretical cocoon - a really deep depression marked by an aching quest to find myself again. Losing a parent is the most difficult thing I have ever experienced and not something you can explain to anyone who has not felt the wound.  When he passed, I had not seen him for ten years - he moved to Ghana and died there. I couldn't afford to go to the funeral. I won't ever get over my father being gone. But as promised by my ancestors,  his death became my rebirth.The realest thing someone told me after his passing was that it would become lonely after the funeral. Which became true. All of the immediate calls and check - ins stopped. People had to go on with their lives - after all -  it was not their father who had just died. The loneliness of grief pulls you into your self. I wanted to understand who I was now that my father was gone - a gaping hole eager to be filled again. I tried to fill it with loving men who triggered me alive - the toxicity of the relationships revealing all the things in me I needed to heal. All the ways my intricate relationship with my father molded me as a woman. I drank, I went out, I fought - I did everything but sit with my grief.  Until I began teaching and found something that poured into me.I suppose I am now in the acceptance stage of grief - though I still cannot believe the death. In this quasi-acceptance - I have been reflecting on why I started documenting Black definitions of love. I understand now that as a young twenty - something year old woman - finding outside definitions of love was easier than defining it for myself. I was twenty - five when I began Black Love Project and now at thirty - one I know what love looks and feels and acts like - which is me.For so long I have told the stories of others - avoiding centering myself because in truth I did not know who that was. My father's death forced me into finding and loving  myself enough to tell my own story. In this way - love and death are the same - both allowed my rebirth and awakening.I am excited to share all of the amazing things coming from Black Love Project and my newest venture with House of the Young, Ent.All my wins are for you daddy. me lo wo.

Sabine

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