The Assassination of Lumumba

Ludo De Witte is a Belgian sociologist, journalist, and political writer known for his investigative works on African politics, imperialism, and post-colonial history. He rose to international prominence with The Assassination of Lumumba, originally published in Dutch in 1999. De Witte’s meticulous research, grounded in declassified government documents and first-hand accounts, exposed the deep complicity of Western governments—especially Belgium and the United States—in the 1961 assassination of Congolese Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba. His work has been instrumental in sparking a long-overdue parliamentary inquiry in Belgium and has influenced discourse on neo-colonialism in Africa. De Witte continues to write and speak critically about international power structures, racism, and imperial legacies.

Chapter 1 – Preparing the Gallows

A “Nigger” Upstart (30 June 1960)

On Congo’s Independence Day, 30 June 1960, the Palais de la Nation in Leopoldville was packed with dignitaries. King Baudouin of Belgium, flanked by members of the Belgian elite, delivered a paternalistic speech glorifying colonization as a civilizing mission and urging Congolese leaders not to reform what Belgium had built unless they could do better.

President Kasa Vubu then gave a safe, diplomatic speech that satisfied Belgian expectations. But the event took a radical turn when the President of the Congolese Chamber, Joseph Kasongo, invited Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba to speak—an unscheduled intervention that shocked the Belgians, especially since they had not received a copy of his speech in advance.

Lumumba seized the moment to address not the European dignitaries, but the Congolese people. In a fiery, unprecedented tone, he declared that independence had not been granted as a generous gift, but won through years of struggle, suffering, and blood. He denounced the humiliations, injustices, and violence endured under Belgian rule—calling it “slavery imposed by force.” This direct challenge to the myth of benevolent colonialism was met with roaring applause from Congolese attendees and reverberated across the country. For ordinary Congolese, Lumumba’s speech was a cathartic release of decades of repressed humiliation and a bold declaration of dignity and ownership over their own history.

For the Belgian elite, however, it was a declaration of war. Lumumba was no longer seen as just an unpredictable politician; he had publicly humiliated the king and shattered the narrative of noble Belgian colonialism. This “nigger upstart,” as he would be referred to in Belgian circles, had to be stopped.

Among the audience that day was Colonel Frédéric Vandewalle, head of the colonial intelligence services. Though clad in civilian clothes, he was watching closely. While ideologically hostile to Congolese nationalism, Vandewalle understood better than most that Lumumba’s speech resonated with the masses. He noted with clarity that the population saw the Africanization of the army and civil service as essential expressions of independence. Lumumba was not just speaking; he was acting on his words.

Belgian Troops and the Blue Berets in Katanga (July–August 1960)

Patrice Lumumba’s trajectory in 1960 was dramatic. After being jailed in Jadotville early in the year, he was released, won the May elections, and became Prime Minister in June. But by December, he was imprisoned again—this time awaiting his death.

Belgium had attempted to preempt the wave of decolonization sweeping Africa by accelerating Congo’s independence. It hoped to manage the transition to a compliant neo-colonial regime. But the elections brought radical nationalists to power, including Lumumba, whose plans to unify Congo and wrest control from colonial interests immediately alarmed Brussels.

Katanga, Congo’s richest province and home to the powerful Union Minière, remained a stronghold of Belgian economic power. Just weeks before independence, the Belgian Parliament changed Congo’s Basic Law to allow Moïse Tshombe’s party, CONAKAT, to form a provincial government, despite electoral opposition. It was, in effect, a “legal coup d’état” designed to maintain Belgian control over Katanga through a proxy.

After the July 5 mutiny by Congolese soldiers against the Belgian officer corps—triggered by General Janssens’ racist proclamation that “Before Independence = After Independence”—Lumumba acted swiftly. He dismissed Janssens and Africanized the army. The decision restored order in Leopoldville and Thysville, but not in Katanga.

Instead of supporting the central government’s move, Belgium used the mutiny as a pretext for military intervention. On July 9, without any serious threat in Katanga, Belgian troops landed in Elisabethville. Within days, the entire province was under their control. On July 11, under Belgian military protection, Tshombe declared Katanga’s secession. Lumumba was denied access to the province.

The UN, under Secretary-General Dag Hammarskjöld, sent in peacekeepers (the “Blue Berets”) following a Congolese request for assistance. The July 14 Security Council resolution authorized the UN to provide military aid and asked Belgium to withdraw its troops. However, the resolution did not condemn Belgium’s aggression. Instead, Hammarskjöld’s priority was to keep Soviet influence out. As a result, UN forces refused to support Lumumba’s efforts to retake Katanga, effectively shielding the secession.

This pattern repeated itself: the UN disarmed Congolese forces, blocked Soviet aid, and froze the central government’s military responses. The Blue Berets became enforcers of a status quo that served Western interests.

Meanwhile, the Western media demonized Lumumba. The Belgian press, especially La Libre Belgique, portrayed him as a dangerous demagogue. De Standaard called for the UN to preserve Katanga as a pro-Western buffer state. The campaign was so vitriolic that a Belgian academic openly fantasized in print about a “manly act” that could rid the world of Lumumba.

Tshombe, under Belgium’s tutelage, built a puppet regime. Though nominally independent, Katanga remained deeply reliant on Belgian civil servants, military officers, and mining companies. Hammarskjöld, after negotiations with Tshombe, agreed not to interfere with the de facto secession—cementing Katanga’s position outside the control of the central government.

The Elimination of Lumumba’s Government (August–September 1960)

By August, Belgium’s strategy was clear: prop up Katanga, isolate Lumumba, and engineer a regime change in Leopoldville. With the central government paralyzed by UN restrictions and foreign subversion, Lumumba sought Soviet aid to fight the secessions. This became the excuse for Washington and Brussels to move decisively.

CIA chief Allen Dulles authorized Lumumba’s “removal” as a priority. Ambassador Timberlake worked to persuade President Kasa Vubu to dismiss him. The UN leadership, particularly Hammarskjöld and Andrew Cordier, were also convinced that Lumumba had to go. Cordier, acting in the Congo, ordered the closure of the radio and airports to isolate Lumumba politically and militarily.

On September 5, Kasa Vubu announced Lumumba’s dismissal. Lumumba responded by dismissing the president. Both claims were unconstitutional; only parliament could dismiss the government. When Lumumba reconvened parliament and won a vote of confidence, the West acted.

On September 14, Mobutu staged a coup. Claiming to “neutralize” all politicians, he installed a College of Commissioners and received immediate UN and US support. The Blue Berets provided pay and rations to his troops, while Belgian officials funneled funds and influence behind the scenes.

Lumumba was now under house arrest, guarded by both UN troops and Mobutu’s forces. The plan had worked: Lumumba was isolated, cut off from communication, and surrounded.

In the Steps of the CIA: Operation Barracuda

Even with Lumumba out of office, the threat of his return persisted. As long as he lived, he remained a rallying symbol for national resistance. Thus, plans were developed to eliminate him physically.

Belgian Colonel Louis Marlière and Major Loos launched Operation Barracuda, a covert scheme to kidnap or assassinate Lumumba. Clandestine funds were moved, intelligence agents deployed, and mercenaries like Major Noël Dedeken recruited. Assassination was not just discussed—it was actively planned, with the full knowledge of the Minister for African Affairs, Count d’Aspremont Lynden. Belgian intelligence agent Armand Verdickt, working in Brazzaville, communicated with local operatives and Congolese collaborators to coordinate sabotage and disinformation campaigns.

Meanwhile, the CIA sent poisons, and a European hitman code-named QJ/WIN was dispatched to Leopoldville. Although these specific plans were not executed, they reveal the depth of the West’s determination to ensure Lumumba would never return to power.

The stage was now set. Lumumba remained alive—but surrounded, betrayed, and marked for death. Brussels and Washington had resolved to finish what they started. Katanga would be their beachhead; Lumumba their enemy. His removal, first political, would soon become physical.

Chapter 2 – United Against “Satan”

Mobutu’s Coup: The Mask of Neutrality (14 September 1960)

On 14 September 1960, Colonel Joseph-Désiré Mobutu, Chief of Staff of the Congolese army (ANC), announced a military “neutralization” of all political institutions. Presented as a non-partisan measure to restore order and enable “technocrats” to govern, the coup in fact marked the total sidelining of Patrice Lumumba and a decisive shift in Congo’s alignment toward Western interests.

Mobutu was no independent actor. His coup was orchestrated with the support of Belgian and U.S. actors and executed with the full blessing—and logistical support—of the United Nations. Within hours, the UN supplied his soldiers with rations, pay, and transportation. The ANC was transformed into a political instrument, and Mobutu, once Lumumba’s protégé, became the spearhead of a counter-revolutionary regime.

The College of Commissioners, the technocratic government Mobutu installed, was a façade: all key positions were occupied by Belgians or pro-Belgian figures. Far from neutrality, it was the consolidation of neo-colonial power in Leopoldville.

The Cage: UN and Belgian Support in Isolating Lumumba

Although Lumumba had not been formally convicted or condemned, he was treated as an outlaw. His residence was besieged. UN troops, who had ostensibly come to protect Congolese sovereignty, now actively blocked his movements and communications. They surrounded his house, cut his telephone lines, censored his mail, and refused to let him use the radio station.

These actions—particularly those by UN Under-Secretary Andrew Cordier and his successors—were not based on any UN resolution. They were arbitrary and illegal, justified only by an overarching political goal: prevent Lumumba’s return to power.

Belgium’s actions were even more brazen. Count d’Aspremont Lynden, the Minister for African Affairs, instructed the ambassador in Leopoldville to maintain pressure on UN officials, to fund the ANC (now under Mobutu), and to increase disinformation efforts. Belgian civil servants and officers remained embedded at every level of administration and security forces. Brussels’ control over Katanga had been formalized, and now they aimed to neutralize Lumumba permanently.

The Western Media Campaign: Demonizing Lumumba

A relentless propaganda campaign was launched in both Congolese and Western media to vilify Lumumba. Newspapers accused him of being a Communist, a murderer, an agent of Moscow. His fiery speeches and nationalist stance were distorted and taken out of context to depict him as a threat to world peace and to Congolese unity.

Even formerly sympathetic politicians in Europe and the U.S. distanced themselves. At the United Nations, Lumumba’s envoy, Thomas Kanza, found himself increasingly isolated. His pleas for justice fell on deaf ears as the dominant narrative now framed Lumumba as the main obstacle to peace.

The Western goal was not simply to remove Lumumba—it was to erase his legitimacy and delegitimize his movement altogether. His ideology, not just his person, had to be discredited.

Resistance and Repression: Attempts to Rally Support

Despite these conditions, Lumumba was not without allies. In Stanleyville, Antoine Gizenga and other nationalists remained loyal. There were sympathetic figures even within the UN and ANC. Lumumba attempted to organize resistance, giving interviews to sympathetic journalists and meeting with foreign envoys under tight surveillance.

But each effort was thwarted. On 27 September, Lumumba attempted to leave his residence under UN escort to attend a parliamentary session. He was intercepted and forced back. Attempts to escape by car or by foot were blocked by roadblocks, soldiers, and hostile civilians egged on by propaganda.

Even diplomatic interventions failed. When Guinea offered to send a plane to extract him, the UN refused landing rights. When Ghana’s President Nkrumah proposed a Pan-African peace mission, the U.S. and Belgium applied diplomatic pressure to prevent it.

The Unfolding Plot: Preparing for Lumumba’s Final Removal

While Lumumba remained confined, plans to finish him were unfolding. Belgian officials knew his mere presence in Leopoldville was a threat. CIA station chief Larry Devlin reported regularly to Langley and was instructed to find a solution. Belgian intelligence agents were busy coordinating with Katangan authorities, particularly Tshombe, to find a way to remove Lumumba from the political scene altogether.

The plan was not necessarily to stage a show trial or formal execution—it was to engineer a situation in which Lumumba could be “handed over” to his enemies. The exact method was left ambiguous, but the intention was clear.

In Leopoldville, Mobutu began to allow ANC officers loyal to Belgium to take greater control of operations. “Commissaire général” Justin Bomboko—an anti-Lumumba figure who had studied in Belgium—emerged as a central figure, liaising directly with Belgian diplomats. A legal cover was being built to justify further repression.

A Broken Promise: The United Nations’ Complicity

The UN, led by Dag Hammarskjöld and his deputy Ralph Bunche, maintained the illusion of neutrality. But in practice, they refused to uphold Congolese constitutional law, which required a parliamentary vote to remove a prime minister. Lumumba had won such a vote, but the UN recognized Mobutu’s coup instead.

UN officials not only failed to intervene when Lumumba was illegally detained—they actively enabled it. They denied him access to state facilities, restricted his communications, and ignored his government’s appeals for protection.

Even the Security Council, when pressed, equivocated. The USSR accused Hammarskjöld of neocolonial bias, and Soviet delegate Zorin called for his resignation. But the U.S., France, and Britain shielded him. This diplomatic standoff ensured the UN’s passive role in the unfolding repression.

Lumumba’s Isolation Is Complete

By the end of October 1960, Lumumba was effectively imprisoned in his own home, surrounded by hostile forces. The ANC, paid and armed by Belgium and supported logistically by the UN, had taken full control. Parliament no longer functioned. The College of Commissioners ruled by decree.

The Congolese masses who had celebrated independence just three months earlier were now living under a military regime—one that spoke of order but functioned to protect Belgian economic interests and Western strategic dominance.

Lumumba remained defiant. He continued to draft letters, dictated messages to supporters, and planned to escape. He knew his chances were slim, but also that surrender meant certain death. His enemies were not just in Leopoldville—they were in Brussels, Washington, and even within the UN headquarters in New York.

As this chapter closes, the net is drawn tighter. The final act of Lumumba’s political elimination is near, and the groundwork for his physical removal is being laid with methodical precision.

Chapter 3 – The Death Cell

Flight and Capture: Lumumba’s Desperate Escape

By late November 1960, Patrice Lumumba, the deposed and besieged Prime Minister, understood that his life was in imminent danger. He was under effective house arrest in his official residence in the capital, Leopoldville, guarded by Mobutu’s ANC troops and closely watched by the United Nations peacekeepers. Every attempt to communicate with his supporters in the interior had been blocked; his appeals to the United Nations and to world opinion had met silence.

On the night of 27 November, Lumumba made a daring escape with his wife Pauline, his baby son François, and a handful of close supporters. They crossed the Congo River by ferry and headed eastward toward Stanleyville, where Antoine Gizenga and his supporters still held territory loyal to the legitimate government. It was a desperate journey across dangerous terrain, marked by the constant risk of ambush or betrayal. Along the way, Lumumba stopped in villages to rally the population and to reassert his status as the country’s legitimate leader, hoping to rebuild a popular base and organize a counter-offensive.

But the trek was being followed closely. The CIA, Belgian intelligence, and Mobutu’s forces were monitoring his movements. On 1 December, Lumumba was captured near the Sankuru River by troops loyal to Mobutu. The details of the arrest reveal treachery—he had been betrayed by tribal chiefs or possibly by informants under pressure. The UN peacekeepers in the region stood by and did nothing.

Public Humiliation and a Parade of Vengeance

Lumumba and his companions—Maurice Mpolo and Joseph Okito—were flown back to Leopoldville. They were presented not as political prisoners but as criminals. Mobutu’s regime and the ANC paraded them through the streets in open military vehicles, bound and beaten. Lumumba, a man once celebrated by millions as a hero of African independence, was spat on, mocked, and subjected to jeering crowds.

These scenes were meticulously staged by Mobutu and his Belgian advisors. They served a political purpose: to demoralize Lumumba’s supporters, to signal the finality of his downfall, and to display the power of the new regime. The footage was widely disseminated—both in Congo and in the West—as a warning and a justification.

This grotesque parade was a calculated act of political violence. Lumumba’s captors understood the symbolic power of spectacle and sought to annihilate not just the man, but the myth. His appearance—bloodied, disheveled, humiliated—was intended to erase the memory of the defiant, charismatic leader who had denounced colonialism on Independence Day.

The Prison in Thysville: Torture, Hunger, and Despair

Following his public degradation, Lumumba was transferred to Camp Hardy in Thysville, a remote and desolate military camp that had become a detention site for political prisoners. His co-prisoners included Mpolo and Okito, both of whom had stood with him through the ordeal.

Conditions at Camp Hardy were abysmal. The prisoners were denied visitors, isolated, and constantly threatened with death. Food was scarce and medical care absent. Psychological torture was routine. Belgian officers maintained a strong presence in the camp, even if nominally under Congolese authority. The Belgians operated in coordination with Mobutu and maintained daily contact with the Ministry for African Affairs in Brussels.

Lumumba remained defiant despite the physical and psychological abuse. He drafted secret letters and clung to his ideals, but the isolation was absolute. His family had no idea where he was held or in what condition. International organizations such as the Red Cross were denied access.

The idea of a trial was abandoned. Lumumba’s enemies had realized that putting him on public trial could offer him a platform to reclaim legitimacy and denounce the neo-colonial regime. The danger was not his guilt, but his eloquence and continued popularity. The only remaining solution, from the point of view of Belgium and Mobutu, was physical elimination.

The Growing Pressure for Execution

As weeks passed, pressure mounted within Belgian and Katangan circles to deal with the “Lumumba problem” permanently. Belgian officials, both in Leopoldville and Brussels, discussed options for removing him discreetly. The plan to assassinate him, which had long been under consideration, now took concrete form.

In Katanga, Moïse Tshombe and his ministers openly demanded that Lumumba be transferred to Elisabethville to face “justice.” Tshombe’s rhetoric was incendiary: he called for the elimination of the “man responsible for the bloodshed in Congo.” The request for transfer was not incidental; it was a coded demand for execution. Everyone involved knew that if Lumumba were sent to Katanga, he would never return.

Belgian agents were directly involved in shaping this outcome. Colonel Marlière and Minister d’Aspremont Lynden were in regular contact with Katangan authorities, and plans were made to send Lumumba to his death under the guise of legality. Belgium would not execute him itself but would ensure his death at the hands of its local proxies.

Mobutu hesitated. While willing to neutralize Lumumba politically, he feared the international fallout of a public assassination. He worried that the ANC troops still loyal to Lumumba might rebel. The solution would be a discreet execution, carried out in a place far from the capital, where accountability could be obscured.

The UN’s Silence: Complicity by Inaction

Throughout this period, the United Nations maintained its refusal to intervene. Dag Hammarskjöld and his Congo envoy, Rajeshwar Dayal, claimed they had no mandate to interfere in Congo’s internal affairs. But this was a transparent pretext: the UN had intervened militarily to disarm pro-Lumumba troops, block Soviet aid, and protect Katanga’s secession. Yet when Lumumba’s life was threatened, they washed their hands of responsibility.

When asked whether the UN could prevent his transfer to Katanga, Dayal demurred. The Organization, ostensibly present to protect Congolese sovereignty and human rights, allowed itself to be used as a cover for Mobutu’s regime. The UN’s failure was not passive—it was structurally complicit. It deprived Lumumba of the tools of resistance, then stood by as his enemies planned his death.

Only a handful of voices—like Ghana’s Kwame Nkrumah and Guinea’s Sékou Touré—protested. But they were increasingly sidelined by the dominant Western powers. The Congo crisis had become a theater for Cold War rivalry, and Lumumba had been marked as expendable.

A Political Dead-End

By the end of December 1960, Lumumba’s fate was sealed. He had become too dangerous to remain alive—not because of crimes committed, but because of the inspiration he continued to offer to nationalist and pan-African movements.

His physical isolation mirrored the political isolation imposed on his government. Gizenga and the Stanleyville resistance remained active, but divided. Most African and Asian countries were too weak or reluctant to challenge the Western powers decisively.

What remained was silence—an ominous, calculated silence from the international community that gave the green light for what was to come. The gallows were ready. The executioners were waiting.

Chapter 4 – The Green Light from Brussels

Thysville: A Boiling Prison

By early January 1961, Camp Hardy in Thysville—where Lumumba and his companions Maurice Mpolo and Joseph Okito were imprisoned—was on the brink of mutiny. The soldiers of the Thysville garrison, many still sympathetic to Lumumba, were growing restless. Rumors circulated that Lumumba might be transferred or killed. The prisoners themselves feared they would be quietly murdered, as communication with the outside world had been completely severed.

Tensions reached a boiling point on 13 January, when soldiers stormed the prison in what appeared to be an uprising. While accounts differ, it’s clear that Lumumba’s presence was central to the unrest. Some ANC troops attempted to free him; others may have tried to kill him. Ultimately, no escape occurred, but the event sent shockwaves through Leopoldville and Brussels. Lumumba was still a rallying figure—alive, he remained too powerful.

Mobutu’s regime now saw the danger of keeping him in Thysville. But Mobutu did not want to bear responsibility for Lumumba’s murder. He feared the political fallout and potential rebellion from ANC units still loyal to the deposed leader. The Belgians, by contrast, were more decisive. They concluded that Lumumba must be physically eliminated—soon and far from the capital.

Belgian Command and Planning: A Criminal Chain of Decisions

The idea of transferring Lumumba to Elisabethville, the capital of secessionist Katanga, had been proposed before—but now it became urgent. Katanga’s leaders, especially Moïse Tshombe and Godefroid Munongo, had long demanded that Lumumba be handed over. Their intent was clear: once in Katanga, Lumumba would be executed under the guise of “justice.”

The Belgian government was fully informed of these intentions. On 15 January, Count Harold d’Aspremont Lynden, Belgian Minister for African Affairs, approved the plan for transfer in full knowledge of what awaited Lumumba. He wrote to Belgian diplomats and officers in the Congo that it was “important to transfer Lumumba to Katanga as quickly as possible.”

This directive was not a vague political wish—it was a green light for assassination. Belgian officers coordinated directly with Katangan authorities, arranging transport, logistics, and secrecy. Colonel Louis Marlière, who had long been stationed in the Congo, played a key role. Belgian soldiers and gendarmes would oversee the operation from departure to execution.

While the official line from Brussels remained that the Congolese authorities were in charge, the truth was that Belgium orchestrated every step. Internal communications show clear understanding among Belgian elites that Lumumba would be killed in Katanga—and this was precisely the outcome they desired.

Fabricating Legality: Covering the Crime with Bureaucracy

To provide a façade of legality, a phony “decision” was arranged by Congolese figures loyal to Belgium. On 16 January, the Katangan Minister of Interior, Munongo, sent a letter “demanding” Lumumba’s extradition to Katanga for trial. Tshombe signed off on the transfer. On the same day, Congolese figurehead President Kasa Vubu—under Belgian pressure—approved the request. A false paper trail was created to simulate legal procedure.

The Congolese Parliament, which constitutionally would have had to approve such a move, was never consulted. Nor were any legal charges ever properly filed against Lumumba. Everything was done in haste, behind closed doors, and under Belgian direction.

The United Nations was neither consulted nor informed. The same UN that had previously claimed it could not interfere in Congo’s “internal affairs” was now bypassed completely, despite the international implications.

Final Journey: Thysville to Elisabethville

In the early hours of 17 January 1961, Lumumba, Mpolo, and Okito were removed from their cells in Thysville under the pretext of transfer. They were bound, gagged, and loaded onto a military aircraft accompanied by Belgian officers and Congolese guards. Among them was Gérard Soete, a Belgian police commissioner who would later become infamous for his role in the disposal of Lumumba’s body.

The flight from Thysville to Elisabethville lasted several hours, with stops in Moanda and possibly Kamina, each leg carefully planned to avoid publicity. During the flight, the prisoners were beaten and tortured. Soete later admitted that by the time they arrived in Katanga, Lumumba and his companions were already in horrific physical condition—bloodied, barely conscious, but still alive.

Upon arrival in Elisabethville, they were dragged from the plane in full view of high-ranking Katangan officials, including Tshombe and Munongo. Belgian officers, especially those in the Sûreté (intelligence services), were present. The captives were taken to a villa belonging to the provincial police, where further torture took place under the supervision of Katangan and Belgian personnel.

Belgium’s Final Decision: Elimination

There was no longer any doubt about what would happen next. The plan to assassinate Lumumba had shifted from abstract plotting to concrete implementation. All parties involved—Belgium, Katanga, and Mobutu—had achieved consensus. The Belgians had orchestrated the logistics, the Katangans would carry out the execution, and Mobutu would look the other way.

No trial, no sentence, no witnesses.

As night fell on 17 January, Lumumba and his two companions lay battered in a remote house, watched over by Katangan and Belgian guards. A select group of decision-makers prepared for the final act. There would be no international observers, no journalists, no documentation—only the guns, the forest, and the final bullet.

Chapter 5 – Lumumba’s Last Day

Arrival in Elisabethville: Into the Hands of His Executioners

On the afternoon of 17 January 1961, Patrice Lumumba, Maurice Mpolo, and Joseph Okito arrived at the Elisabethville airport after a long and brutal journey from Camp Hardy in Thysville. Beaten, bound, and semi-conscious, they were immediately seized by Katangan authorities, among them Moïse Tshombe, Godefroid Munongo, and François Empain, and escorted to a remote villa in the Kalubwe district of the city.

Belgian and Katangan officers alike participated in welcoming the prisoners—with violence. Upon arrival, they were brutally beaten once more, this time under direct orders from Munongo. According to subsequent testimonies, their physical condition was already catastrophic. They were barely able to stand, and Lumumba in particular had been kicked and punched relentlessly during the flight. Belgian officers such as Gérard Soete, Frans Verscheure, and Julien Gat were all involved in this phase of abuse. These men would later play pivotal roles in the cover-up of the murder.

The prisoners were tied to chairs in the villa’s living room, placed in front of Katanga’s top officials. Tshombe and Munongo both insulted and threatened them. The torture continued for hours. Lumumba was bloodied, his teeth broken, and his body covered in bruises. Okito and Mpolo were similarly degraded. For the Belgian and Katangan elite, this was not just about eliminating political opponents—it was about ritual humiliation before execution.

The Execution: Cold-Blooded Murder

As evening descended, preparations for the execution moved into their final stage. A small group gathered to carry out the operation: Katangan gendarmes, a Belgian police officer (Gérard Soete), and other Belgian advisers. The site of the execution had been selected—a clearing in the woods near Elisabethville, known as Shilatembo.

At approximately 9:40 PM, Lumumba and his comrades were driven to the site. The executioners were calm and systematic. Lumumba was shot first, reportedly by Katangan Minister of Interior Godefroid Munongo and Belgian officers. He was killed by a bullet to the back, according to later reconstructions. Mpolo and Okito were executed shortly thereafter. The sequence was designed to eliminate all three men swiftly and to ensure no one survived to bear witness.

Belgian agents confirmed their deaths and returned to Elisabethville. Their mission had been completed: Lumumba, the symbol of Congolese independence and defiance, had been physically destroyed.

Belgian Involvement: No Longer Denied

Though Belgian officials and diplomats later tried to deny direct involvement, the documentary record and personal confessions leave no doubt. Minister for African Affairs d’Aspremont Lynden had given his approval in advance. Belgian civil servants in Congo—like Colonel Marlière, Verscheure, and Soete—coordinated the operation on the ground. Belgian diplomats received regular updates.

Belgium’s role went beyond complicity. It included planning, supervision, and participation. The execution was the culmination of a broader neo-colonial strategy to eliminate Congo’s most dangerous opponent—an African leader who demanded genuine sovereignty and control over his country’s resources.

The Bodies: Secret Burial and Desecration

Once the executions were complete, the bodies were initially buried in shallow graves in the Shilatembo area. But the following day, a frantic operation was launched to erase all physical traces. Belgian officers feared discovery. Brussels was already concerned about the political fallout if Lumumba’s fate became known.

Soete and his team exhumed the corpses. They dismembered the bodies with saws and dissolved the remains in sulfuric acid, a grotesque procedure carried out over hours. Teeth and other “inconvenient” remains were pocketed as “souvenirs” by some of the perpetrators—testifying to the depth of depravity.

Later confessions by Soete and other officers would reveal these details, although Belgian authorities continued to minimize their involvement for decades. Soete himself later admitted to throwing the remains into a river and expressed only casual remorse. The systematic obliteration of evidence was part of the plan from the beginning.

The Official Story: Lies for the International Press

On 18 January, Katangan authorities released a statement that Lumumba, Mpolo, and Okito had escaped custody and been killed by villagers in a spontaneous act of revenge. The story was false, but widely circulated by Western media outlets. The goal was to cast Lumumba’s death as a local, tribal event—something beyond the control of “civilized” authorities.

Belgium and the United Nations both accepted this version at face value. The UN made no formal protest; Dag Hammarskjöld issued a restrained response. The United States likewise expressed no concern. It was clear that no Western government wanted to investigate further. Lumumba was gone, and that was the desired result.

Only socialist and pan-African countries—Ghana, Guinea, the Soviet Union, Yugoslavia—voiced outrage. Massive demonstrations erupted in Belgrade, Accra, and Conakry, where Lumumba had been held as a hero. The USSR blamed Belgium and the United States directly. A global fracture in perception of Lumumba’s death opened—between the imperialist bloc and the anti-colonial world.

A Hero Silenced, A Revolution Mourned

Patrice Lumumba was 35 years old when he died. He had governed for only three months. Yet his charisma, his courage, and his unwavering demand for true independence had made him the most feared man in the eyes of Western powers. His murder was not an accident of local chaos—it was the planned assassination of a sovereign leader by the former colonial power and its allies.

The death of Lumumba did not only silence a man—it sent a message to all African revolutionaries. Independence could be tolerated only if it did not interfere with Western strategic and economic interests. Congo would remain fractured, its riches plundered, and its people subject to puppet regimes for decades to come.

But the memory of Lumumba would not die. His letters from prison, his speeches, and his death became the foundational myths of post-colonial resistance—not only in Africa, but globally. His legacy would continue to haunt the conscience of Belgium and fuel anti-imperialist struggles for generations.

Chapter 6 – Operation “Cover-Up”

The Lie is Born: “They Escaped and Were Killed by Villagers”

On 18 January 1961, one day after Patrice Lumumba, Maurice Mpolo, and Joseph Okito were murdered, Katangan authorities issued an official statement. It claimed that the three prisoners had escaped en route to detention and had been killed by enraged villagers, who recognized them and took revenge.

This was a deliberate fabrication, jointly constructed by Katangan officials and Belgian advisors, including Gérard Soete and Frans Verscheure. The goal was not merely to obscure the truth but to preemptively defuse international outrage. Tshombe and Munongo, both aware of the political stakes, wanted to avoid scrutiny and frame the killings as spontaneous tribal violence—something beyond the control of “legitimate” authorities.

To make the story convincing, they planted a decoy vehicle, arranged witnesses, and falsified documents. Belgian diplomats in Elisabethville immediately sent telegrams to Brussels confirming the agreed-upon cover story. The Ministry for African Affairs, led by d’Aspremont Lynden, greenlighted the public relations strategy.

Brussels Reacts: Relief and Damage Control

When news of Lumumba’s supposed death broke, the Belgian cabinet responded not with shock but with relief. His physical elimination had long been a goal, and now the deed was done. The Foreign Ministry scrambled to manage international reaction. Their central concern was not whether the assassination had occurred, but how to shield Belgium from blame.

Belgian officials prepared “talking points” for diplomats, instructing them to emphasize Congo’s instability and to repeat the narrative of a spontaneous killing by enraged villagers. At the same time, they minimized and downplayed Belgian involvement, portraying it as indirect or nonexistent.

Privately, however, the Belgian government knew better. Internal communications and intelligence briefings confirmed that Belgian officers had overseen the arrest, transfer, torture, and execution. The decision-making chain led directly back to Brussels. But this information was tightly controlled and suppressed.

The Role of the United Nations: Willful Blindness

The United Nations, led by Secretary-General Dag Hammarskjöld, accepted the official Katangan story with remarkable passivity. Despite receiving credible information that contradicted the narrative, the UN refused to launch an investigation. Hammarskjöld expressed mild regret over the death but offered no condemnation.

UN officials had been informed of Lumumba’s transfer and did nothing to stop it. When he disappeared, they made no real effort to locate him. When news of his death surfaced, they issued no demand for accountability.

This refusal to act was not simple negligence—it reflected the UN’s alignment with Western powers, especially the United States. In the eyes of UN leadership, Lumumba had been a destabilizing figure who had sought Soviet assistance. His death, though regrettable, was seen as a “fait accompli” that simplified matters in Congo.

UN envoy Rajeshwar Dayal played a particularly controversial role. He ignored warnings, including from inside the UN, about Lumumba’s vulnerability and failed to protect him. After his murder, Dayal maintained a defensive stance, insisting that the UN could not interfere in Congo’s domestic affairs—even though it had done so repeatedly when convenient to the West.

Media Manipulation and Information Warfare

Western media outlets largely echoed the official narrative. In Belgium, the press repeated the story of a mob killing, often with racist overtones. The emphasis was on Congolese savagery, tribal vendettas, and African chaos—not on Belgium’s responsibility or the structural forces at play.

Some journalists, however, began to ask questions. In Belgrade, Accra, and Moscow, state media accused Belgium and the United States of direct involvement in the assassination. The Soviet Union went further, demanding an international investigation and denouncing the UN’s complicity.

The Belgian government feared that the real story would eventually leak. As a precaution, it withheld key documents and silenced or relocated personnel who had firsthand knowledge. Gérard Soete, the Belgian officer who helped dispose of the bodies, was sent back to Belgium, where he was instructed to keep silent. He later admitted, decades after the fact, that he had dissolved Lumumba’s body in acid and retained teeth and other body parts as “souvenirs.”

Despite these efforts, suspicion grew. As Lumumba became a martyr figure across the Global South, the implausibility of the official story became harder to sustain. Yet for the time being, the Western alliance—Belgium, the U.S., the UN—held firm to the fiction.

A Second Death: Erasing the Physical Body

In the immediate aftermath of the assassination, Katangan and Belgian officers dug up the bodies from their initial graves and systematically destroyed them. The goal was total obliteration—no corpse, no evidence, no shrine.

The remains were dismembered, burned, and dissolved in sulfuric acid, a process supervised by Soete and carried out in a secluded area. The operation took hours. The participants later described the horror and stench, but also the sense of “duty.” It was a political crime masked as sanitation.

One of the most grotesque aspects of this cover-up was the preservation of trophies. Soete kept two teeth, which he later displayed to journalists. This act symbolized not just the erasure of Lumumba’s body but the colonial dehumanization that had always underpinned Belgian rule.

The Strategic Silence: What the World Didn’t Say

The real power of the cover-up lay not only in the lies told, but in the silences maintained. The Belgian government did not admit guilt. The United Nations did not demand accountability. The United States did not investigate.

This collective silence ensured that no one was punished. No inquiry was launched, no resignations occurred. The Katangan regime continued to receive Western support. Mobutu remained in power with Western blessing.

In the eyes of the Congolese people, this silence was a second betrayal—one that confirmed Lumumba’s warnings about neocolonialism. The Congo’s sovereignty had been shattered, not by local actors alone, but by a global alliance of imperial interests.

Chapter 7 – A River of Blood

The Wider Reign of Terror

The assassination of Patrice Lumumba on 17 January 1961 was not an isolated event. It marked the beginning of a broader, systematic campaign of repression, torture, and murder aimed at wiping out Lumumbist forces across the Congo. This terror was not merely about eliminating individual figures—it was a political purge, designed to erase the nationalist project and reassert foreign control through puppet regimes and military force.

Following Lumumba’s death, the Katangan authorities and their Belgian backers intensified operations against real and suspected sympathizers of the former prime minister. In Elisabethville, Katanga’s police and gendarmerie, under the control of Interior Minister Godefroid Munongo, carried out arrests, summary executions, and public floggings. Belgian officers remained involved, overseeing interrogations and often directly supervising the repression.

The scale of violence was enormous. Entire networks of Lumumba supporters, including civil servants, soldiers, union members, and activists, were hunted down. Most were given no trial. Many were executed and buried in mass graves. Others were tortured for days and then disappeared.

The Case of Jean-Pierre Finant

One of the most poignant examples of this bloodbath was the execution of Jean-Pierre Finant, President of the Orientale Province and a loyal Lumumbist. Finant had refused to recognize the legitimacy of the Mobutu-led and UN-backed College of Commissioners. He tried to organize resistance in Stanleyville with Antoine Gizenga, but was captured by troops allied with the central government.

After weeks of imprisonment and abuse, Finant was transferred—like Lumumba—to Elisabethville, where he was executed on 13 February 1961. The circumstances of his death were almost identical to Lumumba’s: secret transfer, torture, and execution under the joint supervision of Belgian and Katangan agents. Finant’s name, like many others, was barely mentioned in Western media. His death was absorbed into the larger silence surrounding the repression.

This pattern of “renditions” and executions spread to other provinces as well. Mobutu’s forces, often directed by Belgian officers or supplied through CIA channels, worked in tandem with Katangan authorities to eliminate resistance. The Congo was now a patchwork of warlords, secessionist regimes, and foreign-controlled enclaves, each using terror to control the population.

The Belgian Responsibility: Systematic and Structural

Belgium’s involvement in these massacres was not peripheral. While it often operated through local intermediaries—Katangan officials, ANC officers, or political collaborators—its influence was decisive.

Belgian civil servants, police officers, and military advisors remained embedded in key provincial structures. The Union Minière du Haut-Katanga, Belgium’s most powerful economic actor in Congo, provided financial and logistical support to the Katangan regime. Belgian diplomats in Elisabethville, Leopoldville, and Brussels coordinated political cover for the killings.

Ludo De Witte meticulously documents direct Belgian complicity, not only in Lumumba’s assassination but in the broader campaign that followed. Belgian officers were present at executions, trained local forces in torture methods, and managed prisons where political detainees were held without charge. This was not “residual colonial influence”—it was a conscious continuation of colonial control through violent means.

The documents also show that Brussels was fully informed. The Ministry of African Affairs, the Belgian Foreign Ministry, and even Prime Minister Gaston Eyskens received regular updates. Rather than rein in these operations, the Belgian government provided political support, material aid, and diplomatic protection.

Katanga as a Colonial Project

Katanga was not merely a Congolese province in rebellion. It had been transformed into a Belgian protectorate, governed by a European-style administration, protected by Western mercenaries, and financed by Belgian industry. Moïse Tshombe and his ministers served as front-men, while real power was exercised by Belgian “advisers” like Colonel Creyf and Jean van den Bosch.

The Katangan gendarmerie, trained by Belgians, functioned as a colonial militia. Political opposition was crushed, and a propaganda campaign sought to present Katanga as a “stable and civilized” alternative to the “chaos” of the rest of Congo. Western media largely reproduced this narrative, turning a blind eye to atrocities and portraying Tshombe as a respectable leader.

In reality, Katanga was an apartheid-like state. Africans were second-class citizens, and political dissent was met with bullets. Executions were routine, especially in areas where Lumumbist ideas had previously taken root. The repression was not just reactive—it was ideological: designed to exterminate the hope of African self-rule represented by Lumumba.

Repression Outside Katanga

The bloodshed extended well beyond Katanga. In Leopoldville, Mobutu’s forces carried out raids against unions, youth movements, and left-wing groups. The ANC, now firmly under Mobutu’s command and funded by Belgium and the U.S., was transformed into an instrument of repression. Former Lumumba loyalists were jailed, tortured, or killed.

In the provinces, local Lumumbist officials were overthrown, often violently. Gizenga’s provisional government in Stanleyville managed to resist, but was under siege. Across the country, fear replaced hope. Independence, once celebrated in June 1960, had devolved into foreign-backed tyranny by early 1961.

The United Nations, again, refused to intervene. Hammarskjöld continued to insist on neutrality, even as UN troops were used to block Lumumbist forces and support secessionist regimes. Peacekeepers disarmed legitimate nationalist troops but turned a blind eye to murder and repression.

The Ghost of Leopold: A Colonial Legacy Resurfaces

De Witte ends the chapter by drawing a historical parallel. The atrocities committed in 1961 echoed the horrors of Leopold II’s Congo Free State, when mass killings, mutilations, and forced labor ravaged the Congolese population for the profit of a European king.

Now, six decades later, Belgian elites had resumed their role—not with whips and chains, but with advisors, guns, and “development aid.” The ideological justification had changed—from civilizing mission to Cold War necessity—but the outcome was the same: death, subjugation, and exploitation.

The Congo, rich in resources and history, had once again become a river of blood—and the West, despite its democratic slogans, was both sponsor and beneficiary.

Chapter 8 – Danse Macabre in Gbadolite

Belgium’s Silence, Then Confession

For nearly four decades following the assassination of Patrice Lumumba, Belgian authorities maintained a stance of official silence, denial, and obfuscation. Despite increasing international scrutiny, Belgium refused to acknowledge its central role in the murder. Files were classified, archives hidden, and witnesses silenced. Even when journalists and historians produced compelling evidence, the official line remained one of ignorance or deflection.

But in 1985, the wall of silence began to crack.

A Belgian TV journalist, Ludo Martens, traveled to Congo to investigate Lumumba’s murder. In the remote town of Gbadolite, he located Gérard Soete, the former Belgian police commissioner who had been instrumental in disposing of Lumumba’s body. Soete, long believed to be untouchable, spoke candidly—and with chilling pride—about his role.

He admitted not only to being present during the execution but to cutting up Lumumba’s body and dissolving it in acid, in order to erase any trace. His words were shocking not merely for their content, but for the casual, even jovial, tone in which they were delivered. It was a “danse macabre”, a dance with death conducted in the full knowledge of its historical weight—and utter impunity.

Martens recorded the confession. Belgium could no longer plausibly deny what had long been known by historians, Congolese survivors, and those within its own bureaucracy.

Soete’s Teeth: The Trophies of Empire

One of the most grotesque elements of Soete’s confession was his preservation of trophies. He kept two of Lumumba’s teeth, which he later displayed to journalists and admitted to retaining as “souvenirs.” This act, deeply symbolic, evoked the worst aspects of colonial brutality—echoing a long history of European officers collecting body parts of colonized peoples as war trophies or racial curiosities.

Soete saw no contradiction in this. He expressed no remorse, claimed to be “doing his duty,” and insisted that the real crime had been Lumumba’s politics—not his murder. His testimony revealed more than a personal pathology: it exposed the moral decay at the heart of the colonial project, and the ease with which atrocities had been committed, covered up, and rationalized.

De Witte’s Investigation: Building the Case

Ludo De Witte’s book—The Assassination of Lumumba—was the result of years of research following leads like Soete’s. Through meticulous documentation, interviews, and examination of diplomatic cables and intelligence files, De Witte was able to trace the full chain of command: from Soete on the ground, to Tshombe and Munongo in Katanga, and up through d’Aspremont Lynden, Gaston Eyskens, and the Belgian royal palace in Brussels.

His investigation showed that the assassination was not a rogue act, nor a mistake committed in the chaos of decolonization. It was a deliberate policy, coordinated at the highest levels of the Belgian state and executed with the help of the United States and the United Nations, both of whom ensured that Lumumba was isolated, captured, and delivered into the hands of his killers.

In building this case, De Witte dismantled the myth that Lumumba had been a danger to his own people or an agent of Moscow. The evidence revealed that he was killed not because he had done something wrong—but because he stood for true independence, resource sovereignty, and pan-African unity.

Legacy and Symbolism

By the time of Soete’s confession, Lumumba had become an enduring symbol of anti-colonial resistance. His image hung in African homes, was invoked in liberation struggles from Angola to South Africa, and was taught in leftist movements across Latin America, Europe, and Asia.

For post-colonial Africa, Lumumba represented the hope of breaking with foreign domination and building a just, dignified society rooted in African values and self-determination. His murder, therefore, was not simply the removal of a leader—it was a betrayal of an entire generation’s dreams.

Yet the legacy endured. Lumumba’s speeches, particularly his Independence Day address, continued to resonate. His final letter to his wife, smuggled from captivity, became a foundational text for African nationalism—a reminder that martyrdom could not silence a cause.

Belgium’s Belated Reckoning

Following the publication of De Witte’s book in 1999, public pressure mounted in Belgium. For the first time, members of the Belgian Parliament called for an official inquiry. A parliamentary commission was eventually formed in 2000 to investigate the state’s role in the murder.

Though the commission would later try to minimize the responsibility of certain officials, it nonetheless represented a breakthrough. Belgium had been forced, by historical truth and international scrutiny, to confront its past. Soete’s confessions—flanked by De Witte’s detailed reconstruction—could no longer be ignored.

This reckoning was not just about one man. It challenged the entire Belgian colonial narrative: the myth of benevolent rule, of orderly withdrawal, and of Congolese incompetence. In its place stood the reality: a murdered prime minister, a betrayed nation, and a legacy of violence and exploitation still visible in Congo’s continuing crises.

Conclusion – Lumumba’s Political Testament

A Life Ended, A Vision Enduring

Patrice Lumumba’s physical life ended brutally on 17 January 1961, but the ideals he stood for—sovereignty, unity, dignity, and justice—were not buried with him. In his final days, Lumumba wrote a letter to his wife Pauline, a testament of unshaken resolve. In it, he affirmed that though the Belgian colonialists and their allies could destroy his body, they could never erase his ideas or the eventual triumph of the Congolese people.

This final letter, which would go on to be translated into dozens of languages and circulated across liberation movements globally, captured the essence of Lumumba’s legacy: he was not a victim, but a martyr of principle. He had refused compromise. He had rejected the neocolonial system being built around him. And for this, the price was death.

A Crime Against a Nation

Ludo De Witte closes the book with a sobering reflection: the assassination of Lumumba was not just the murder of a man, but the assassination of an independent political future for the Congo. His death marked a decisive turning point—a victory for the forces of imperialism, not through military invasion, but through clandestine plotting, co-optation of local elites, and international complicity.

Lumumba’s political project—a centralized, sovereign, and socially just Congo—was dismantled piece by piece in the weeks and months after his removal. The country descended into fragmentation: Katanga’s secession, Mobutu’s dictatorship, and the collapse of democratic institutions were all outcomes of the same strategy that had eliminated Lumumba. The dream of self-determination was postponed by decades.

De Witte insists: this was a political crime, coordinated by Belgium and with the support of the United States and the UN, not for Lumumba’s mistakes, but because of his potential. Because he stood up for Congolese ownership of Congolese resources. Because he exposed the hypocrisy of “independence” that left power and capital in colonial hands.

The Role of the West: Cynicism Disguised as Stability

Western governments, especially Belgium and the United States, have long claimed that their actions were guided by Cold War considerations—that Lumumba was leaning toward the USSR and thus posed a threat to Western interests. But De Witte dissects and dismisses this excuse.

Lumumba was not a Soviet puppet. He had called on the Soviet Union for support only after being abandoned by the West and the UN, and even then he remained politically independent. His goal was never ideological alignment, but practical sovereignty—to build a Congo free from foreign domination.

Thus, the Cold War justification was a mask. The real concern was economic and geopolitical: control over Congo’s vast natural resources—its copper, uranium, cobalt—and ensuring that no African leader would set a precedent of defiant independence. Lumumba had to be killed not for what he had done, but for what he represented.

The United Nations, under Dag Hammarskjöld, bears a grave historical responsibility. It posed as neutral, but actively undermined Lumumba’s government, blocked his access to communication and transportation, and protected the secessionist regime in Katanga. In doing so, the UN betrayed its own Charter and functioned as an enabler of neocolonial repression.

Moral and Historical Accountability

De Witte argues that Belgium’s role in Lumumba’s murder was not an accident, nor the result of rogue operatives. It was the consequence of state policy, enacted at the highest levels, and deserving of official condemnation and reparations. The posthumous honors, street names, or symbolic gestures offered decades later are not enough. The real test of remorse lies in truth-telling, institutional accountability, and reparative justice.

In this final reflection, De Witte calls for a reckoning—not only with Lumumba’s death, but with colonialism itself. Belgium, he insists, cannot reconcile with its past until it abandons the myths of benevolence and admits its crimes: forced labor, mass killings, economic exploitation, and the sabotage of democracy in its former colony.

Lumumba’s Voice: A Lasting Legacy

The book closes not with vengeance, but with remembrance. Lumumba’s voice still speaks—through his letters, his speeches, and the enduring resistance of those who remember. He remains a symbol for all peoples fighting against foreign domination, for those who believe that dignity is not granted by outsiders but claimed through struggle.

In a world still marked by imperial hierarchies, economic plunder, and racial injustice, Lumumba’s political testament is not a relic—it is a warning and a call. As De Witte writes, his death is not the end of a story, but the beginning of a confrontation with truth—a truth that, once told, must be acted upon.