The room was thick with tension, the kind of suffocating weight through which neither fresh air nor prayer could cut. In the heart of Kinshasa, within the opulent Palais de la Nation, President Mobutu Sese Seko sat behind a grand mahogany desk. The desk, as extravagant as his reputation, was adorned with a gilded leopard carving, its eyes cold and predatory, much like its owner.

Mobutu’s gaze bore into Luambo Luanzo Makiadi—better known to the world as Franco, the legendary king of Congolese rumba. Yet tonight, Franco was no king. He was simply a man cornered, a lion stripped of its pride.

 “Why don’t you speak, Franco? Have you lost your tongue?” Mobutu’s voice was smooth, almost mocking, as he leaned back in his ornate leather chair. Franco looked down at his hands, calloused from decades of playing the guitar, hands which crafted melodies that spoke to the soul of the Congolese people. He felt out of place here, surrounded by the polished marble floors and golden trimmings of Mobutu’s palace. This was a world of power, and he was just a simple musicien de rumba.

Franco’s throat felt dry, though he dared not reach for the glass of water in front of him. He had been summoned without warning, dragged from his home by Mobutu’s men under the cover of night. The rumors swirling in Kinshasa’s humid air were true—Mobutu didn’t summon; he commanded.

“Mokonzi, ngai naboya kofinga yo. Kasi…oyo ezali makambo ya bokonzi. Ngai ezali musicien, na salaka bolingo te na bitumba ya mabele.” His voice was low, uncertain, speaking in the language he knew—the only language he trusted. (President, I don’t want to disrespect you. But…this is a matter of power. I’m just a musician. I don’t deal in politics or wars over land.) He’d navigated dangerous waters before, writing songs that danced on the edge of subversion while still earning Mobutu’s patronage, but tonight, he sensed the waters had turned into a whirlpool. Mobutu’s eyes narrowed. “Lingala!!!??” he said sharply, his French cadence slipping for a moment, “Lingala is the language of markets and villages. Here, in the palace, we speak French. Speak my language if you want to be taken seriously.

Franco swallowed hard. He never learned French beyond the basics. It was the language of the elite, the educated, the powerful. It was Mobutu’s language, and to Franco, it felt like another barrier, another reminder of his place in the world. Trembling, he said, “President, I…I only speak Lingala. I don’t know French well. I’m sorry.”

Mobutu smirked and leaned forward. “Tu ne sais pas parler français, mais ta guitare sait parler, n’est-ce pas?” he said coldly. “Alors, écoute-moi bien.” (You don’t know how to speak French, but your guitar knows how to speak, doesn’t it? So listen to me carefully.)

The words struck Franco like a slap. He felt his chest tighten as Mobutu continued.

“Do you think you’re a free man because people sing your songs in the streets? Do you think your talent protects you from me?

Franco shook his head, struggling to find the words. “Te, Mokonzi, te…” (No, President, no…)

Mobutu slammed his hand on the desk, making Franco flinch. “I’ll tell you what you will do. You will write a song for me. I need a song, Franco,” Mobutu continued, his tone softening, though the threat remained just beneath the surface. Franco hesitated, unsure of what was being asked—or, rather, demanded. A song that will ring out in every marketplace, every bar, every home, a song for the nation, to remind the people who their leader is. Me Mobutu Sese Seko Kuku Ngbendu Wa Za Banga. The man who leaves fire in his wake!

Franco stared at him, stunned. The request—no, the command—was clear. “President, if I do this, people will say I’ve sold my soul. They’ll call me a traitor. I know what happens to those who involve themselves in politics…” His voice trailed off, trembling. Mobutu smiled faintly, but it wasn’t kind. “Do you think you have a choice? Is that it, Franco? Do you think you can say no to me?”

Franco’s stomach churned. He knew Mobutu’s propaganda machine was vast, but to be the face—or voice—of it? To turn his art into an instrument of dictatorship? The weight of such a betrayal to his people, to his soul, was crushing.

The room grew colder. Franco could feel the weight of Mobutu’s gaze pressing down on him. “And if I refuse?” Franco asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mobutu’s smirk returned, colder this time. “You won’t refuse.” He gestured toward the window, where the lights of Kinshasa glittered like fireflies in the night. “Do you know how many men rot in prison cells beneath this very city? Men who thought they could defy me? Some were writers. Some were poets. Some were just fools who spoke too loudly at the wrong time. I would hate to see you join them, Franco. You are too talented to be silenced. But make no mistake—you will be silenced if you cross me.”

Mobutu continued, “If you refuse, you will rot in prison along with your songs, your talent, your legacy. All of it will disappear. But if you accept…If you accept, you will be a hero. You will have my protection. You will have anything you want. I’m not asking you to compose a love ballad or one of your clever satires. This will be a hymn of loyalty, Franco. A hymn to me”

The room fell into a heavy silence. Franco stared at the leopard carving on the desk, its unblinking eyes mocking him, and felt his throat tighten. He thought of his family, his bandmates, the people who depended on him. He thought of the Congolese streets, the people who sung his songs with joy and defiance. And he thought of the stories of men who dared to refuse Mobutu—men who disappeared, their names erased from history.

Mobutu rose from his chair, towering over the musician. “I’ll give you one week,” he said. “One week to write the anthem. Something glorious. Something unforgettable. Do this, and you’ll have my favor. Refuse, and you will rot.”

Without awaiting a response, Mobutu turned and strode from the room, his entourage falling in step behind him. Franco remained seated, his hands clenched into fists beneath the table. He felt the weight of the world pressing down on him, the weight of Mobutu’s power, his people’s expectations, and his principles. As the guards escorted him out of the palace, Franco’s mind raced. Could he turn this moment into something subversive? Could he hide a message within the melody? Something the people would understand but Mobutu would not? Or would this song become another weapon in the dictator’s arsenal?

The night air hit his face as he stepped outside, but it did little to clear his thoughts. Somewhere, deep in his heart, he knew that whatever he composed in the next week would haunt him for the rest of his life. As he walked away from the palace, only one thing was certain: Mobutu’s words would haunt him, echoing louder than the strings of his guitar ever could.