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THE DEATH OF THE MASTERPIECE

Mon, 04 May 2026 23:00:00 +0000

Let’s be honest: your "Recommended" playlist is starting to feel like a dream you never asked for. You’re scrolling through TikTok, and your favorite influencer suddenly gets caught up in a massive public scandal that has everyone talking. Before the dust even settles, they’re dropping a "club banger" to capitalize on the drama. You hop over to the "Trending in Kenya" tab to see what’s hot, and every single track has that same shiny, predictable beat and a hook that starts before you can even take a breath. It’s not your imagination; we are in a tug-of-war between music that comes from the heart and songs made by a computer program. We’ve traded the "Slow Burn" for a five-second rush. Back in the day, a song was a journey that took its time to grow until you felt it in your bones. Now, music isn’t being written to move your soul; it’s being built to keep you from swiping to the next video. It’s the death of the masterpiece and the birth of "content."

If you think this is just an old-school opinion, the data proves it. Scientists in Italy recently looked at over 20,000 songs from the last 400 years, and the news was pretty sad. Music is literally getting simpler. When you map these songs out, modern hits look like a flat, straight line compared to the winding, exciting paths of the old classics. We are being fed musical mush because the people in charge think our brains are too tired to listen to a real melody. The digital attention economy has forced even the most gifted artists to moonlight as extreme content creators just to stay visible. Even if you have genuine talent, the pressure to go viral often outweighs the focus on the music itself. This has led to a spectacle-first approach where stunts and shock value become more important than the song. We see artists rolling in the mud, jumping off buildings, or performing chaotic stunts just to get noticed. It is a sad reflection of the struggle for visibility where artists feel they have to risk their dignity and safety just to make sure their voices aren't lost in the noise.

The most annoying part is how people become stars today. We’ve reached a point where someone with a lot of followers can become a singer overnight. Their fame guarantees the clicks, and a computer does the rest. With tools that fix every shaky note, anyone can sound professional, but there is a huge difference between sounding perfect and having a soul. We are drowning in music that sounds like a person but feels like hollow cardboard. Think about it like this: consider the humble chapati. Not long ago, a popular Kenyan politician made headlines by showing off a giant machine that can make a million chapatis a day. It’s fast and efficient, sure, but you wouldn't serve a machine-made disc to a guest you truly loved. You want the chapati from a real kitchen where food isn't just calories; it’s medicine. You want to see the flour on the hands and smell the charcoal because that rhythm of kneading dough by hand turns a simple meal into something that feeds your spirit.

Modern music has become that giant machine. It makes noise to fill the silence, but it doesn't provide soul nourishment. The kitchen of music—where a singer and a producer spent weeks fighting over a single drum sound just to make sure you felt the heartbreak—is being closed down for fast-food songs. Real music isn't something you just download; it’s a spiritual journey. The legend Fela Kuti once said that music is a spiritual thing and you shouldn't play around with it. When we treat music like just another product to sell, we break a promise. This spiritual weight is a universal truth that echoes through the foundations of the world’s major religions. It is an ancient recognition of how sound interacts with the soul. In the Christian scriptures, it is recorded that whenever the spirit from God came on Saul, David would take up his lyre and play, bringing relief and healing.

We see this same divine connection in Islam, where the tradition of Sama in Sufism uses music as a way of reaching spiritual closeness to God. In Hinduism, the concept of Nada Brahma teaches that the entire universe was created from divine sound, making music a path to enlightenment. Similarly, in Buddhism, the chanting of mantras aligns the mind with the frequency of the universe. You see this same power in African spirituality through Kilumi, the traditional music of the Kamba people. Kilumi isn't played for likes; it is played to heal. The drum is a sacred tool used to talk to the spirits to bring rain or help the sick. You can’t fake that with a computer program. There is a giant gap between a beat made by a software loop and the vibration of a real instrument played with intent. When a master plays, they are sharing their life with you.

We used to have giants who understood this. Take Franco Luambo Makiadi. He didn't care about your short attention span. He would lead his band through songs that lasted twenty minutes. The music was so beautiful and the feeling was so strong that it didn't matter what language you spoke. It wasn't just a song being pushed at you; it was a conversation. For a long time, this music lived on because it belonged to everyone. The history was kept in the rhythm, not on a server. As we move deeper into this digital world, we have to ask ourselves: Are we okay with being fed by a machine, or are we going to go back to the kitchen? To save our ears, we must learn to choose our medicine. Just as a pharmacy has different cures for different ailments, the history of music offers a wide variety of soul nourishment.

If you are grieving, find the blues or the deep cello of a classical master. If you need strength, look to the archives of the 1950s through the 90s—to the legends of Benga or Rhumba who cared more about the groove than the viral stunt. If you need peace, listen to the traditional chants and instruments that have vibrated for centuries. Be a fan, not a follower. Don't wait for an influencer to tell you what's good. Explore the history of the continent. When you understand where the rhythm comes from, you’ll recognize when the modern version is missing its heartbeat. At the end of the day, modern music is like a fast-food burger: it’s cheap and gives you a quick rush, but it never really satisfies. I’d rather have Tumbukiza. Give me that slow-boiled mix of meat and veggies that has been bubbling for hours. It’s messy, and it takes a long time to get right, but it heals your body and warms your soul. Music is supposed to be food for the heart, and our hearts deserve a meal that actually lasts. It’s time we stop settling for what's convenient and start looking for what's real. Choose your medicine wisely.

BY JEROME OGOLA

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KOFFI OMOMIDE MADE HONORARY CITIZEN OF THE COMMUNE COCODY

Wed, 08 Apr 2026 01:48:00 +0000

On Saturday, April 4, 2026, in the Mel Eg Théodore room, the Deputy Mayor Jean-Marc Yacé elevated the internationally renowned artist, Antoine Christophe Agbepa Mumba, better known as Koffi Olomide, to the rank of honorary citizen of the commune of Cocody.
This distinction recognizes his immense contribution to the promotion of African culture throughout the world, as well as his major role in bringing people together through music. In his speech, the Deputy Mayor recalled the importance of recognizing and celebrating personalities who actively participate in the influence of African cultural values.

Highlight of the ceremony, the customary chiefs of Cocody carried out the symbolic induction of the artist, dressing him in traditional attributes, thus marking his integration into the local community.
Very moved by this honor, Koffi Olomidé expressed his deep gratitude to the Deputy Mayor, whom he described as a man of vision, as well as to the Municipal Council and all of his collaborators.

He also expressed the wish to settle in Cocody, saying he felt particularly loved by the Ivorians.
It should be noted that the ceremony took place in the presence of members of the Municipal Council and his wife, Cindy Le Coeur, all in an atmosphere marked by solemnity and cultural celebration.

By Captain Shaddy Shihusa

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KARUBANDIKA LYRICS - ORCHESTRE MAQUIS ORIGINAL

Wed, 18 Mar 2026 13:00:00 +0000

Kama wewe ungenipenda, kwanini kunidanganya bwana wee
[If you had loved me truly, why would you lie to me]

Kujibandika madaraka sio yako bwana wewe
[You hang other people's titles on yourself]

Kama wewe ungenipenda, kwanini kunidanganya bwana wee
[If you had loved me truly, why would you lie to me]

Kujibandika madaraka sio yako bwana wewe
[You hang on other people's titles]

Nimesikia tetesi kuwa huna lolote hata kazi huna wee
[I heard talk that you have nothing, not even a job]

Unazurura mchana kutwa ehh, ukita kurandaranda mitaani eeh
[You wander around the whole day, up and down the streets]
Nimesikia tetesi kuwa huna lolote hata kazi huna wee

Unazurura mchana kutwa ehh, ukita kurandaranda mitaani eeh
[I heard talk that you have nothing, not even a job]

Kumbe hukuwa na uwezo wa kunioa ila kuniharibia maisha
[Apparently, you did not have the ability to marry me but to destroy my life]

Heri kuniambia ukweli ulivyo kuliko kunidanganya wee
[Better to be honest about your situation than to lie]

Nikuelewe vipi ehh, babu we, uaminifu wako uko wapi eh, baba
[How can I understand you, grown-up man, where is your honesty]

[Instrumental] Aah karubandika

Nikuelewe vipi ehh, babu we, uaminifu wako uko wapi eh baba
[How can I understand you, grown-up man, where is your honesty?]
Nikuelewe vipi ehh, babu we, uaminifu wako uko wapi eh baba
[How can I understand you, grown-up man, where is your honesty]

[Chorus]

Usinione bwege baba
[Don't think I am naive, my dear]

Kwa kukubali wito wako karubandika ehh
[For accepting your advances, Karubandika]

Haya yote ni matatizo yangu ni ya baa baa (??)
[These are all my problems, at the bar]

Nilitaka kujitumbukiza ndani ya moto miye/pole
[I was thinking of throwing myself into the fire]
Kumbe bwana yule hana kitanda wala shuka
[Realizing that man did not have a bed nor a sheet]

Pakulala hana, analala kwenye stendi ya basi
[He has nowhere to sleep, so he sleeps at the bus station]
Pakulala hana, anakesha kwenye kituo cha kuunda
[Has nowhere to sleep, stays overnight at the construction centre]

karubandika yoyo, acha vituko we bwana
[Karubandika, my dear, stop these comedies, man]

Chorus

Nilitaka kujitumbukiza ndani ya moto miye/pole
[I was thinking of throwing myself into the fire]

Kumbe bwana yule hana kitanda wala shuka
[Realizing that man did not have a bed nor a sheet]

Pakulala hana, analala kwenye stendi ya basi
[He has nowhere to sleep, so he sleeps at the bus station]

Pakulala hana, anakesha kwenye kituo cha kuunda
[Has nowhere to sleep, stays overnight at the construction centre]

karubandika yoyo, acha vituko we bwana
[Karubandika, my dear, stop these comedies, man]

Chorus

Akiingia kwenye bar, kazi yake kuomba bia
[When he enters the bar, he is busy borrowing beer]
Akiingia kwenye bar, kazi yake kuomba bia
[When he enters the bar, he is busy borrowing beer]

Hana hata aibu, sigara pia anaomba
[He has no shame; he borrows even cigarettes]

Mitaani na kwenye mastoo kujitangazia kuwa yeye
[Across the streets and stores announcing that he]

ni mkurugenzi wa kampuni fulani, kumbe sivyo hivyo
[is the CEO of a certain company, yet it is not the case]

Chorus

[Instrumental] ~ marechal marechal, pasi ka kobanga..leta ngoma

Ze ze zenguela

[Instrumental]

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JIMMY CLIFF: REGGAE ICON & GLOBAL CITIZEN PASSES AWAY

Mon, 24 Nov 2025 16:02:00 +0000

Jamaican music superstar Jimmy Cliff has died at the age of 81. According to a Facebook post shared on his official page by his wife, Latifa Chambers, Cliff passed away in the hospital after suffering a seizure followed by pneumonia.

The legendary singer, known for hits such as "Reggae Night," "Many Rivers to Cross," and his iconic cover of "I Can See Clearly Now," was born James Chambers on July 30, 1944, in St. James Parish, Jamaica. He began his music career in the early 1960s. Cliff was a pioneer in bringing the reggae genre to an international audience, notably through his starring role and contribution to the soundtrack of the 1972 cult-classic film, The Harder They Come. His career earned him numerous accolades, including induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2010.

His trip to Kinshasa (then Zaire) in 1986, sponsored by promoter Tamukati Ndongala, remains etched in the memories of many music fans for his bold attempt to fuse reggae and rumba. These two genres share common historical roots, a connection Cliff explored through collaboration.

The experiment produced several songs featuring the popular Congolese band Zaiko Langa Langa, with legendary guitarist Felly Manuaku Waku contributing to tracks such as "My Love". Cliff also worked in studio sessions with other prominent Congolese groups, including Afrisa International and OK Jazz, although, according to guitarist Dizzy Mandjeku, some of those recordings were never released to the public. These collaborations highlight his pan-African musical outlook and his role as a "citizen of the world."

The music world is mourning an icon and a citizen of the world whose influence transcended borders and generations. Tributes have poured in from around the globe, recognizing his lasting impact on music and social commentary.

By Jerome Ogola

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A RISE TO THE TOP AGAINST ALL ODDS

Mon, 12 May 2025 11:49:00 +0000

The Story of Malian music star, Salif Keita

In a recent interview with Jabulani Radio, one physically disabled musician recounted every detail of his musical journey, explaining how he had a difficult childhood. However, he later requested that nothing about his disability be included in his story.

This is clear evidence that, despite living in a more enlightened society, disability is still viewed through the same lens as it was in the past, when communities hid such children under the assumption that they were bad omens or brought shame to the family. These are the kinds of challenges that Salif Keita faced. Social ostracism, health complications due to albinism, and being born into a royal family were some of the obstacles that could have hindered Keita’s rise to musical stardom, but they didn’t.

The Malian music icon's path to fame was not deterred by the luxury of royalty nor the stigma of albinism. He overcame both and achieved his dreams. Talent is often shaped by hardship and poverty. Many great footballers, athletes, and musicians have come from slums rather than affluent neighborhoods. In this sense, Keita's royal lineage may have been more of a burden than a blessing. Among the Mandinka community where he was born, albinism is considered a bad omen. This made his childhood especially difficult. But young Keita persevered and triumphed against the odds.

He was born on August 25, 1949, in Djoliba, Mali, and attended a Muslim school until 1967. He then left his village for the capital, Bamako, where he began his music career by joining the Super Rail Band de Bamako. This group later rebranded in the early 1970s as Les Ambassadeurs Internationaux. The band fled political persecution in Mali and relocated to the Ivory Coast. It was there that they gained international fame, particularly with the success of their 1978 album Mandjou.

This album was a tribute to Sekou Touré, then President of Guinea and one of Keita’s greatest fans. Ironically, Touré was also known for his authoritarian rule, contradicting the praise in the song. This pattern has repeated with other leaders in the region. Many of those celebrated in musicians’ compositions later turned out to be despots, such as Mobutu, Idi Amin, Jean-Bédel Bokassa, Teodoro Obiang Nguema, and Omar Bongo.

However, not all leaders followed that path. Nelson Mandela, the father of the rainbow nation, was also celebrated in song, and even after rising to power, he did not become a tyrant. In 1984, Keita relocated to Paris, drawn by the promise of better recording equipment and broader exposure. As is often the case when one moves away from home, he brought elements of his culture with him. West African musical influences remained central to his sound.

Soro, produced by the renowned Ibrahim Sylla, became an instant international hit, solidifying Keita's position as one of Africa’s greatest musicians. A defining moment in his career came in 1988 when he was invited to perform at a birthday celebration for Nelson Mandela, who at that time had been imprisoned for 25 years. As apartheid began to crumble under pressure from both internal and international forces, events like this were vital. Many musicians became ambassadors for freedom and critics of injustice, using their art to campaign against oppression and colonialism.

With the fame he gained in Paris, Salif Keita, descended from the Keita royal family, eventually returned home to Mali to continue advancing his music. When he returned to Bamako in 2000, greater musical success awaited him. Now Mali’s most celebrated musician and an international icon, he established a recording studio where he produced some of his most popular work.

The album Moffou was a tremendous success, followed by M'Bemba. Having lived with albinism—a genetic condition that causes a lack of melanin, leading to visual impairment, skin cancer risk, and social stigma- Keita used his platform to spotlight these challenges in his album La Différence.

In Africa, albinism is still linked to harmful superstitions, including associations with witchcraft. In some regions, witch doctors have falsely claimed that albino body parts bring good luck, leading to abductions and violence. La Différence was a critical effort to raise awareness and combat these myths. These superstitions are rooted in ignorance, just like the short-lived myth in 1990s Tanzania that bald men had gold in their skulls, which led to fear, abductions, and murder. Salif did not merely rise to become a music legend; he became a beacon of hope for people with disabilities, particularly those with albinism. His journey parallels that of Jamaican dancehall musician Yellowman, who also battled stigma due to albinism and emerged victorious.

Salif Keita is not only a composer, arranger, and singer; he is also a skilled guitarist known for his acoustic performances. He incorporates traditional instruments like the kora and balafon into his music, enriching it with cultural depth. Keita announced his retirement from music in 2015. He has also been active in politics, serving in Mali’s legislative assembly and later as an advisor to the ruling junta under Colonel Assimi Goïta.

By Jerome Ogola

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KASONGO LYRICS WITH ENGLISH TRANSLATION

Tue, 08 Apr 2025 11:00:00 +0000

KASONGO LYRICS WITH ENGLISH TRANSLATION BY ORCHESTRE SUPER MAZEMBE

[Chorus]

Kasongo ye ye ee
Mobali na ngai

[my husband]

Kasongo nga nawe oo

[Kasongo I am dying]

Zonga libala ee

[come back to the marriage]

Kasongo yo yo, mobali na ngai

[Kasongo my husband]

Kasongo nga nawe oo

[Kasongo I am dying]

Zonga libala ee

[come back to the marriage]

[Chorus]

Nga na ndako Kasongo

[while in the house Kasongo]

miso na nzela

[constantly staring at the street]

Soki okozonga dia ee

[if you will ever return]

yebisa nga ye ee

[let me know dear]

[Chorus]

Libala na ndako Kasongo

[In this kind of marriage]

batunaka ngai

[They are busy interrogating me]

Tata azali wapi ee

[where is the father]

naloba nini ee

[what do I say]

[Chorus]

[Instrumental]

Chorus x2

Kasongo yo yo, mobali na ngai

[Kasongo my husband]

Kasongo nga nawe oo

[Kasongo I am dying]

Zonga libala ee

[come back to the marriage]

[Chorus]

Nga na ndako Kasongo

[while in the house Kasongo]

miso na nzela

[constantly staring at the street]

Soki okozonga dia ee

[if you will ever return]

yebisa nga ye ee

[let me know dear]

[Chorus]

Libala na ndako Kasongo

[in this kind of marriage]

batunaka ngai

[they are always questioning me]

Tata azali wapi ee

[where is the father]

naloba nini ee

[what do I say]

[Chorus]

[Instrumental]

[Tempo]

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THE SHAKESPEARE OF AFRICAN MUSIC

Mon, 03 Mar 2025 13:41:00 +0000

Bango bakanga biso mayele boye, (They've hoodwinked us this much)

Nkisi ya bankoko bango baboyaka, (Traditional/herbal medication they declare evil)

Bikeko ya bankoko bango bandimaka te, (All sculptures of our ancestors, they do not accept)

Kasi na ndako ya Nzambe, biso tomonaka, (In church, we see sculptures as well)

Tokosambela bikeko bitondo ndako, (We worship in churches full of sculptures, and this is right according to them)

Mais bikeko yango se mindele, (But the sculptures in these churches are those of a white man)

This is a translated excerpt from the song "Nakomitunaka". Ordinarily, it is credited as a Verckys Kiamuangana composition, as stated in the LP. However, Nyakwar Urah, a Facebook user and a great fan of Congolese rumba, holds a different opinion.

He argues that the song is quite atypical of Verckys Kiamuangana's compositions. In his estimation, Verckys thrived on the 'cavacha style,' using a few catchy words, mostly extolling a woman's beauty, followed by a high-voltage saxophone sebene.

"Nakomitunaka" is devoid of the saxophone 'sebene'. Moreover, it is themed around religion, with the author raising pertinent questions about the authenticity of the religion imported into Africa by European explorers, who were also prospecting for gold and slaves.

The kind of philosophical narration, delivered in prose with an easy solo singing style, points to the work of Simaro Lutumba Ndomanueno. He was a master of thoughtful prose that evoked critical thinking, earning him the nickname Le Poète.

Indeed, after further investigation, it emerged that the song was composed by Simaro and later sold to Verckys, who recorded it with his Orchestre Vévé at Maison Vévé, incorporating the vocals of a young Pepe Kalle.

Simaro played with Orchestre Congo Jazz of Madiata briefly in the late 1950s before joining Orchestra Micra and eventually switching to OKJ in 1961, taking over the rhythm guitar from Brazzos. While primarily a rhythm guitarist, Simaro's exceptional compositional prowess soon outshone his instrumental role.

A typical Simaro song leaves you deep in thought. His 1973 hit "Mabele" is a testament to his poetic brilliance. He disregarded conventional song structure, delivering lines that might seem incoherent but provoke deep reflections on life.

Sample this:

"Mokolo tokokufa tokekende na drap ya mpembe ata ozali riche" (We will all be draped in a white cloth when we die, regardless of how rich we were)

"Ebembe ya masiya ata bokimi ye, banzinzi bokolela ngai" (Even if you refuse to mourn me, flies will still mill around my corpse, wailing)

"Mutuna bolenge asala economic, akoma mobange achange makanisi" (When young, people save; but as they grow old, they start spending, fearing their wealth will remain with others upon death)

The song was sung by Sam Mangwana. Simaro, despite composing several less poetic songs, also wrote "Ebale Ya Zaïre" around the same period. His ability to craft deeply philosophical compositions later shone in songs like "Mbongo," "Dati Petrol," "Mabele," "Mandola," "Affaire Kitikwala," "Maya," "Testament Ya Bowule," and many others.

Perhaps the most famous among these is "Faute Ya Commerçant," which was released and marketed as an OKJ song. However, it was actually a 'Nzong-Nzing' project incorporating non-OKJ musicians.

The soloist in the song was Divo Vangu, who was then an Afrisa International musician. The singer, Sam Mangwana, was also not an OKJ musician at the time. Other musicians included Flavian Makabi on bass, Simaro himself on rhythm guitar, Ringo Moya on drums, Sebaret on trumpets, and Loway on saxophone. The song was recorded at the government-owned RANEPAC Studios in Kinshasa.

Despite being loyal to Franco, Simaro participated in several projects outside OKJ since the 1970s. He worked with a 'Nzong-Nzing' known as Orchestre Mi Amor in 1972.

Other members of the band included vocalist Tusevo Nejos, who later starred with Vévé, Ramazani Nkalu-Luaka, who also later joined Vévé, and Diatho Lukoki, who had performed with Festival Des Maquisards before eventually joining OKJ.

The soloist was the late Mose Sengo, and the rhythm guitarist was Simaro himself. Other musicians included bassist Celi Bitshou, formerly of OKJ and Vévé, saxophonist Isaac Musekiwa—the first black sax player in the rumba world, who had played for African Jazz, OKJ, Vedette, and the rebel band Orchestre Révolution—and Nigerian saxophonist Dele Pedro, also of OKJ.

This studio session resulted in five songs: "Gina," "Na Lifelo," "Marie Louisa," and "Lisano Ebandaki Na Kin," all composed by Simaro. Among these, "Na Lifelo" captured listeners' imaginations as Simaro encouraged people to enjoy their meals, noting that some were hospitalized and unable to eat, while others should enjoy their cigarettes, as some were incarcerated at Makala Prison and could not smoke.

Despite establishing himself as the master of philosophical compositions at OKJ, Simaro’s prowess as a rhythm guitarist was equally remarkable. He was the master of the 'Pachanga' rhythm and played in many OKJ songs from the 1960s, including "Some Left" (1966), "Quatre Boutons" (1966), "Madame de la Maison," and others.

Simaro was born on March 19, 1938, making him a few months older than Luambo. He passed away on March 30, 2019. He remains an unforgettable figure in the music industry, having steered Congolese rumba in a unique and thought-provoking direction.

(Music was just music, a few lines extolling a woman’s beauty, a marriage down to the rocks and other common themes, until Simaro came to the scene.)

By Jerome Ogola

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BOUKAKA, THE MUSICIAN WHO ALSO WORE AN ACTIVISM CAP

Thu, 06 Feb 2025 04:47:00 +0000

Sporadic sounds of gunfire pierced through the tranquil night of Brazzaville on 22nd February 1972, with noise gaining crescendo with every passing minute as dawn approached. When morning finally came reluctantly, the information had already spread that there had been an attempted coup d’etat against the government of Marien Ngouabi, who had been Republic of Congo president since 1968.

However, forces loyal to the incumbent thwarted the attempt, with the military capturing the dissidents. Among those listed as arrested was Franklin Boukaka, a musician who had made a name for himself both in Brazzaville and Kinshasa and was one of the musical superstars of the time. In a strange twist of events, a few days later, his name was removed from the list of those who had been captured and included among those who had been killed, leaving no doubt that he had been executed. As fate would have it, Ngouabi was shot dead after being deposed five years later. His involvement was nonetheless not in doubt, as he had long been a target of the regime due to his activism. Although he was never tried fairly, his participation in the coup was easy to establish. Franklin Boukaka was a musician and an activist. He employed his music to preach the Pan-Africanism ideals that he stood for.

Coming in an era when the continent had just released itself from the yokes of colonialism, became very optimistic and was again beginning a new journey of disillusionment, with many a freedom fighter who had led their counties to independence slowly transitioning into native imperialism, Boukaka’s civil activism through music resonated so well with the hoi polloi.

A quick glance at his discography reveals a dominant theme of Pan-Africanism. Songs like Nakoki, Pont sur le Congo, Le Bucheron, Les Immortels, Ata Ozali, and Etumba are all decrying imperialism, seeking a better future for the continent. Les Immortels enumerates all revolutionists across the globe, from the Argentine Marxist revolutionary Che Guevara to Congolese martyr Simon Kimbangu, and South African anti-apartheid hero Albert Luthuli among many others.

Le Bucheron has become an anthem for freedom, frequently playing in national events across the continent. In Pont Sur L e Congo, Boukaka is wondering, albeit aloud, why the Republic of Congo (a former French colony) and the Democratic Republic of Congo are separate. He wonders why they should be separate yet they are occupied by the same communities, speak the same languages, practice the same culture, and drink water from the same river. He also derailed off the activism path and composed on other subjects.

As the nascent genre of Congolese rumba developed alongside folk songs, while most musicians focused on love and relationships as their predominant themes in their works, Boukaka preached Pan-Africanism in his music and attracted attention to his music. That wasn’t all. He was a great tenor. Prof. Larry Gumbe, a Nairobi-based engineer and music aficionado, holds Boukaka high and insists that he was easily one of the best tenors.

Born Francois Boukaka on October 10th, 1940, to musician parents, he attended elementary school in Brazzaville. Upon completion of his secondary school, he shuttled both sides of the River Congo, struggling to establish himself as a musician. His musical journey in Brazzaville and Kinshasa saw him feature for several bands of the era, among them Sexy Jazz of Miguel Samba, Sympathic Jazz, and others.

In 1957, he and other musicians among the Michel Boyibanda, who had been his colleagues at Sympatic band, teamed together to create the mercurial Negro band. This band is not to be confused with Negro Success of Bavon Marie Marie and Leon Bholen. Here, he did the song "Journal Dipanda," a commercial song that was marketing a newspaper publication by that name.
In 1960, he joined African Jazz, where he played alongside big names like Manu Dibango and others, and after a year, he quit with Jeannot Bombenga to create Vox Africa with Papa Noel, Djeskin, and others. In 1962, he went back to Brazzaville and joined Cercul, which had since transformed into a successful band with a large following.

He became the leader of this group, which had been in existence for a few years before he joined. He led Cercul to a new height of success in the 1960s with great compositions but quit in 1967 for a solo career. Boukaka toured Paris and Guinea, among several other African countries. Some of his latter-day compositions took a traditional trajectory and featured the thumb piano known as Likembe, as opposed to being dominated by the guitar as it had become the tradition with Congolese rumba.

Boukaka married Antonoite Mounga, to whom he dedicated a song by the same title. However, by the time of his death at the hands of the agents of Marien Ngouabi's mercenaries, they had separated. He was a man on a mission, and to date no one has attempted to chart his path, serving a cocktail of music and activism. By the time of his death, he was only 38. Both the world of music and activism remember his indelible contributions.

JEROME OGOLA

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