Through TKM’s extraordinary paintings, we pay homage to Patrice Lumumba, 64 years after his assassination. Here was a man whose words proved so dangerous that his enemies not only killed him, but tried to erase every trace of his existence – dissolving his body in acid and mysteriously “losing” nearly all recordings of his powerful speeches. Malcolm X called him “the greatest black man who ever walked the African continent,” yet his story remains surprisingly undertold. Following TKM’s visual testament, we uncover the journey of an African hero who dared to speak truth to power, who fought with words rather than weapons, and whose vision of true independence was so threatening that even six decades later, we’re still discovering how thoroughly his voice was suppressed. This is not just a retelling of history, but a tribute to a man whose dream of African dignity and real freedom remains as vital today as it was in 1961.

Through five striking paintings by Congolese artist Tshibumba Kanda Matulu, discover how colonial power was established in Congo, from Stanley’s first arrival to Belgian rule. His artwork reveals the calculated stages of colonial control: exploration, betrayal, deception, and systematic elimination of indigenous power. This visual journey through history, seen through Congolese eyes, reveals how one of history’s most brutal colonial enterprises was built – and the extraordinary resilience of those who endured it. More than historical documentation, these paintings offer a uniquely Congolese perspective on events usually told by Western voices.

Have you encountered yet another glowing tribute to “Le Hangar,” the supposed birthplace of modern Congolese art? Open any book about Congolese art history and three colonial names inevitably dominate the narrative: Georges Thiry, Pierre Romain Desfosses, and Laurent Moonens – as if Congolese art began with their “discovery.” This persistent colonial lens transforms art histories into tributes to European “mentors,” erasing centuries of pre-existing artistic traditions. Behind Le Hangar’s carefully curated image lies a darker truth: it served both as Belgium’s desperate attempt to rebrand its brutal colonial image into that of a “cultural protector,” and as a sophisticated system for controlling and profiting from Congolese art.
This essay examines both local and global contexts to expose how Le Hangar served not as an artistic sanctuary, but as a tool of colonial propaganda and economic exploitation—a reality that still shapes how Congolese art history is told today.