I first hear of Soundtrack to a Coup d’État through an Intal comrade, months after its initial release. Whilst promoting the screening through word-of-mouth and on LinkedIn, several from my network have either already seen (and loved) or are eager to see Grimonprez’ film. There will be several familiar faces amongst the crowd that Saturday afternoon.

Using mostly archive footage and select extracts from memoirs, Soundtrack to a Coup d’État recounts the US cultural offensive during the early days of the Cold War. Independence movements in the Global South had gained traction. Western powers went to any extreme to maintain the asymmetrical power dynamic of the colonial era. Patrice Lumumba’s resource-rich central African behemoth was, in many ways, at the epicentre of this battle. The first democratically elected leader of a free Congo, over time Lumumba’s politics became more nationalist – and by extension more anti-imperialist. He was also a sharp and charismatic statesman. These factors, so valuable to an independence movement, were perceived as insurmountable threats by Congo’s former colonial master, Belgium and its allies.

So-called Jazz ambassadors like Louis Armstrong, Nina Simone, Dizzy Gillespie and Max Roach were sent as cultural emissaries to win over their African cousins to the cause of North American capitalism. Most -if any – musicians were not aware at the time that they were being instrumentalised.  Behind the scenes, the secret services plotted to overthrow ‘difficult’ governments. Lumumba’s Congo was considered particularly problematic. 

When Lumumba approached the USSR to assist in preventing a Western-sponsored secession of the Katanga region, he was infamously murdered at the behest of the US, Belgium and France, colluding with traitorous secretary of state and despot-to-be, Joseph Mobutu aka Sese Seko.

Grimonprez’ acclaimed documentary doesn’t merely start -or stop – the clock in the mid-20th Century. Colonial violence is a centuries’ old phenomenon, stretching forward to the present day. To illustrate the continuity, vintage reels are interspersed with modern adverts for Teslas and smartphones; powered by resources over which Congo is still being torn apart.

Back in the era of independence, Africa and the Global South more widely, was a focal point not just of Imperial avarice but resistance, exemplified by the Non-Aligned Movement and participation in the Bandung Conference. Lest the mostly de-radicalised Neoliberal decades make us forget, Africa had its fair share of revolutionaries. Yet, bar a few – sometimes controversial – exceptions like Winnie Mandela, the contribution of African women tends to be overlooked. Grimonprez’ film foregrounds one such female freedom fighter; Andrée Blouin. The director even makes her central – literally – to the film’s artwork (above). Blouin also receives some of her due in Kevin Ochieng Okoth’s reflection on African Socialism(s), Red Africa. Indeed, it was Okoth’s book that properly brought her to my attention. In Soundtrack… Belgo-Congolese singer/songwriter Zap Mama reads excerpts from Blouin’s memoir My Country, Africa (recently re-issued by Verso books and soon to be reviewed on these pages). Born to a wealthy middle-aged French trader and an analphabet young adolescent from a village in Equatorial Africa (now the Central African Republic), Blouin was maligned – if not outright besmirched – by Western leaders for her political presence.

Wary of her closeness to the most influential independence leaders across the continent, salacious aspersions about the ‘real’ nature of these relationships abounded. Blouin was Lumumba’s speech writer, political confidante and on occasion, a critical friend.  A pan-Africanist to the core, she used her proximity to the male-dominated political landscape to highlight the voices of ordinary African women.

Soundtrack…also foregrounds the agitation of the same African-American Jazz artists manipulated into being a musical Trojan Horse. Louis Armstrong was so outraged when he discovered the ruse, he threatened to renounce his US citizenship. Known for her activism, Nina Simone’s eventual self-imposed exile from the States is alleged to have been, in part, a response to her government’s antics. (This is a stark contrast to contemporary Black American artists such as Kendrick Lamar, John Legend and Dave Chappelle, who are apparently happy to push American soft power, taking selfies with Rwandan premier, Paul Kagame; a key Western ally implicated in the current barbarity in Eastern DRC)

Other major political shakers of the time – Nikita Khrushchev, Malcolm X, Fidel Castro – also feature prominently. Whilst the depravity of colonial designs seem well-rehearsed, Soundtrack to a Coup d’État is a chilling reminder of its bottomless depths.  Grimonprez’ documentary is a marvel of imaginative editing. A painstaking feat of compilation, the film weaves together a riveting narrative; stranger and more terrifying than fiction.

The screening being at two and a half hours long and with a late start, the bilingual post-show discussion is rushed, much to my chagrin. 

Grimonprez briefly outlines his motivations for making the film. As a son of Belgian soil, he feels a responsibility to keep the conversation alive. He gives some insight into the challenges he encountered making the film, including attempts to block access to Blouin’s home videos. Kitoko and Mballo both respond to arch-colonialist, Emmanuel Macron’s latest arrogant tirade about the French presence in Africa. Alas, there’s insufficient time to engage these bright young women as much as we should.

 There’s no time even for audience questions. Speaking later to Grimonprez, he laments the abrupt end. He’s accustomed to Q&A’s that last for hours. ‘I guess we’ll have to do this again another time’, he suggests.