The enduring legacy of Franco and TPOK Jazz

Thirty-five years after his death, rumba maestro Franco remains an enigmatic figure in African music, casting a long shadow over the Tout Puissant Orchestre Kinshasa (TPOK Jazz).

Despite various attempts at revival, the orchestra has never managed to reclaim its former glory.
Following Franco's death on October 12, 1989, TPOK Jazz struggled to maintain its legacy, unraveling amidst infighting and a lack of direction.
 As the years passed, the remnants of the band could not recapture the magic that had once made them iconic. 
The collective brilliance that flourished under Franco's guidance faltered without his vision and leadership. The musicians found themselves in a bitter struggle—not just for the band’s survival, but for the very identity that Franco had cultivated.
Franco's death was a national tragedy in Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo), leaving a void in the cultural landscape that few could fill. 
As Graeme Ewens writes in Congo Colossus: The Life and Legacy of Franco and OK Jazz, Franco provided continuity and solace through tumultuous decades. His songs were not merely entertainment; they served as a lifeline for a nation grappling with political upheaval.
Franco’s unique ability to blend social commentary with catchy melodies resonated deeply with his audience. 
He tackled taboo subjects with a nuanced approach that few could emulate. Even after his death, the complexity of his work remained unmatched, underscoring the irreplaceable nature of his talent.
Franco himself hinted at the chaos that could ensue after his death in his song "Mino ya Luambo Diamant."
 In this prophetic tune, he warned, “The day you hear I am dead... remove the teeth of Luambo and sell like diamonds.”
 For the musicians and Franco's family, this prophecy became a grim reality as they fought over his legacy and musical assets, reducing their precious instruments to mere commodities.
In the wake of his death, the once-unified band fractured into factions, with family members and musicians bickering over the financial and artistic legacy left behind. This squabbling only diluted the music and spirit of TPOK Jazz further.

Franco was not only a musical genius; he was also a masterful manager who understood the business intricacies of running a band. 
Michelino Mavatiku, who played alongside Franco, described him as the "driver and leader of men." After Franco's passing, the members of TPOK Jazz realized they were unable to fill the enormous void he left. 
The brilliance of Simaro Lutumba, Josky Kiambukuta, and Madilu System could not compensate for the loss of their "Yorgho" (Godfather). They found themselves unable to replicate the magic Franco conjured effortlessly.
Despite having produced hits like Simaro's "Maya" in 1985, none of the former members could consistently create music of the same caliber after Franco's death. 
Even Lutumba's attempt to lead an offshoot band, Bana OK, failed to capture the essence of their former glory.
One of the most striking observations came from Sam Mangwana, who lamented the absence of an arranger in OK Jazz after Franco's death. 
“If you compose something, everyone must agree on it. If not, the chef d’orchestre decides,” Mangwana noted. Without Franco’s authoritative vision, disagreements arose, and the unity that characterized TPOK Jazz disintegrated.
Saxophonist Rondot, who was closest to Franco, remarked that the Grand Maitre was not hard to work with “if you understood him.” 
Yet the musicians struggled to grasp his unique approach to creativity and collaboration. Without a guiding hand, TPOK Jazz became a ship adrift, lacking the direction and coherence that Franco had provided.
Final Journey
On September 22, Ewens recounts in Congo Colossus that Franco, lying in bed, suddenly sat up and demanded news of his band. 
When told they were playing in Holland that night, he insisted, “My Tout Puissant OK Jazz are playing; I must be there. Quick, bring the car and take me there.” 
Franco was driven across the border to the Melkweg club in Amsterdam. He was slowly walked to the stage by his tour manager, Manzenza, and guitarist Mayaula. A chair was pulled up, and he called for his guitar, but he could only play a few bars.

“This was the last time the Sorcerer touched a guitar, and the notes he played had a ghostly, foreboding quality. Unable to continue, Franco left the stage for the final time and returned to his bed,” Ewens wrote.
Back in Namur, his sister Marie-Louise and wife Annie were at his bedside, along with the devoted Rondot. On the night of October 11, his old colleague Mose Se Fan Fan visited the Namur hospital, chilled with apprehension. Franco, whom he had last seen in full force, was barely alive.
Rondot recalls that during that night, Franco suffered multiple crises. His heart stopped beating three times, and twice he managed to resist. Eventually, the man who always found death unacceptable could struggle no more and had to come to terms with it. The next day, Thursday, October 12, 1989, the Grand Master was dead.
“Franco was unique. Like Shakespeare or Mozart, combined with Pelé or Muhammad Ali. He was irreplaceable— the sort of man who appears once every hundred years. He left his mark on his own time,” Mangwana reflects.