Things were a little awkward from the very start, as young King Baudouin arrived in the Congo to celebrate and declare its independence. On the way into Leopoldville from the airport, an exuberant nationalist pressed close to his open limousine, grabbed the King's sword from beside him, and flourished it above his head before the police could move in and pommel him away. Later, as the King entered the new parliamentary chamber, where Ghanaians in togas mingled with bemedaled Western ambassadors, the Belgians shouted, "Vive le Roi!" The Congolese Assemblymen, preferring to cheer the new nation's first President, replied with, "Vive Kasavubu!"
"May God protect the Congo!" said Baudouin, and formally proclaimed its independence. But New Premier Patrice Lumumba, jealous of the limelight everyone else was enjoying, took the opportunity to launch a vicious attack on the departing Belgian rulers. "Slavery was imposed on us by force!" he cried, as the King sat shocked and pale. "We have known ironies and insults. We remember the blows that we had to submit to morning, noon and night because we were Negroes!" Deeply offended, King Baudouin was ready to board his plane and return to Brussels forthwith. Only the urging from his ministers persuaded him to change his mind.
Mind the Citizens. Outside the hall, happy Congolese shouting " 'dependance!" swirled through the banner-filled streets as the radio blared cha-cha tunes especially composed for the occasion. To the surprise of many whites who expected pillaging and insults from the newly independent blacks, there was universal interracial politeness, even open camaraderie —with a few humorous exceptions: one white motorist driving along a main road was suddenly confronted by a earful of Congolese who skidded through an intersection shouting hilariously "Mind the citizens!" The only serious growls came from across the river in the French Congo, where Premier Abbe Fulbert Youlou complained that the Belgian Congolese had niched the same title—Republic of Congo —that his autonomous (but not fully independent) country had already taken for itself.
But there were still grave dangers ahead for the fledgling nation. Moise Tshombe, premier of rich Katanga province, whose mines provide 60% of the Congo's income, still threatened to secede rather than hand the province's revenues over to a powerful central government. "The Katanga cow will not be milked by Lumumba's serpents!" cried the secessionists, and reportedly they had the encouragement of some white businessmen. In reply, Leopoldville officials sent jets roaring low over the region in an obvious show of force.
From abroad came a big Russian diplomatic delegation, hoping to make political hay in the first confused days. But they got short shrift, were billeted in a second-rate hotel seven miles from town. It was the U.S.'s Special Envoy Robert Murphy whose towering figure bobbed up most frequently at the side of the Congo's new leaders. As a birthday present for the country that was starting from scratch with virtually no lawyers, doctors, educators or trained administrators, he announced that the U.S. will finance scholarships for 300 Congolese students to attend American universities.