Black History Walks: the River Cruise, Bus Tour and Blue Plaque

It was impossible to imagine what it would be like. Although riskily scheduled to take place in March (2nd) we could not have anticipated the fair weather which blessed us, bright sunshine, interspersed with a mild breeze but thankfully no rain. Passengers from near and far (local, national and international) lined the pavement at Temple Pier along the embankment in quiet eagerness of what would be the first River Cruise along the Thames, organised by Black History Walks. The cruise was set up to sponsor a Nubian Jak Blue Plaque for Dr Harold Moody, an unsung African (Jamaican) activist and champion of Civil Rights who pioneered the Civil Rights movement in the UK.

Tony Warner had invited me to take part in the historic occasion by brushing up my research on Mary Prince. I was delighted as I would be dressed as this formidable African woman whose book The History Of Mary Prince: A West Indian Slave (1831) was the first account by a black woman to be published in the UK. Her book would become a major instrument for the abolition movement – attesting to the atrocities of slavery as she had personally experienced.

Mary Prince was in fact predecessor of Phyllis Wheatley, ‘played’ by Makaela Simpson for the Cruise. Wheatley, a child genius and the first African-American female poet to have her work published came to England to promote her Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral (1773). We were styled – costumes and make-up by Katherine Nanena. Tony Warner donned a 19th Century outfit, portraying a handsome and fitting homage to another great figure of Black British history – author and abolitionist Olaudah Equiano, whose autobiography – The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano or Gustavus Vassa, the African (1789) also formed the slave narrative genre. Enchantingly styled as our ancestors we greeted the guests with warm hearts but sober, contemplative faces as we marvelled at the impact of what we were doing – without previously anticipating what this would be like.


Our narrator on the Cruise was Black Historian Steve (S.I.) Martin who guided us on the two-and half-hour tour along the Thames – noting sites like Cleopatra’s Needle, West Indian Docks area, Mary Seacole Statue – positioned outside St Thomas Hospital. It was a needle-in-haystack stretch to see it from the boat but the knowledge that it was there along with the history of Mary Seacole’s contribution to British history was insightful. This is just a sample of the experience – part of which was made special by the presence on the Cruise of notable community activists and leaders of Black History: Robin Walker (along with Tony Warner, I feel an honorary doctorate for him is overdue), Professor Dr Elizabeth Anionwu, Mia Morris, Dr Lez Henry, Nia Imara, Avril Nanton, Emmanuel Amevor (whose books made a good educational complement to the day). Apart from the lack of refreshments aboard the boat, and minor first time niggles (the mic playing up and some passengers believing it was their annual family coach trip to Margate and being somewhat rowdy) the 180 guests left with all smiles. Intermittent music and our (Mary Prince, Phyllis Wheatley and Olaudah Equiano’s) recounting of our stories added to Steve Martin’s narration about the historical sites pertinent to Black British History.


Once donned as Mary Prince, I confess feeling the ancestral vibrations permeating – not just mine but everyone’s. It’s difficult to write about it without seeming sentimental and gushy but certainly it (has) lingered –not least because the Bus Tour followed the next day (March 3rd). This day severely contrasted the previous sunshine blessed – the blessing instead was from some persistent wintry rain. We were in a comfortable luxury tour bus, however – about 70 or so passengers who were quietly – it seemed to me lapping up the experience. Again Steve Martin narrated as we made our way from Brixton (Black Cultural Archives), noting sites such as the location of Claudia Jones’ newspaper headquarters – The West Indian Gazette which was the first significant Black British newspaper (1958). We also learnt of a ‘black woman’ who relied on the then social services to alleviate her of poverty (or being destitute) – and later industriously lifted herself up enough to repay (oddly as noted by Steve Martin) the fund she’d been given. We drove through central London, noting Black History sites all along the way – including that of the location in Piccadilly Circus where Sarah Baartman was cruelly exhibited as a spectacle for European gaze and its objectification of the Black female body. We also touched on the area in Clapham where there was much activism on abolition and we also learnt of the work of Dr Harold Moody – in whose honour both Cruise and Tour was in part initiated. Among the many stories Steve Martin shared with us I enjoyed hearing about Guyanese Andrew Watson who was the first Black footballer in Scotland. Not only did he play professionally he also Captained Scotland when they thrashed England 6.1 (c.1882). He seemed to vanish from history soon after. The more we do our Black History Tours, the more we hear the fascinating stories of those ordinary or prominent lives that contributed to British social, cultural and economic life. In the case of Andrew Watson, it’s noteworthy that he had sound financial means – just as Mary Seacole (contrary to the belief that she didn’t, Steve Martin relayed the fortune she left upon her death) and Olaudah Equiano. Much more could be said but you need to do the tour and experience them for yourself. It was wonderful to see the happy smiles dismounting the bus at the end of the tour, including some who had done the River Cruise the day before! We were also joined by Mark and Charmaine Simpson of Black History Studies.


The Blue Plaque for Dr Harold Moody Unveiled

The circle – or part thereof – was completed with the installation on March 13th of the Nubian Jak Blue Plaque in honour of Dr Harold Moody. This was on the 88th anniversary of the founding of the League of Coloured Peoples by Dr Moody and others at the first YMCA in central London. He was born in Jamaica and travelled to London to study medicine at Kings College London. He qualified top of his class, but due to colour prejudice couldn’t find work in the profession and opted instead to set up his own practice in Peckham. There are memorials to him in the area, which we learnt about on the Bus Tour. He campaigned against racial injustice and became the president of the League of Coloured Peoples (LCP) which was set up in 1931 to advocate for Civil Rights and equality. Members of LCP included, Jomo Kenyatta (Kenya’s first President following independence), CLR James, Una Marson (first black female to be aired on British TV) and Paul Robeson (I dream that some progressive, conscientious filmmaker somewhere is making a film about him, as he was such a formidable force of the civil rights movement, appearing hither and there in accounts about others – he needs his own sound narrative).


When it was his turn to address those gathered on the chilly Wednesday afternoon to pay tribute to Dr Moody, Tony Warner remarked that although he had been advocating for Civil Rights in the UK decades before Martin Luther King in the US, the latter is taught on the British Curriculum but not Moody. This must change. During the River Cruise and Bus Tours (there was another on 9th March) Tony Warner thanked all the passengers for making it possible for the installation of the plaque which is located at the Central YMCA on Great Russell Street, London. It was touching, I thought, that this was the YMCA where Tony Warner once had refuge – being able to sponsor the Plaque must have been a remarkable homage for him. Tributes were also made by Councillor Jenny Headlam-Wells, Mayor of Camden, Councillor Louise Hyams – Deputy Lord Mayor of Westminster, Mrs Tracey Blackwood from the Jamaica High Commission, Rosie Prescott Chief Executive of the Central YMCA, Neil Flannigan MBE, Marc Wadsworth (Founder of the Anti-Racist Alliance), Raoul Dero (reading a poem for Harold Moody). A surprise speaker was introduced as a relative of Moody, David (his last name I didn’t catch), who had only heard about the unveiling that morning and turned up to give a brief tribute. Jak Beula was moved by the experience, as he told us, because he had hoped there might be some member of the family to take part as is expected at such momentous events. Such, he observed was the ancestral vibration that even in the nth hour and Divine Order his call was heard.



More on Mary Prince

And such it was that my moments with Mary began to take on ancestral vibrations. I wasn’t satisfied that we didn’t know anything more about her life after the abolition act was passed, and her appearance in court in two libel cases in the early 1830s. I shared images of us in our costumes on Instagram and facebook. Jak Beula commented in one of the posts that some years ago he was contacted by a descendant of Captain John Ingham to whom Mary had been sold and against whom they committed ‘heinous’ acts of inhumanity as documented by her in her book. The descendant – Mark Nash offered to pay for the installation Jak Beula was putting up on Senate House for Mary Prince (she lived in the Bloomsbury area of London ) – which was unveiled by the Bermudan Premier (Mary was born in Bermuda). In an interesting twist of history the descendant works for the equivalent of the Commission for Racial Equality in Bermuda. This is what he shared with Jak Beula: “as a descendant of slave holders and as someone involved in anti-racism efforts here in Bermuda, I feel a responsibility to acknowledge and make amends for our history and also to advocate against the systemic racism that continues to result in disparate outcomes here in Bermuda. In my mind, white Bermudians have never truly acknowledged this shared and painful history and certainly not offered any apology. I believe that reconciliation and healing will come from honest and open dialogue between descendants of enslaved peoples and descendants of slave holders. I hope to help move these discussions forward in the coming years.” This is a powerful account of the impact of the work being done by organisations like Black History Walks and Nubian Jak and the Blue Plaques to acknowledge the many Africans who struggled for social justice, equality and civil rights not only in the UK but throughout the world. These lives, for whatever reasons remain veiled and it’s up to community activists/leaders/educators to excavate and elevate them to the honours they deserve.

The ancestral vibration persisted as we learnt that there is some work afoot to have a national holiday in honour of Mary Prince during the Emancipation holiday in Bermuda.

Next River Cruise
June 1st (Fast selling out)
June 22nd

Next Bus Tour
April 28th


Shout Out
Check out Way Wive Wordz Website

Remembering Reuben

“Hurry up and come back
Was the last thing she said to her son
The day his life was taken
She didn’t know he wouldn’t come back
He died from a bullet of a gun
And now an a little boy is gone…”



I’m a bit ashamed that I have never seen the video to this tune (don't ask me how I exist in my Yaabubble sometimes) but I very well know the tune. It’s by T.O.K. and was released sometime in 2005. The tune has been haunting me for years - but most recently the last few days. And no - it's not - at least consciously - because of the incessant killings/deaths of our young people plaguing our everyday. Subconsciously it is based on an experience that even now burdens me to write about that happened nearly 14 years ago. But writing is my way ordinarily to deal with whatever besieges me and cant otherwise be expunged psychically. I struggled to compose a short story about it but had kind of left it hanging. So this tune has been bouncing round my head for days. I decided to free up the vibration in this post, which is why I checked out the YouTube for the song and came upon the video I’d never seen. I then reread the short story (which I wrote last year sometime - actually I know exactly when I started it - such is the force of this experience) and now having seen this video realise the levels of synchronicity involved.

I had just returned from Guyana in the summer of 2005. Had a – let’s say – spiritual ‘opening’ during that time. I was inspired to start doing natural body care and became a supplier of Nubian Heritage products (this was the year we set up Nubia Pamper Day). Samples in hand I trotted to a shop in Brixton Market, where a beautiful brother had one of the first vegan outlets (he is Zionly of the Manor that’s now in South East London) and thought I could maybe interest him in the products. He wasn't there. Instead, there was a gorgeous sister, slim, her face ever so gentle looking- a tidy bundle of locks draping her face beautifully. There was a rasta brother there too - he looked vexed (rather he wore the sometimes vexed look on African restaurant owners' face like you're disturbing them instead of offering custom). He was allegedly cooking. Nothing was in the glass case as usual when Zion was there. He had gone away and left the outlet in this brother and sister's care. But they were moving slow. And to my realisation this was the same day of Emperor Haile Selassie's (his god’s) birthday, July 23rd - it was a Saturday.

I was speaking beautifully and freely with the sister (as we can when we naturally connect) about the products. She was interested and said she'd seen or heard of them before. We were bonding. The brother got vexer (I know it's not a word!) and started ordering her to get on with the tasks he'd set her. She said she was doing as he'd instructed. Without warning the brother's hand flew like lightning across her face. Imagine the sound was like a heavy object being lopped into a pool of water. I swerved my head and asked the brother if he had just hit her. She was clutching her delicate face, her nose bleeding. "Naaah" he said. I experienced an out of body and the greatest curses I ever could muster fell relentlessly from my mouth. This would be reason for which I rarely curse in my life – and when I do it’s because the situation is peaked to almost otherworldly/outer body levels.

The brother was trying to hold the sister - hide the sister - pretend he was cuddling her. I looked at her and asked if he'd ever done this before (don't ask me why). "No," she said. I imagined she was lying and for obvious reasons. So I began to gather my things (returning to my body somewhat) and was going to mind my own business and splurt. But I caught her eyes, under his grip - and she mouthed to me "D o n t l e a v e." I rested my bag down again. Said to the brother - "let her out of there, come on let her out." You see, steam from the pots was gathering, making the small outlet unbearably hot, which I thought wouldn't be good for the sister since the horrific impact and the fact her nose was bleeding. "Naah, na, she good." He was saying. But she started slowly to try to remove herself from under him. Same time, I persisted cussing him - and even hurled the lash that he should be ashamed that he hadn't prepared the food for his God’s birthday by now (it was proper late, long past lunch time) whilst others (the Spanish outlets for example) had plenty customers scoffing away. I added "You want Empress and effing knocking your Empress..." (having just returned from Guyana - I was speaking with the recent freshness of the Guyanese lingua). Another rasta brother came in the shop, looking for food. I implored - " Don't eat he food - he just KNACK (in Guyanese) he wife". The brother said nothing - he too looked vexed and scowling - obviously for his own reasons but I was judging the dude and wondering - "WELL?" expecting some species of a reaction. Nothing.

Meantime the sister had manoeuvred outside the shop. I happened to have just purchased a bottle of healing oil (smells of mint) from this Indian elder who used to sell a range of healing and spiritual oils at the back of the market, opposite the leisure centre. I gave the sister some to inhale. This she did and loved it, saying she would get some. I said she could have that one. And we resumed our sisterliness with this new incentive to communicate, understand, share. The brother was busy inside, having to continue progress with the way past lunch time food, for more people were coming into the shop in search of same. He had stepped out at least one time - if I recall - to see how she was but then retreated quickly to get on with food prep, and because I’m sure I was yet raging at him – embarrassing the brother when I replay the tape in my mind. I missed a bit (though I wouldn't learn this till weeks later). The sister, whose name, let’s say begins with J. told me that at one time during my raging at him, I spoke in 'tongues' (yes, something of that nature) then said some other stuff about him that I cannot/could not remember at all - but I was 'reading him' telling him about himself more deeply, spiritually, something of a prophetic nature about his demise. I will not hazard the absolute memory at all of what that was - but I recall her saying it and me looking blankly at her.
Eventually, I asked her where she lived.
“Peckham.”
“You should go home,” I told her. She wanted to do that. I was driving at the time and said I'd be ok to take her. She agreed. We left.

On route to her home she said he'd never done anything quite like that before. But then she dropped an atomic. He'd picked up a knife as if to attack her one day because of some disagreement - my memory is pushing at it being because she didn't want to have sex with him or some effery like that! He had come over from Jamaica and wanted her to marry him - so he could stay, she told me. She didn't want to. At least, he was prodding her and she couldn’t make up her mind. She had two children - they were twins. 17 year old boys. One was banged up she said - but he was a 'good boy.' She had by now been trying to contact the other – Reuben (I’ve reasoned that his energy is propelling this post) to let him know what had happened; that she was on her way home. He wasn't responding to her calls. Throughout the drive, which seemed interminable, she told me so many things, miserable, tragically heart-breaking. I felt for her.

We reached her home. Parked the car just outside. She had been continuously trying to get hold of her son, but wasn't yet able. We sat in my car, talking and talking till she had actually made up her mind that she would leave the brother. She wanted to contact her son so they could change the locks to their home.

I had noticed a black Jaguar parked in front of my car, its number plate read: "JAH I" which we thought wonderful as it was Selassie's birthday. We smiled together at seeing that.



It was getting late and there was no sign of her being able to contact her son. I was etching to leave and go home (I’d been out my house and in this thing too long). She said she had a lovely neighbour who lived across the way. She could go and sit with him until she got through to her son. She didn’t seem to want to go in the house, so we just sat in the car for hours. Talking.

The sequence may now go skewy hereon - but in my memory went thus. Without warning, her front door opened. The rasta (same one, her man) stepped out. He came to my side of the car and was pleading with her. We were both shocked - connected eyes, wondering how he had been in the house all this time. So my outer body energy returned. He was stooping down beside the car saying ''J...come inside, meh sarry." J was refusing to look at let alone speak to him. But he persisted still from my side of the car (the pavement, rather than road) trying to reach her- actually at one point reaching across me to touch her hand. His hand grazed against my skin – making me shiver as though some spider had landed there. I hurled further abuses at him - saying “she don't wanna talk to you. Move from here." He was trying to ignore me. In a spell the neighbour whom she must have called came across to join us. He actually could see everything from his window. I stepped out of my car then. I explained what had happened to him. He had a lovely, calming manner. The brother then was like, “me and J was getting alang good good and dis woman come mess up..." I yelled in his face 'LIE! You KNACK she foh nuttin..." and so on. The lovely neighbour looked at him and said - 'no, you shouldn't do that. You must talk not hit her...' gently, his natural calm was beautiful. Then J gets out of the car. She and the neighbour start heading across the road, towards the neighbour's house. "Look" she said to me, "there's my son."

HER SON. Small framed, looked more like 15 than 17, had a beautiful face, like his mother's approached us with an energy that scared me (now that I had a little more control - sprung from being surprised at how young he looked, that this youth would somehow have to defend and protect his mother). He was with a friend, who was a little older looking and taller, lighter in complexion to her son's brown. Her son didn't ask me anything with words. He was in my face, pleading for me to tell him. I did – but a now tempered tone had entered my voice (fearful of the disparities between the 'men' that would have to resolve this thing). When I finished, the rasta brother said '"nah, it noh go soh..." He didn't have time to finish. The youth said - "you hit ma mum?" And with fire blazing every cell in his body raced into the house, telling his friend to "keep him there," which the friend did somehow. Rather I noticed the brother seemed to be pinned to the spot - seemingly of his free will and I was now saying to him to "go." Son returned with a bicycle pump (or what looked much like one) and pumped lashes into the rasta's head. I was like - "stop" after about two or five (!) cause I thought it was justified but then "ok, ok, stop now." The neighbour was shouting from his window across the way for them to stop. The rasta was taking the blows, which were mostly aimed at his thickly locked head, so may not have been impacting as badly as it seemed, but then he started edging away towards the main road that crossed their street (Chatsworth). The youth's friend was also firing punches at the brother. He flung a few back, but they were feeble. They had reached the top of the road, a pub was nearby. The neighbour had come out of his yard. People had gathered (but I reckon I've added them to this scene for sake of logic because I was seeing cropped and isolated images at this time).

Then THUNDER. The rasta pulled a large knife from nowhere it seemed and cut the boy across his neck. Then ran. I ran after him but didn't reach far because an invisible force reached out and boomeranged me back to where the boy was now laying. Blood spewing from his neck. I was screaming for someone to call an ambulance. Pub people had come out. The boy's eyes started rolling back in his head. I started to call to him in the severest anguish whilst trying to keep calm in my voice - to hold on. Hold on. Hold on. The ambulance is coming, I was saying. I was praying. Praying but cant remember what I was saying. An eternity seemed to lapse before the kissmabackside ambulance came. I was vexed it took so long. They gathered the boy up and put him in the ambulance. Police were now there. The boy's mother – where was she. At first I just couldn’t see her – but recall looking, wondering where. She had actually by now come down - just before the boy was taken away in the ambulance.



The cops started asking us all these questions. I was shattered mentally. The mother seemed calm like a quiet river. The neighbour was messed up – weeping inconsolably. The boy's friend had flown the scene long time before all this. Constant questions the cops kept asking us were irritating me. I was knackered. It was now well late - but being summer night hadn't drawn down yet save for the dismal tragedy that flared into a nightmare during this holy day.

Key witnesses - they took me and J to the station. We were separated then. At some point during the statement I had been giving, one of the cops came in and said the boy had died. I screamed and screamed with reels of animalistic ferocity as though the child had been mine. I never had time to imagine or any need to know how exactly that news reverberated in the heart of his mother. I felt everything she must have felt- for in that ferocious screaming it was my child they were telling me had just died – I had given birth to him along with one other and he had just been ripped from me in the most brutal and senseless way. And by a man with whom I had shared my bed the night before. I wailed and wailed for ages. The cops couldn't console me but must have thought I was blaming them (some part of me was) - cause I kept saying "but the boy was alive, he was alive. The boy was alive." For I believed he was when I last saw him. He was alive. I had never seen anyone die (murdered), so would not have noticed the moment life just slipped away, such was the knife’s slash across his jugular.

now I used to recall it with much misery that the cops – after taking my statement, seeing how distressed I was, dropped me back to my car and let me drive home in that state. But my friend Kathy poked the memory proper that she and her husband had come to the station to collect me and take make back to my car. I will tell you this. I relied on ancestral, spiritual energies for getting me back home because in the now early hours of that Sunday morning, in territory I didn’t know (and unable to focus on anything like the A TO Z), I made it home on autopilot - spiritual guidance. Kathy has told me that I threw away a jacket I had used to put under the boy - for it was smeared with his blood. I needed her for this memory - it had vanished - the jacket I cannot recall at all.

The weeks and months after were a blur. I was granted leave from work for a while. I communicated with J a lot. We grew in friendship (that’s lost now, not for any reason other than random life changes/movements here and there). I even went to the house one day – before the funeral.
The funeral was one of the most desperately tragic I attended. He was in one of those glass carriages, trimmed black. They had let his brother out to attend. I think he may have had a girlfriend. He seemed popular with plenty friends there. There was a special community feel to their presence. J let me release one of the white doves. It was raining during the funeral. But on my way home, the sun splashed and I saw his rainbow. Before then during the repast in the hall, they played the T.O.K tune.

“When you cry I cry
I cry along with you
When you smile I smile
I smile along with you.”


Time passed and the trial came. This was miserably anticipated – I dreaded having to go through it. I didn’t want to see the brother. J had told me that he had been writing to her, blaming me for the entire thing, considering me some kind of evil force that penetrated their life to bring this tragedy on them. He hated me she said he’d written. The knife she somehow learnt was intended to be used on me. That “JAH I” number plate now made sense but the boy…the boy how do I reason why his life was taken like that. I tried and wouldn’t attempt putting in out here.

So I bore witness, as did J. I saw the sketch the cops had made – based on my description - of the knife the brother had used - it was never recovered. I saw also the very accurate description I had given (seriously photographic memory) of the bicycle pump type thing the boy had used to lash the brother with.

The judgement, unfortunately aided by my testimony was that the brother was provoked – the boy having struck him first – and responded in self-defence. The missing knife couldn’t lend credence to the brother’s premeditations. He got 6 years. Was released after four or five – for “good behaviour” and sent back to Jamaica.

This was about the last time I communicated with J – after hearing this and I don’t know what became of her. Reuben’s brother had been released I remember her saying and was in a frightful state of anger - verbally lashing out at her. Their relationship had grown miserable, bitter…

“My mother’s face was shaped like Nefertiti. I said that to Binghi one day. I wanted to see if he had noticed the likeness. Everyone always said she looked like Nefertiti. He said he liked that. He liked that ‘his woman’ looked royal; said she was his empress just like Selassie’s Empress Menen. He started calling her his ‘Queen Nefertiti.’ My rating of him sunk lower after that. I thought he was cheap. A man who couldn’t find his own term of endearment for the woman he presumes to love was a fraud. It never sounded special but cheap because it was pirated.
But my mum’s Nefertiti look was real to me, especially when she wrapped her hair. It pulled up her cheeks, though these were already high and soft against her slim face. I always kissed her on both cheeks. That was before Binghi moved in.
“Why ya-always a kiss kiss ar like is your oman.” I wanted to tell him she was. My brother, we’re twins, and I were sure of one thing, after our father left we had to defend, protect and love our mother. We had never trusted any of her boyfriends. Binghi was just taking up time. He was not smart, either, the way we remembered our dad being smart.” An extract from the short story I wrote about this experience, written from the boy’s (imagined) perspective.


I can’t say why the song has been reverberating so intensely but it may after all be my subconscious responding to the many senseless killings of our young boys. And Reuben asking to be remembered – that his particular slaying might be atypical but likewise bears on the collective burden of our communities. I have tried to translate the story in my way of retelling into fiction and keep trusting that we will find a way to transform ourselves, our desolate experiences, transmute all the terror into love and peace and beauty. Remind our young people and elders that we need each other, that we must love one another, build our futures out of that light that has the power to brighten the darkest days such is the magnificence of well nurtured love.

“There isn’t a day here I can’t feel what my brother feels. The darkness is as real for him as it is for me. It is what has sustained him all these years. His hatred for my mother is a curse that not magic but some new kind of love might cure. At least I’ve been thinking that way about it all these years. Pain is always personal and unique and some people know just how to molly cuddle it till the end of their days. But love can unshackle it, prise it out of that private cave where it so comfortably crawls and breathes. Love can turn that darkness iridescent so it can no longer entomb the heart in fixed despair.”



Shout Out.

The Huntley Blue Plaque Memorial Tribute: “A community Healing Experience”

Eddie Osei photo, captures the emotion of Eric Huntley moments after the unveiling

This post is my personal reflections about the Huntley Blue Plaque Unveiling as one of the event’s organisers. I’ve pinched part of the title from Makeda Coaston, whose congratulations mirrored many we received but this extra bit stuck in my head. She expressed that as well as a being ‘commemorative celebration,’ the event was also a ‘community healing experience.’ I wondered why she would see it that way? I’ll ruminate on this notion in this post and hope by the beautiful images, most of them taken by Eddie Osei (one of the organisers and grandson-in-law of Eric and Jessica Huntley) but other captures are included, maybe you too might feel the vibrations of this very special day.

Deciding the day

And the day mattered very much. It was the first thing agreed upon between the organisers and the Nubian Jak Foundation in our meetings with Jak Beula. 13th October landed perfectly on a Saturday, and marked five years since the passing of Jessica Huntley, a loss still deeply felt by many present at the ceremony; especially those who knew her intimately. Naming only a few I saw the sadness in the eyes (or did I just ‘feel’ it) of Makeda Coaston, Dr Margaret Andrews, Maureen Roberts, Dr Margaret Busby, Anne Johnson, notwithstanding members of her family, including her beloved Eric who must have missed her so much on this day.

The organisers were Accabre Huntley, Makeda Wall, Senzeni Lawla-Huntley, Eddie Osei, Ateinda Ausarntu (Way Wive Wordz), Juanita Cox-Westmaas, Rod Westmaas (Guyana Speaks) and myself, Michelle Asantewa. We debated having a street party, which Eric Huntley was in favour for – actually in his charismatically insistent way he was pushing it! I trusted the weather despite it being October – I thought I had good reason for that. My birthday is a few days away and I’ve noticed that the past few years it has been mild, surprisingly sunny even. In truth, I figured that we’d implore the ancestors and deities to commune with the elements to hold back the rain so we could enjoy the day without everyone feeling cold and miserable. Naturally, Jessica Huntley is one among many of said ancestors whose magnetic influence was powerful enough to hear our prayers. That mystic trust however didn’t prevail for the street party so we found a nearby Church Hall for the reception. I paid no attention to the weather forecasts because if it was my faith alone (my utmost trust in the elements) that would remove the possibility of rain so that we’d be free to celebrate with majestic sunshine I needed absolute focus.

Above photos Eddie Osei

The pictures should speak of that Divine blessing of beautiful sunshine. Yet some of the blessings also came with pretty passing sprinkles I knew were elemental and ancestral. This ‘healing’ then for me began at the level of spirit. Over the months in preparation I would commune with Jessica Huntley – knowing she’d be in the midst and mix of everything, ensuring the energies were all right – bringing things together as they should be. For this reason, and I’m sure others would agree, organising this event was not fraught with any real difficulties but was a wonderful collective effort. That is because spirit was in control, wielding and working to synchronise the experience. It was also about love – this feeling that the two people being honoured gave to their communities some of that powerful love everyone could see they had for each other. For a community to feel this healing we needed to be reminded of that spirit of love, of giving and never giving up, that spirit of endurance that has lasted long enough to continue educating and inspiring generations.

Eddie Osei Photos above

The Libation

After a delicate opening with drums, lead by Chauncey Huntley, Ras Prince, Sister Khalilah and Keithe Waithe (on flute), in keeping with our African ancestral tradition we poured libation. I heard someone remark: “that was the best libation I’ve ever seen.” For me this voices a growing recognition of how integral aspects of African spirituality must continue to inform our gatherings as community. By this I mean the practice must be delivered in a way that would be understood, respectfully without ‘mystery’ but clarity so everyone grows in awareness. For this acknowledgement was from a young person, in whose hands ultimately lay the future of building our communities. The ‘healing’ therefore also came in the form of the powerful white rum libation delivered by Professor Gus John. He expressed that it didn’t matter what religious persuasion those gathered were, it was enough to ‘be with us in the moment’ being ‘reverential’ and ‘respectful’ of this element of African tradition. The libation was poured for Jessica Huntley – who though no longer ‘with us in flesh and has returned to mother earth, the womb from which she came, continues to be with us in spirit, enlightening, inspiring, guiding, warning, blessing’ as Professor Gus John reminded us. He also asked us to remember those ancestors who inspired Jessica and Eric Huntley and those they too inspired (recall that Jessica Huntley shares a birthday with the Berbice Uprising of 1763 which began on 23rd February and was lead by Cuffy and others). So contextualising libation with the activism of the Huntleys is a healing synthesis of politics and spirituality that need to be more and more recognised as inseparable.

Above photos Eddie Osei

The Tributes

At first during our planning sessions we decided on a modest number of potential speakers. Jak Beula encouraged us to extend the numbers, since, as he rightly reasoned there would be very many people who’d have something to share about their experiences of the Huntleys. The contributors, though many more could have been added to this list were: Dr Margaret Andrews, who wrote the Huntley’s biography, Doing Nothing is Not an Option (2014); Harry Goulbourne, who initiated the archival deposits the Huntleys made to the London Metropolitan Archives (LMA) sent his tribute which was read by Marika, one of the Huntley’s granddaughters; Anne Johnson – a teacher and long standing friend of the Huntleys, Dr Margaret Busby, whose publishing company Allison and Busby was among the first African owned publishers in the UK (along with New Beacon and of course Bogle L’Ouverture Publications (BLP), Dr Rupa Huq (MP) spoke about the Windrush scandal, which continues whilst we were here gathered to mark the contributions by two later arrivants to the UK following that earlier movement. Indeed, the Huntleys were recently honoured by the Guyana High Commission with an award for their contributions as part of that Windrush migrant experience.

Above photos Kai Rutlin

Photos Eddie Osei

Aubrey Bryan provided a steel pan interlude featuring a Billie Holliday song. Maureen Roberts, who played a central role in their deposit to the LMA spoke about this invaluable contribution by the Huntleys – which are used for the annual conference held there for the past 10 years. Neighbours Vivien Boyes and John Halsey spoke of the Huntleys integral part of Coldershaw Road, where the plaque was unveiled, recalling Eric’s subtle but definite ways of ensuring things got done and his far reaching influence which was not lauded by him but always humbling. Sculptor George (Fowokan) Kelly, Linton Kwesi Johnson, Symeon Brown (of Channel 4 News) and poet John Agard also gave inspiring tributes. Ealing Mayor, Councillor Tejinder Dhami, Baroness Valerie Amos and Dr Altheia Jones-Lecointe (a former UK black panther and one of the Mangrove 9) were also in attendance. The honour of unveiling the curtain was given to Rudolf Walker. Eric Huntley gave the closing address; he expressed the importance of keeping his feet firmly on the ground despite the installation of the Blue plaque now being placed above his head in recognition of over 50 years of community activism in the UK. He said that he would rely on his neighbours to keep him grounded.

Kai Rutlin photos

Reception treats

It was a stroll a few minutes away at St Thomas the Apostle Church. Guests breezily enjoyed the walk in the sunshine, all hearts warmed by the recent tributes at the ceremony. In welcoming the community attending the reception, Accabre Huntley recited her memories of the many meetings she attended as a young girl as her parents organised. The Blue plaque Unveiling, another meeting (calling the community to gather) she acknowledged is a culmination of those meetings. She thanked all the supporters of the Crowdfunder campaign, without which the Blue Plaque would never have happened. Contributions to the campaign was made by organisations such as The Coldershaw Residents’ Association, Black History Walks, Guyana (UK) Sports and Development Association, Guyana Speaks, National Association of Black Supplementary Schools, the Nubian Jak Trust, the Pan-African Society Community Forum and Way Wive Wordz.

Eddie Osei photos

The Harrow Community Choir, despite the unforeseen lack of a PA system and mic (it didn’t get back on time from the site of the unveiling, as planned!) performed three wonderful songs, including a Massai Chant and Bob Marley’s ‘One Love.’ The spirit of resistance was subtly rendered by a young singer called ‘Jai’ who sang ‘Redemption Song’ in dreamy tones that seemed to feed the souls of all gathered. Her vocals were complemented later by an equally dreamy and healing acapella by ‘Duchess’ that once more soothed spirits and hearts. The musical performances also included the duo of Keith Waithe (flautist) and Aubrey Bryan (Panist) giving their take of a favoured and popular Guyanese folk song – ‘Sitira gal.’

Eddie Osei photos

I took this of Accabre Huntley giving her welcome address at the reception

The reception was co-hosted by Juanita Westmaas and myself - initially somehow doing a balancing act of gaining the audience attention without the needed mic. But the guests were in high spirits thanks to the sumptuous finger foods that included the usual pastry suspects from Guyana: pholourie, cheese rolls, cheese straws, fish balls, patties and more (some of these were prepared by Pepys). These treats were washed down with rum punch, sorrel and ginger beer. The community willingness to be hands in and hands on – especially from Coldershaw Road neighbours meant that there were enough refreshments to share and some to spare. Makeda Coaston recited a poem celebrating the formidable beauty and spirit of Jessica Huntley, whilst Mervyn Weir of Krik Krak also gave a heartfelt passionate tribute to the Huntleys.

If I had to choose or recall a high point at the reception – it was the end performance when fourth generation Huntleys, Tafari and Zachary, performed a poem called ‘Doing Nothing is Not an Option’ after the biography of the same name about their great grandparents. They were backed by drummers who, as Ateinda Ausarntu remarked were like ‘elders’ encouraging, guarding, guiding them, not least because one of those was their grandfather Chauncey Huntley, who composed the poem. I particularly loved the gentle support the older of the two – Tafari gave to his younger brother when some words from the poems wouldn’t come and when his mic didn’t sound. The audience clapped and encouraged him too. This for me was a powerful signature of the love underscoring the occasion. Love and the understanding that working together to build and transform communities remain the guiding principle behind the activism that lead to this achievement. The words of the poem proudly reflected the activism of their great grandparents and the acts of resistance they were committed to better the lives of ordinary people:

"Doing Nothing Is not an Option
It doesn't really matter
let it cause an eruption!
Expose the liars, thieves and their corruption
‘Cause doing nothing,, is not an option

Remember Berbice 1763, When Cuffy had to do something.
Haiti 1791, When Toussant brought Massa tumbling.
Remember all those ancestors I did not mention.
For them, doing nothing was not an option

So as Garvey entreated, let's mobilise our minds
Or from history, we will be deleted
Injustices must be corrected.
But it won't be by those we elected.

So let’s build a better world for all our children
Save the Earth for the future generation.
Let us turn this dream into reality
But remember destruction is Babylon's specialty

Doing nothing is not an option
It doesn't matter if it cause an eruption
Expose the liars, thieves and their corruption
‘Cause doing nothing, is not an option"

And finally…

And then – the drummers had their full score – their outro rhythms enlivened our hearts as we departed having experienced the joy these pictures so beautifully depict of a very special Saturday afternoon in October 2018. When the velvet blue curtain opened against bright red bricks at 141 Coldershaw Road we were inspired by these words:
“Home of Eric Huntley and Jessica Huntley, Community Activists and Educators who founded Pioneering Company Bogle L’Ouverture Publications in 1968.” Have you ever considered how the wording on memorial sites and blue plaques get decided? In this case it was a collective effort in our partnership with the Nubian Jak Foundation. Note, for example, that it had to be Jessica Huntley and Eric Huntley – ensuring their individuality is recognised. Also it had to be ‘home of’ and not ‘who lived’ since only one of the recipients is deceased. In the ‘home of’ expression Jessica Huntley’s spirit remains and will no doubt be of immeasurable comfort to her partner, political, marital and of course spiritual in life. Their contributions now permanently marked in this way, as one of many others.

Photos above Eddie Osei

In those last meetings we had with Jessica Huntley before she passed, she insisted we remembered that Bogle L’Ouverture Publication (earlier it was ‘Press’) was co-founded – though not reflected in the plaque wording for minor reasons - as a consequence of the Jamaican government’s decision to ban their friend and compatriot Dr Walter Rodney from re-entering Jamaica. The date 15th October of this historic event closely coincided with the date we planned to do the unveiling. Riots raged in Jamaica and across the world, including the UK in 1968 as the Huntleys and other friends of Rodney’s protested outside the Jamaica high commission to get the ban lifted. This was the moment Bogle L’Ouverture Publication was born. Rodney provided the Huntleys with the lectures he was giving to the ordinary people of Jamaica, especially Rastafarians; the lectures were published as The Groundings with my Brothers (1969). 2019 would thus mark 50 years since its publication. Eric Huntley continues to write and publish and as part of the fundraising campaign a commemorative publication about Walter Rodney's "groundings" and banning will be published soon. Meantime read here my tribute of the banning.

Eddie Osei photos

Community healing begins with recognising and respecting one another and the part each play in the whole – however small or grand. When we set aside minor differences and find ways to come together, celebrate, exchange words of encouragement, appreciation and when we simply express the joy of being in the midst of history being made before our eyes – we inevitably heal. That I believe is what Makeda meant. For she, like all of us felt the presence of Jessica Huntley in the glorious sunshine and those many exchanged smiles and greetings and even the tender raindrops on our approach to Coldershaw Road. This community healing we will remember as our collective and ever memorable redemption song.

Eddie Osei photo

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