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To Celestine Edwards

and to Tower Hamlets Council, for their Black History Walks.

PART I

I

He looked like dignity,
The day I saw him speak in Victoria Park.
I was sinking in drink,
Approaching the brink;
The day I stepped out of the dark.

Spoke against human trafficking,
And enslavement by booze.
Made me think again,
Regenerating my brain;
Like a prophet bringing good news.

II

Woke up that day in a Methodist Mission,
Just another impatient sailor.
Heard he'd been a seaman too,
Sailing out from Dominica.

I'd been drinking excessively again,
While waiting for another ship out.
Fighting with the feared killer -
A yellow fever bout.

Walking down Whitechapel Road,
Memories of Ira Aldridge.
He performed at the Pavilion,
Black butterfly on thespian ridge.

From whatever part of the Black world,
We all had crosses to bear.
Ira bore his on the world stage,
In Othello, Macbeth and King Lear.

III

So I wandered around,
What else is there to do?
When not destination-bound.

Past Wiltons the old music hall,
Where the actors blacked up;
I never sat in a Wilton stall.

I meandered amongst the drifters,
Africans, Jews, Russians;
Chinese, Irish and Lascars.

Tramped the many alleys,
By West India Docks;
Trodding with the ghosts of slavery.

Through the streets of migrants and refugees,
Choked with frustration;
Constructed by poverty.

I had too much time to spare,
Lashed by loneliness;
Trapped in alcohols' snare.

IV

Waking that day,
Seemed like any other.
A day to wait,
To dissipate,
Twenty fours of slow replay.
Between the horse and the ass,
No one hears the mule bray.

We woke, ate and left.
Exodus of the ex-men.
En route to vomit,
Some to pickpocket,
Hands swift and deft.
Those sagas of survival;
Who will talk of the men bereft?

Passed by St. Botolphs, Aldgate.
Popular amongst us blacks.
I should have gone in,
Joined in the singing -
But I was in a state.
Head down I plodded on,
Hoping that God would wait.

Must have gone east of there -
Outside the Ragged School.
First schooling for many of us.
Children given care,
Who'd known wear and tear.
God bless you Dr Barnado;
Wish I had a penny to spare.

Then I found myself before him,
Overcome with awe.
Never sobered up so quick!
Life lost it's whim,
Potential slim.
I stepped out of the park,
A new stride in my limb.

PART II

I

I researched the man,
Eager to know of him.
Of how he retained dignity,
Went onward with his plan.

So I asked the temperance people,
The abolitionists too.
Asked a priest from Cheltenham,
A sailor from Newcastle.

Spoke with anti-lynching activists,
Bought papers he edited.
Heard him speak when I could;
I knew his itinerary lists.

So what follows is what I learnt,
Snapshots of a savant.
It's good to have a saviour,
When you're about to get burnt.

II

One of nine children
Born in Dominica
School days in Antigua

After Methodist School
Stowed away at twelve
Time to search and delve

As well as Europe
To North America
Onto it's Southern neighbour

And he read and read
Role model par excellence
For a life not making sense

Spoke in Edinburgh
In Sunderland as well
Chimes of Celestine's bell

Then south to London
To reside in Bethnal Green
Speaking in Glasgow and Aberdeen

He continued to lecture
Survived as a labourer
And a penny pamphleteer

III

Co-wrote a life story -
From Slavery to Bishopric;
Life of Walter Hawkins.
Evidence of his brilliance,
His talents polymathic.

Edited two newspapers -
Lux and Fraternity.
Fought lynching,
Alcohol abuse,
And state brutality.

Preached in Plymouth and Bristol,
The 'Negro Lecturer'.
One summer in Liverpool,
Spoke about the lives,
Of Black and White America.

In his early thirties,
He studied for a degree.
Went to Kings College,
Of London University;
Majoring in Theology.

In his mid-thirties,
He dreamed of being a doctor:
But his body said no.
Conquered by exhaustion,
Returned home to his brother.

Constant lecturing,
Teaching of the Bible.
The body can only take so much.
His dream collapsed;
The hope of London Hospital.

He passed away in Dominica,
Cared for by his brother.
As far as I know,
He left no child;
Neither wife, partner or lover.

I remember him as strong in body -
That legendary laugh.
I eulogise Celestine.
Seems everyone wanted him,
As a member of their staff.

Self-educated man,
Who loved to read and read.
Man on a mission,
Spreading knowledge,
The scattering of seed.

I put away the bottle,
And took up books.
I observed the great eagle,
Helping others;
The starlings and the rooks.

Never meant to go there that day,
Into Victoria Park.
He held his head high,
Gently reasoning;
Devoid of rant and bark.

Celestine, Celestine,
I say your name with pride.
My great conductor,
Who took me on a journey;
Who gave me a ticket to ride.

© Natty Mark Samuels, 2013. African School.

In Mali it could be Diarre,
In Burkina Coulibaly.
Masters of mud,
Making bogolanfini.
Wrapper for a woman,
For a man a dashiki.
Colours of the earth,
Of cultural identity.
Expertise with mud,
Studied in academy.
Created also,
In the country called Ivory.
Where they call it Korhogo,
Symbols of literacy.
Guinea fowl and crocodile,
Inner beauty and fertility.
The wonder of mud,
In three West African countries.
Where every mud cloth,
Reveals it's unique story.

© Natty Mark Samuels, 2012.

This short play celebrates the late renowned Kenyan environmentalist and Nobel Peace laureate Prof Wangari Maathai.

Dedicated to the remaining few, in Busoga, Uganda.

I hear you talking of genocide and gorillas. But there is more than that to Rwandan history. In telling you of Rwanda, come with me into the 17th century...

There is mud under your toenails, your feet camouflaged by dust…

They tortured his body
Cut it up in pieces.
Dissolved it in acid
Then burnt the rest.
Tried to humiliate him
To obliterate him
But Lumumba lives on and on.
In our thoughts
And in this song
Patrice Lumumba still steps along...

In a time of complete chaos, when disaster came stomping through the land, grabbing what it wanted…

A poem for voices, dedicated to those who teach and to the .

Neighbour of mine, I see your pain is growing. I think to cook today would be too much for you. Come sister, share mbebe and nshima with me.

When I rise in the morning and when retiring at night, I praise Maawu. I praise her with my mouth; honour him with libation.
On my behalf, Maawu tells Nsho to give me red snappers and giant tuna. That which I cannot control, listens to the voice of Maawu and my net is filled.

I have never seen my mother cry before. Her grief is unstoppable, cannot be hidden. It seeps through all the walls. My mother, crying for Phiphidi Falls.

When you think of Zimbabwe, think not just of Mugabe. Think also of Thomas Mapfumo, the Mbira Man. Beautiful mbira. Metal, wood and calabash. Ancient instrument of Zimbabwe - channel to the ancestors.